A loud THUD came from several rows away, followed shortly by a series of softer thuds and bumps as what must have been an entire shelf of books fell to the floor. Ruth sighed softly, saved the work on her laptop computer, and closed it gently before going to investigate.
A man lay collapsed on the floor, partially buried in books and muttering curses. Ruth took a few steps toward him as he started to rise. "Can I help you?"
The man turned to look at her in evident startlement. Ruth took an involuntary step backwards in shock -- the man was terribly deformed, grossly hideous with snaggled teeth and misshapen jaw.
The man lifted his hand to cover his face, replying in a bitter tone, "I don't need any help."
Ruth took a steadying breath -- the man's deformity was terrible, but hardly catching. It was only the extent of it that had caused her lack of composure. She reached out and took a grip on the man's still-flailing arm, and carefully helped him to his feet. "That's all right, " she said. "I don't mind." She wasn't sure whether she meant that she didn't mind helping, or whether she didn't mind his features.
Whichever, the man was obviously taken aback. "You don't?" He cautiously dropped the hand covering his face, and peered at her closely. "This doesn't disturb you?" He seemed both anxious and malicious, as if he were certain that a second look at his face would drive her away, and yet hoping that it wouldn't. Poor thing, Ruth thought. He's obviously lonely. She knew from experience that the unattractive were given a wide berth, as if their lack of appeal were some sort of disease. And the less attractive you were, the fewer there were who were willing to be seen in your company.
She regarded him for a few minutes, mentally categorizing each separate deformity and thereby reducing it from an effect to a cause. "Perhaps a bit," she confessed. "Still, it's hardly the sort of thing I should lose my manners over -- do forgive me for my initial reaction."
The man stared at her, dumbfounded. Ruth bent to start picking up the books, and the man, obviously grateful for an excuse to turn the conversation, did likewise. It took them a while to pick up and reorder the books on the shelf -- doubly so since the man apparently had no familiarity whatsoever with the categorization system. "What exactly were you looking for?" Ruth asked idly, consulting the numbers on one book's spine.
"Ah... This one." He held up a thin, leather-bound volume. "Only I was hoping to find an original manuscript version."
Ruth took the book from him and examined the title. Kindaire's Grimoire. "Original manuscript version?" she asked. "But this book was written in the fifteenth century!"
He shrugged. "I've heard that there are books where each page is... a picture of the original's page. That way, you can see the handwriting of the writer -- it affects the interpretation, you know."
Ruth paged through the book and examined a "cleaned" drawing from the Grimoire. "Yes," she said thoughtfully. "I see what you mean."
The man looked at her sharply. "What is that supposed to mean?"
Ruth smiled. "Just that this typeset version loses a lot of its impact."
A look of hope rose in the man's eyes. "You've got a manuscript copy?"
She looked at him for a few moments, debating whether to tell him the entire truth. What the hell, she thought. "No. I own the original."
For a moment she thought he was going to faint, but he recovered himself. "I... Would you let me borrow it?"
Ruth shook her head. "No. I never let my ancient books out of my house -- they cost me far too much time, effort, and money to chance their being lost, or getting someone's tea accidentally spilled on them. But you're welcome to come to my house and peruse it at your leisure there." She held out a hand. "My name's Ruth, by the way."
The man hesitated a moment before taking her hand in his. "Roger," he identified himself. "Roger Scruggs."
Ruth was not an attractive woman, but it had never bothered her. Even as a child, she'd been studious and serious. Growing into adulthood, that tendency had only been amplified, although her serious demeanor was somewhat softened by a dry, almost sarcastic, sense of humor. Every subject she'd encountered was devoured eagerly -- nothing bored her, nothing repulsed her, nothing escaped her attention.
Ruth had entered college with the vague idea of studying medicine, and had done well until halfway through her second year, when she learned that her biology lab was going to involve a vivisection. Dissection hadn't bothered her, but she refused to use her scalpel on some poor living creature, just so she could see its innards working. It took her nearly a year to decide on a major after that, being unable to choose between her vastly varied interests. She finally settled on Literature as being the most widely varied single subject. She earned her bachelor's degree suma cum laude after five and a half years, and then proceeded to make up for that by earning both her master's and doctorate's degrees in only four.
