One: Or Better Yet

1.

Let's start.

Just straightforward scene-setting so we can get to the good stuff:

It's 9:30 at night.

October.

A Canadian front has just pulled through, so it'll be in the 20's by morning. Any leftover leaves will be ripped away. Six months of bare branches.

James, lit teacher at Skidmore College, probably mid 50's (but looking at least 10 years younger)—jeans, hooded sweater (tan with hints of grey and bronze), brown hair and eyes, great smile lines—sits at the counter in Uncommon Grounds, a funky coffee house on Broadway, Saratoga Springs, New York.

He's been told by one of the servers—Didn't I teach her last year?—that they'll be closing at 10 tonight. "Sorry for the inconvenience, Professor."

OK, he rethinks his evening, finish the tea and put the final touches on the story back at home. (He writes things out on yellow pads first, then does the editing on his PC, a decade-old habit.)

The décor's trendy—lots of earth tones, over-stuffed chairs, wooden tables, a counter, tile floors, a large coffee roaster in a rear alcove, recessed lighting for the most part, a few well-placed halogens highlighting a handful of paintings—mostly Adirondack landscapes and horses. (After all that's the big claim to fame now—the summer race season; the once famous hot springs are a tourist attraction rather than a place to get the cure.)

There, that gets you going; cold autumn night, a guy sitting at a counter—an Edward Hopper moment.

Now the games begin.

2.

The door opens; the cold wedges into the warmth.

Enter Daryl. Long, belted tweed coat; jeans; funky tee-shirt beneath a button-down white shirt—and then the ebony black hair and those yellow-green eyes.

He pulls up a stool next to James.

"Just letting you know we're closing at 10 tonight," Cath said. (That was her name wasn't it? He remembered. Existential Lit.)

"Not a problem. Just doing a take out. French Roast. Large."

"Got it."

James looked up. Of course, he looked up when Daryl entered—he recognized him—and promptly put his nose back towards his yellow pad, looking busy.

But now he had no choice; he was sitting right next to him. The patchouli oil was pleasant.

So he looked at him and said, "Aren't you in my Brit Survey? It's hard to keep 50 names and faces straight so early in the term. Sorry."

"Yeah, one of the Professor Thomas groupies."

"You've had me before?"

"No, but everyone said I should, so guess I'm officially part of the fan club now."

James never knew quite how to take this stuff—part of him lapped it up; another part was moderately uncomfortable. "Thanks."

"I'm Daryl by the way." He extended a hand.

"Right, right. Daryl Tudor." He shook it—firm grip, warm. "How could I forget a name like that? Tudor."

"Yeah—but no relation that I know of."

"Who knows, long lost regal cousins a million times removed." Why am I so taken with this guy's eyes? That's why I remember him from class. Sits up front. Those eyes.

"So what are you working on?"

Bold enough, but friendly. "Oh, just some ideas for a story."

"Cool." He turned on his stool and leaned a few inches closer. "About?"

"Something for a new Brit fantasy magazine."

"Fantasy? Like Tolkien or Terry Brooks?"

"I could only wish."

They laughed.

Those eyes.

"Here's your Roast." Cath smiled at Daryl. Guess she's taken in, too. "Gimme a buck."

"But it's like two fifty or something."

"We're closing, so it's the last bit in the pot." She looks cool with the streaks of pink and purple hair.

"Thanks." Daryl reached in his coat pocket and pulled out a couple of crumpled bills. "One for the coffee, the other for the all-hallowed tip jar."

She's got a great smile. Of course, so does he. Then James was the one who wanted to smile: Jesus, guy, you're cruising kids now? Tell that to Sari when you get home.

Then Daryl asked James: "You leavin' soon?"

"Yeah. Because...?"

"I wondered if you could give me a lift, assuming you drove here. I live up Clifton near the College."

Does he know I live near there, too? The paranoia was brief. He's just asking for a lift for God's sake. "Sure. I'm over by Clement, so it's not a problem."

"You're sure? I don't wanna put you out, but it's late, and I don't feel like walking into the wind all the way back."

Refreshingly honest; I like that. No bullshit. "Don't blame you. No problem." James put his pad in his canvas shoulder bag, took his Navy jacket from the nearby stool, and was ready to go.

Outside, flurries glowed in the streetlights.

