LITMIR.BIZ

      In his dressing room, Rane Cordova removed the trappings of Santoro the Magnificent and slipped into a pair of well-worn jeans and a bulky black sweater. The crowd had been with him tonight, eager to suspend belief and be entertained. Another two weeks, and he’d move on to another theater in another town. It was an easy life, and one that suited him perfectly. In the winter, he did an eight o’clock show during the week, shows at six and nine on Saturday nights, and one show at eight on Sundays. In the summer, he cut the six o’clock shows. Matinees were out of the question at any time of the year.

      He ran a comb through his hair, thinking, as he did so, of the woman he had called on stage that evening. He wondered if it was coincidence that she had been in the audience again, not only in this city, but in others. He had seen the recognition in her eyes when she’d stepped onto the stage, knew she remembered him from times past. The hell of it was, he remembered her, too. She had been a cute kid sixteen years ago.

      She wasn’t a kid any longer, but a beautiful young woman with hair the color of moonlight. Long and thick, it fell in waves down her back and over her shoulders. Her eyes were a soft shade of blue, reminding him of the noonday sky he hadn’t seen in over ninety years. Her skin was smooth and clear, what used to be called a peaches-and-cream complexion. And her mouth…He swore under his breath. Her lips were full and pink, the kind of mouth that made a man think about cool sheets, long nights, and hot skin.

      Rane frowned as he turned out the lights. There was something about her that was vaguely familiar. He shook his head. She reminded him of someone he had met long ago.

      Grabbing his keys, he left the theater by the back door, quickly blending into the shadows. He sensed the woman waiting for him in the alley, but he passed her by without her ever being the wiser.

      In the old days, he had looked forward to talking with his fans. He had answered their questions, signed autographs, and posed for pictures that, when developed, would show only a white haze where his likeness should have been. Oddly enough, in this age of digital cameras and cell phones, his image appeared on the screen, but once the camera or cell phone was turned off, his photo disappeared. He had found a way to turn that peculiarity to his advantage by letting it be known that he was superstitious about having his picture taken. At the beginning of each show, he asked that no photographs be taken, adding that any pictures captured without his permission would vanish from cell phones and cameras. People had been skeptical at first, but when they discovered it was true, the fact that he apparently made his photographs disappear only added to his mystique.

      He couldn’t explain his inability to be photographed any more than he could explain why he cast no reflection in a mirror. It was just a fact of life, one he had learned to accept long ago, as he had learned to accept so many things that were part of his bizarre lifestyle, not the least of which was his eternal thirst for blood. He had tried to ignore the craving, tried to satisfy it with the blood of beasts, or with blood stolen from hospitals and blood banks, but to no avail. The blood of beasts could sustain his existence but, like blood in bags, offered no satisfaction. Sooner or later, the need for fresh blood drawn from human prey became overwhelming.

      It had always been so easy for his brother, Rafe. Rane remembered their first hunt, remembered the woman their father had chosen, the way she had felt in his arms, the enticing beat of her heart, the intoxicating scent of her blood. He had wanted to drink and drink until there was nothing left.

      “We’re not going to kill her,” their father had said, and Rafe had dutifully obeyed. Rane had complied, as well. What other choice had he had with his father standing there, watching?

      But later, when Rafe and his parents were occupied elsewhere, Rane had left the house. He had found a young woman plying her trade on a dark street where nice people didn’t go, and he had taken her. Oh, he had given her pleasure first—she had deserved that much—but in the end, he had taken what he so desperately craved. He had taken her blood, her memories, her life.

      Taken it all, and reveled in the taking.

      And in so doing, had damned himself for all eternity.