She had taken a teaching position at Virginia Commonwealth University, only to discover that she didn't care much for teaching. Her students didn't care about anything, and she couldn't summon the eloquence to make them care. She published frequently enough, however, to make her useful to the English department, and by the time she was thirty-two, she'd earned her tenure. The head of the department luckily agreed with her that an indifferent teacher was worse than none at all, and so she worked almost entirely with graduate students, teaching only one class a year. The rest of her time she spent on what she called "research." At the beginning of the school year, she would turn in a research proposal, then spend about three weeks solid in the library. Two weeks after that, she'd have a paper ready to submit to some journal or other, even though the department wouldn't expect anything until the end of the year. This suited Ruth very well indeed -- she could now spend her time in the library reading whatever she wanted, saving the paper to be presented halfway through the second semester.
She had started collecting old and rare books before she was even able to read some of them, and now she had so many that she hadn't had time to read most of them yet. Roger, however, seemed to be determined to read all of them as quickly as possible. After their first meeting, he came to her house every evening and would spend several hours sitting in her library, poring over some ancient text. As the weeks passed, they would talk, and Ruth discovered behind his hideous face a brain of remarkable power. Roger was charming when he wanted to be -- somewhat old-fashioned in manner and dress, and unfailingly polite (if occasionally absentminded). He did, however, remain adamantly averse to meeting Ruth during the day, no matter how many times she invited him to lunch. He insisted that in the light of day, the horror of his looks would be ten times worse -- never mind that the fluorescent lights of VCU's library had already picked them out in their entirety for her. Sometimes, he would bring her books of his to read, beautifully preserved books that were always at least a hundred and fifty years old.
Then, one evening, as Ruth was returning to her house, she found a man waiting for her on her porch. "Good evening, Ms. Segall," he called, as she turned up the path.
"Hello. I'm afraid you have me at a disadvantage -- I'm certain we've not met, Mr...?" She paused at the foot of the stairs, for some reason unwilling to approach too closely this handsome, pale stranger.
Unfortunately, he seemed only too aware of her reluctance. He came down the stairs toward her with a smooth grace, one hand extended. "My name is really unimportant, Ms. Segall."
Ruth gingerly took his cold hand. "Well, then, what can I do for you?"
She shuddered as he smiled, certain that she saw behind his urbane polish the savage grin of a predator. "Well, now, why don't we go inside and discuss that, my dear?" Ruth found herself unable to resist, and followed as he led her up the steps, through the front door...
Inside, the man turned on a lamp, curled his hand under Ruth's chin, and tilted her face toward the light. "So..." He seemed lost in thought. "I wondered when he'd grow desperate enough to create a helper. Are you a slave, little one, or has he promised to bring you over?"
Ruth tried to fight her way free of the haze that surrounded her mind. "I... I don't understand what you're talking about!"
He chuckled softly. "You dissemble well. But you cannot be strong enough to stand against me. You are still mortal, are you not? My fight is not with you. Answer my questions, and I shall leave you be."
"Take your hands off her!" Roger had come in through the still-open door, and his maimed face was made even more grotesque by being twisted in fury.
The stranger turned immediately. "Why, Scruggy, what a surprise to find you here?" His urbane tone oozed with malice. Ruth took advantage of his change of focus to back quietly into a corner of the room.
Roger's apparent good humor suddenly returned. "Christopher? My goodness... How long has it been? Fifteen years?" He took off his coat and draped it carefully over the back of a chair, began loosening the fingers of his gloves.
"More like twenty. I knew you'd come running back to your sewer hole, rat -- all I had to do was wait."
Roger chuckled. "Ah, Christopher. Quite a chase, wasn't it? But you must have gotten sidetracked -- I've been home for a couple of years, now. Actually, I'd been beginning to think you'd quite given up. Anyone with sense would have."
Christopher snarled audibly. "I'm going to kill you, gutter rat, and then I'll torture the information you stole out of your apprentice, here, before I kill her, too."
Roger's gracious tone abruptly dropped. "You leave her out of it. She knows nothing."
Christopher sneered, "We'll see about that, won't we?"
Roger took a few steps to one side, but Christopher followed, and the two began to circle each other warily. "Don't be a fool, Christopher. Do you have any idea how much trouble you'll be in if you actually kill me?"
Christopher snorted. "None. None whatever. The Elders have given me full permission to deal with you as I see fit."