"Fuck, it's cold." Daryl shoved his hands into his pockets.

"They say it's gonna be a tough winter. Maybe this is a sign."

James's yellow Focus was in the nearby lot. He opened the passenger side first: "There you go."

He swore he saw Daryl's eyes glow as he hopped in.

3.

James pulled the car up to one of the old bric-a-brac mansions that lined Clifton, Gilded Age monsters that used to house the New York elite—and now mostly accommodated dorm students and some of the region's old money.

"I've got a basement apartment. Comfortable. Quiet."

Is he inviting me in? "Cool." I won't take the bait. "See you in class in a couple of days."

"You got it." Daryl got out, then leaned back in to say, "I really appreciate this." And gave a melting smile. The door shut.

The guy could be a model. He watched Daryl stride up the long walk and disappear around the back.

A blast of cold wind rocked the car for a moment and he drove off.

Quickly.

4.

James lay awake. His current girlfriend—Sari—was fast asleep, puffing out infinitesimal breaths.

The radiator let out a quick hiss.

The window expanded with a slight whistle when the wind blew.

The streetlight cast branch shadows across the ceiling and down the wall.

I mean it's not that I'm turned on or anything.

He adjusted his pillow.

Not sexually, I mean.

A creak.

Yet he had to admit it, say it to himself: But there's an attraction, isn't there?

He stared at the wall for a long time, studying the patterns.

He raised his head: What the...

Amid the crackling branches—a shadow? A body? Someone?

Then gone.

Fuck. I'm losing it. His head dropped back again.

Sari stirred, moaned once, then resumed her steady, shallow breathing.

The wind.

He almost smiled with his next thought: Only this, and nothing more.

Almost.

5.

"Please finish through Chapter 31 for next week and check my website for additional questions. I'll be calling on people for responses."

James shut his folder and the 50 or so students in the crammed lecture hall began to file out.

Desks and chairs shuffled and scuffed; conversations grew animated, but in a moment the room was silent.

When he'd packed away his last book in his backpack, James looked up.

Daryl stood at the back door. "Good lecture today. At least people are starting to give you feedback." He walked down the stairs towards the front platform.

Why the hell do I feel so self-conscious around this guy? "Means they're reading for a change." He tried to make a joke, but he thought his voice quavered.

In a kid-like voice: "Hey, I read the books." And he gave that melt-down smile.

"Never doubted it for a minute." He started to head up to the door.

"You doing anything later?"

"Why?" He felt himself shiver for a moment.

"Maybe supper? Compton's on Broadway? Something cheap."

"Anything on your mind?" God that sounded dumb.

"Nothing. Just wanted to chat. Class. Books. Stuff. I like your class. I think it's cool to get to know the professors."

The innocent look was very winning: "Well, thanks for the compliment, but I think my girlfriend has something planned." There, I've established I'm spoken for. And then felt like an idiot: Jesus, maybe the guy just wants some company. "Of course, I could always call and do a quick check."

"Hey, whatever. I don't want you to think I'm being pushy. I mean, I don't wanna put you on the spot or anything."

"No. no, not at all." He made sure the door to the hall was locked and they walked out into the bright afternoon. "I'll give Sari a buzz and let you know. Do I have your number on the registration card?"

"Should be, but just in case..." And he pulled a business card out of his coat pocket. Just his name and a phone number.

Since when do undergrads carry business cards? Guess they do. Live and learn.

"I'll call in the next hour or so."

6.

Of course, it was all a lie. He knew Sari didn't have anything planned. He didn't even bother to call. She'd think he was in his office or at the library.

And now, he felt compelled—is that the best word?—to have dinner with Daryl.

He waited an hour and called.

"Free as a bird. How about 5:30? Before the rush."

"Great. See you then. Thanks." It all sounded so refreshing and innocent.

James put his cell back in its belt holster.

Actually, he was already sitting in one of the back booths in Compton's and would finish out the hour trying to grade papers, all the while feeling as nervous as a guy anticipating a first date.

7.

After the clam chowder arrived—and James dropped his spoon—Daryl asked: "You look nervous, Professor Thomas."

"I am." No point lying. Then he thought that word again: Compelled.

"Because?" He took in a spoonful of soup.

And he heard himself say: "Because I'm feeling a bit helpless."