Roger looked thoughtful. "That means that you accept the consequenses, too, you know. If I kill you, there will be no repercussions for myself. Maybe, Christopher, the Elders merely wanted you out of their hair."
Christopher growled, "You? Kill me? I hardly think so. The Elders decided that your impertinence-"
"The Elders have nothing to do with this. If they'd wanted me dead, I'd not have been even able to lead you on that merry little chase. They think your obsession with vengeance has gone quite beyond the pale, Christopher, and they want you taken care of -- one way or another." All humor was gone from Roger's voice.
Christopher suddenly lunged, tackling Roger and knocking him into the wall. Ruth watched, horrified, as Christopher slammed his fist over and over again into Roger's face, barely noticing Roger's feeble counterattacks. Roger's nails raked viciously down Christopher's face, leaving bloody trails, but Christopher didn't flinch. Finally, in desperation, Roger lunged not away, but toward his opponent, and bit him savagly on the throat. Christopher reacted to that by ripping himself away, but Roger had been so battered that he could only lie on the floor panting.
Christopher lifted with apparent ease a heavy antique chair, raised it over his head, and smashed it down on Roger. The chair broke, leaving the back of the chair clutched in Roger's hands where he'd feebly raised them to ward off the attack. Christopher growled, and grabbed a bronze statuette, lunging in for the kill.
Roger raised the back of the chair, desperately seeking to avoid his fate, and the splintered supports of the chair suddenly sprouted from Christopher's back as his own momentum carried him forward and down onto the spikes.
The tableau froze. Ruth was too terrified to even scream. Roger, apparently stunned by his own actions, lay on the floor, supporting the impaled Christopher, who didn't even so much as groan...
Finally, Roger shoved, and Christopher toppled onto the floor. Roger pulled himself to his feet, and stood over his fallen adversary, panting with exertion, as Ruth watched, still frozen. The chair must have pierced his spine, she thought, and paralyzed him. Otherwise he'd be screaming in agony. Then, crazily, I'm never going to get the blood out of my rug...
Roger knelt to look into Christopher's face. "When you corner a rat, my friend," he said softly, "it has a terrible bite. No, I'm not going to kill you now. You pose no harm as you are. I'm simply going to drag you outside like the garbage you are, and leave you for the sun. If your friends try to help you, I'm not going to stop them. What?" he responded to something only he could read in Christopher's face, or perhaps only an imagined dialogue in his own mind, "You didn't bring any friends? Why, Christopher, how unsporting of you, not to bring your seconds with you to a duel..."
Chuckling at his own humor (although a bit hysterically), Roger stood and lifted Christopher under the arms, and dragged him outside.
Ruth discovered the use of her body again, shakily stood, and walked unsteadily into the bathroom, where she threw up violently. When she had finished, she stood and turned to see Roger behind her. He reached out sympathetically and took her arm to help her back to the couch. He draped a throw blanket over her lap, then disappeared into the kitchen. When he returned, he pressed a cool glass of water into her hands. "Drink that," he advised. "All of it." In her stunned state, Ruth looked curiously at the surface of the water, which sloshed and rolled from the violent shaking of her hands. Eventually, she raised the glass to her lips, and drank.
While she drank, Roger settled himself on a chair across the room, well away from her. A few moments passed, and Ruth managed to regain some of her composure, although a small, analytical portion of her mind suspected that she was still somewhat shocky. She looked up at Roger, who refused to meet her gaze. "Thank you," she whispered through a still-dry throat.
Roger looked even more uncomfortable. "Ruth... There's something I ought to confess."
Hours later, Ruth finally felt that she had achieved a grasp of the situation. Roger had explained, and then left as she sat staring blindly into space, trying desperately to assimilate everything she had learned this evening. He was a vampire, he had told her, one of a considerably higher population than might be expected. Furthermore, the vampires had their own laws, their own political society, their own clans. Christopher had been (still was?) a vampire, too, an enemy of Roger's for the past twenty or thirty years.
Christopher had assumed that Ruth was a ghoul -- a servant of vampires -- or that Roger had been grooming her as a new vampire, and had therefore assumed that she had known more than she did. But Christopher was a relatively young vampire, not an especially worthy opponent. (Had it not been for Ruth's safety, Roger had admitted reluctantly, he would never have stood his ground to fight at all, would instead have used his Clan's abilities to fade away and strike back at Christopher later, somewhere or sometime he least expected it.) Roger himself had been a vampire for nearly two hundred years -- had in fact once been in charge of the library at VCU where he had met Ruth. He knew personally even older vampires, ones who were old enough and powerful enough to call him a whelp.
His last words echoed in her ears. "Ruth, my dear, I am terribly sorry that my world has been exposed to you, and so violently. I never intended that you should know. I will not return here again without your invitation -- I would not distress you unduly." He'd picked up his coat and his gloves, draped them over his arm, and made ready to leave. At the door, he turned back to look at her mournfully. "If, by some chance, you should find it in yourself to overlook my shortcomings, my dear, you may feel free to visit me in the Mosque." And then he was gone, as if by magic.
It was nearly dawn, now. She had sat in shock for hours, staring blindly at her walls, the decor seeming at once both familiar and frighteningly alien. There would be no convincing herself that the events of the evening were a dream, not with the pool of blood on her rug that had slowly spread, and the stench of it permeating the room. She turned toward the window and watched the sun come up. From the side of the house, a smudge of smoke appeared, and she pulled herself out of her chair to investigate. She found the chair-back that Christopher had been impaled upon, its supports blackened as if they'd been scorched, lying in a pile of ashes.
Numbly, she understood. Christopher, who had been a vampire for as long as she had been alive, was no more. Unfeelingly, she walked slowly back into the house. She walked back into the house and carefully made herself a cup of coffee. When it was eight o'clock, she dialed the number of the English office, and instructed the secretary to hang a sign on her door -- that she was ill, and wasn't coming into campus today. Then she finished her coffee, staring thoughtfully out the window at the brightly shining sun.
When she had finished, she walked steadily into her private library -- the books of occult that she had painstakingly collected over the years. Somewhere among her shelves, she vaguely remembered a treatise on vampires that she had not yet gotten around to reading.
That evening, after she had finished an early dinner, she walked the two blocks from her house to the nearest bus station, and caught the bus into campus. She went first to her office, checking to make certain no important messages had been left. There hadn't. She then strolled slowly across the campus, enjoying the last of the sunset's fiery rays. Then she walked to the Mosque.
Roger had not told her where she could find him there, but most of the building was frequently used -- there were only a few places he could be without chancing discovery. She set her jaw with resolve, and took the stairs down into the basement.
She couldn't find the lights at the base of the stairs, so she stood in the dark, hoping her eyes would adjust. "Roger?" The word came out a hoarse whisper. She cleared her throat and tried again. "Roger!"
There! Was that a light? Yes! It slowly grew brighter, and from around a corner Roger appeared, carrying an elaborate candelabra. "Who's there? Ruth? Ruth! Come, please, come in!"
He led her back around the corner, to a massively built oak door. He opened the door with apparent ease, although Ruth had to strain to swing it shut behind them.
Roger's living area was beautifully decorated with antique furniture, and every available surface was covered with books. She scanned the titles on the shelf nearest her -- apparently the books had been placed with little or no regard to organization. She turned around to see Roger carefully blowing out the last of the candles in the candelabra, having turned on a lamp. He straightened as well as his hunched frame would allow, and turned to face her.
"Do have a seat, my dear," he waved toward a chair. "Can I get you something to drink? Some tea or coffee?" She declined his offer and cleared several books out of the chair before sitting. Roger settled himself on the couch. "What can I do for you?"
Ruth picked up a small figurine from the table next to her and fidgeted with it. "I've come to ask for a favor, Roger."
Roger looked happily eager. "Of course, Ruth, anything at all that I can do for you."
She took a deep breath. "I want you to make me a vampire."
He stared at her for a moment, stunned, then leapt to his feet and began pacing. "No. NO! Absolutely not! Out of the question, I can't, I, I won't, I..." He whirled to face her. "How could you want this?"
Ruth looked at him calmly. "Roger, I've thought about this very carefully."
Roger shook his head vehemently. "No. I won't. Do you have any idea? I used to be a fairly attractive man before I was brought over. The Curse..."
Ruth snorted. "I don't care about looks, Roger. Never have. Besides, not all vampires are deformed, are they? Christopher was quite handsome."
Roger laughed shortly, bitterly. "Christopher was of another Clan, another bloodline. If I make you a vampire, Ruth, you will be transformed. There will be no escape."
Ruth set down the figurine with a soft click. "I don't care, Roger. I want you to bring me into it." She got up and walked over to the ceiling-high, wall-to-wall bookshelves. "Imagine... Eternity with which to study, to learn..."
Roger stopped pacing and looked at her solemnly. "You want to be a vampire so you have a longer time to study?"
Ruth turned to face him. "What other reasons are there?" She waved carelessly, "I know, I know, there are other reasons, for other people. But for me? There never has been anything but learning."
Roger sighed, then stepped forward to rest his gnarled hands on her shoulders. "At least... At least let me introduce you to someone from another Clan -- so that you won't have to suffer the transformation. The pain is tremendous, constantly for a week -- I don't want you to have to suffer that."
Ruth smiled. "I don't care how I look, Roger. And I can bear pain, if necessary. And I won't trust anyone else with something so important. It has to be you." She looked solemnly into his brown eyes.
Roger opened his mouth as if to argue again, and then abruptly his shoulders sagged in defeat. "All right. You win. But not tonight." He help up a hand to forstall her argument. "The Embrace takes only a few minutes, but it will take days for the change. I want you to stay here during that time."
He turned away and pulled the massive door open. "Go for now, Ruth. Sleep. Do all the things that you will be doing for the last time. Watch the sun rise. Eat a meal. Feel the light on your face. Walk amongst mortals in the daylight world. Watch the sun set, and then -- if you still want to do this -- come back here with clothing enough for a week. Make certain it's clothing that can be ruined. Now go."
Ruth looked at him, then nodded shortly. She gently touched his face as she paused on the threshold of his doorway. "Thank you."
He turned away. "You may not be saying that in twenty-four hours."
Ruth didn't remember much of her last day as a mortal. The remorse in Roger's voice when he spoke of the sun had made an impression, and she wandered the city aimlessly carrying her camera and the best film she could find, taking pictures of the sunrise, the light of the sun on the face of the city, and eventually of the sunset. A few tourists were willing to take pictures of her, as well, when she had the vague idea that she might like a reminder of her appearance later, after the transformation.
But backing out never crossed her mind. When the last of the sunset had faded from the sky, Ruth carefully stowed her camera and the four rolls of film she'd used in the bottom of her duffel bag, and returned to the Mosque.
Roger let her in when she knocked on his door. "You still want this?" he asked dubiously.
"Yes."
Roger led her through his home -- as civilized and spacious an apartment as she'd ever seen -- into a small bedroom. "This room will be yours, while you undergo the transformation. I tried to make it comfortable. It's the most soundproof of my rooms."
Ruth set her duffel bag on the table, and turned to Roger. "When?"
Roger held up one hand placatingly. "Soon. I'm waiting for a delivery. This is going to be rather draining for both of us. I don't want to have to leave again tonight." As he finished speaking, Ruth dimly heard a knock, and then Roger's front door swung open.
"Roger? Where are you?"
Ruth followed Roger out into his front room. "Ah, there you are." The speaker was another vampire, well-dressed and aristocratic in bearing. Behind him lay a human, bound hand and foot. "Sorry to be so late, but this one didn't want to come quietly."
Roger took the vampire's hand with every appearance of cordial friendship. "You're just in time, Augustine. Let me introduce you." He turned to face Ruth. "Ruth, my dear, this is Augustine, a very good friend of mine. We've known each other for ages. Augustine, this is Ruth."
Ruth politely accepted Augustine's hand, smooth and cold in hers. "Pleased to meet you."
"Charmed," Augustine replied, in warm tones.
The man on the floor moaned softly, and Ruth saw that he'd been knocked unconcious. "Where do you want him, Roger?" Augustine asked.
"Oh, the bathroom will be fine for now, I think. Make sure he's out cold, and lock him in. I don't want to have a fight on my hands immediately after an Embrace."
"Indeed." Augustine lifted the man effortlessly by his shirt collar, studied his face for a moment, then drew back one arm and hit him on the temple. The man sagged in Augustine's grasp, and he carried him back toward the bathroom Ruth had glimpsed.
When Augustine had left the room, Ruth turned to face Roger. "Who is that?"
"Oh, Augustine is of the Clan-"
"I meant the man."
"Oh. He's no one important. A back-streets murderer, if I know Augustine. He wouldn't bring me anyone who didn't deserve to die anyway."
"Die?"
"Of course, dear. You want to be a vampire, yes? The Embrace will leave both of us very hungry, and you probably won't be up to leaving here for several days after the initial changes -- we're better off with a captive that no one will miss, until you've completed the transformation and can learn to take your sustenance without doing significant harm."
It took Ruth a few moments to assimilate that. "So... After this man, I won't kill anyone?"
Roger shrugged. "I can't say that. If you let yourself get too hungry, or if you're badly hurt, you may go bezerk. But those are special cases -- if such things still bother you, when you are in control of yourself, you may leave your victims with plenty of life in them."
Roger had never spoken to her like this. She stared at him, taken aback, until she realized what he was doing. "I'm not going to change my mind, Roger."
He sighed. "I didn't think you would, really. Can I at least convince you to let Augustine perform the actual Embrace? You really don't know what you're letting yourself in for with the transformation."
She shook her head. "No, Roger. I've only just met him."
A chuckle sounded from behind them, and they turned to see Augustine reappearing from the hallway. "She's got more sense than you have, my friend. I must confess I wouldn't let a vampire I'd just met near my neck, either." Roger sighed. "I'm afraid I can't linger, Roger. I've a new Childe of my own waiting for my return. Perhaps I'll bring him by in a few weeks for you to meet him."
Roger walked with Augustine back to the door. "That would be lovely, Augustine. Thank you for your assistance. I'll be in touch soon, I promise."
As the door shut, Roger faced Ruth. "Now. Let us begin."
He led her back into her room, had her stand in the middle of the floor. He stared thoughtfully at her face for a few minutes, testing the strength of her resolve. Ruth met his gaze calmly, although her heart was thumping in her chest. He walked around her a few times, and then she suddenly gasped as a terrible pain erupted in her neck. "Don't fight," she heard Roger whisper from behind her. "It will be much easier if you just relax." She felt his hands on her shoulders, a gentle yet iron grip, and then she felt the blood being pulled out of her by some relentless force. Her knees shook and then relaxed, and she felt Roger's hands tighten slightly, holding her upright. The world began to spin before her eyes, then slowly faded to a deep grey, and she felt tired, so tired, and wanted to close her eyes, go to sleep...
A soft slap on her face made her open her eyes again, blearily. Roger's face hovered over hers, wavering in and out of focus. Dimly, she realized that she was lying on the floor, her head resting on Roger's lap. Oh, good, she thought vaguely. I can sleep now... CRACK! Roger had slapped her back awake, harder this time.
"Ruth," she heard urgently. "You have to drink, now, before I lose what I took. Now, Ruth!"
She didn't understand, tried to shake her head, but found that she was blocked from moving by Roger's arm pressing against her mouth. It was wet, and Ruth realized that she was terribly thirsty. Slowly, every motion a herculean effort, she managed to lick her lips. The moistness somewhat assauged her thirst, and suddenly Ruth found her lips clamped on Roger's wrist, desperately drinking the blood that flowed from him, an urgent need that overcame any revulsion or hesitation.
Just as suddenly, it was over. Ruth was lying on the floor, gasping, and Roger was standing near her door, holding his wrist close to his chest, watching her with a mingling of apprehension and anticipation on his face.
Slowly, Ruth managed to push herself to her feet and face him. "What now?" she asked, her voice harsh and hoarse in her ears.
Roger grinned triumphantly. "Good. Good, strong Childe you will be. Lie down, my Childe, my Ruth. First, you must finish dying. That will be uncomfortable, you will not be able to remain standing. Then, the transformation will begin, and that pain will be terrible."
Ruth was slowly trying to climb into the bed, her limbs heavy and weak. Roger stepped closer, picked her up as if she were a baby, and laid her gently on the bed. He brushed her hair away from her face, brushed her forehead with his lips. "You must be brave, facing the pain. Don't fight it -- let it wash over you and through you, and try not to fear it. It will end eventually, I promise. And when it does, I hope you can forgive me for doing this to you."
Ruth felt her stomach cramp, felt strange tremors in her arms and legs. I'm dying, she thought. She fought her eyelids for control and looked up at Roger. "I asked for it," she reminded him.
He nodded solemnly, then quietly left her to die.
Copyright 1995 by Elizabeth C. Luck, aka Elizabeth L. Brooks. Not to be reprinted without written permission of the author.
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