"How so?" He dipped his roll into the bowl.

"Against you." Jesus, why the fuck am I saying this? Compelled.

"Me?" Those green eyes sparked.

"Yes. As if I have no choice."

"Choice about what?"

"About whether I can even get up and leave now."

"You wanna leave?"

"Yes." But one look into Daryl's eyes and he spoke the truth: "No," he said quietly. Almost relieved.

"Hey, if you wanna go—if I'm making you uncomfortable, you can."

"No. That's OK. I really don't want to go."

"But you said you did." And he took another mouthful of the chowder.

James stared at the spoon going in Daryl's mouth. "I do. But I... can't."

"Of course, you can. You're a free man." The spoon dipped back into the creamy chowder. He stirred.

"I'm not so sure."

He put down the spoon on the table and reached across, putting his hand on James's arm. "But you are. Free."

The deepest chill of his life streamed through him, like a door letting in a January gale.

Daryl took away his hand. "What's wrong?"

What's the tone? Taunting? No, James thought, it sounds... teasing, the way old friends or siblings kid around.

James leaned back in the booth. "Maybe I should."

"OK. Let's pay up." It was so matter-of-fact, so un-spiteful that James immediately felt like a fool.

So maybe it was guilt that made James ask: "You need a lift?"

"You sure? I mean if you're feeling uncomfortable, you shouldn't..."

"... don't sweat it. It's not a problem. Guess I'm just in a weird mood. Lots of stuff going on."

"Hey, no problem. Really. I can walk."

"It's too cold. Besides, I just screwed up your suppertime."

"You sure?"

And said "Absolutely" in spite of himself.

8.

After the silent car ride, they pulled up to Daryl's Clifton Street house.

James felt his pulse in his throat.

"You OK?"

"Yeah. I'm fine."

"You could always park and come in for tea or something." Again, the tone was above suspicion.

"I don't think I should." But the green eyes drove in.

"Seriously. I could give you some tea. Something. You look really off."

Compelled.

"OK" He could barely hear his own voice.

9.

James sat on the couch: What the fuck have I gotten myself into here?

Dark wood paneling.

Jesus, can it get gloomier?

The only light: A few half-burnt scented candles and the dim glow coming from the galley kitchen off to the side.

When's the séance?

A worn Persian carpet; a nicked coffee table with plenty of rings from sweaty drinking glasses.

Then again, my college pad didn't look much better.

A Black Burmese lurking under the well-worn Morris chair, its tail curling and uncurling in a serpentine tease.

Well-groomed.

It was really chilly, made more acute by the obvious draft coming from the high sash window behind the sofa—and the thick green, ceiling height drapes did little to curb the effect.

"Here you go."

James was startled.

"Sorry."

He took the cup—Earl Grey—"Sorry. Guess I was deep in thought."

"Thinking about?"

"Just taking it all in. Reminds me a bit of my college days."

"Ah, my great décor. Vintage Salvation Army."

"Been there, done that." An attempt at being upbeat.

Daryl went behind the couch to adjust the drapes, then turned and laid a gentle hand on James's shoulder.

James dropped his cup. Flashes of images suddenly jolted through him: a desert; high ruddy cliffs; a nearly black sky spangled with stars. "What the fuck?" He tried to move, to get up—he strained vehemently—but couldn't budge.

Fuck, I'm paralyzed.

Then stopped struggling: Compelled.

The images—more like vivid memories—kept rolling through in waves—alternatingly chilling and warming waves. Flying over the desert, inches from the sand. Soaring up the cliff walls and into the night sky through wispy cirrus clouds. Two small moons tumbling in the sky: pocked with craters. Howling—strange, remarkable howling—at once like singing and wailing.

He wanted to shout out "What's happening," but could only muster a drooly moan, a slow motion approximation.

Which is when Daryl leaned down, his cheek inches from James's. "Don't be afraid, Professor. It's always like this at first." And then turned, his lips brushing against James's ear, down his neck.

In his mind, James struggled; in reality, he sat frozen.

Daryl's lips moved around to James's mouth.

James wanted to scream.

Compelled.

And they kissed deeply.

He tried to imagine Sari, but couldn't.

He tried to resist, but couldn't.

He tried.

But found himself kissing back, catching a glimpse of Daryl's eyes, glowing, green, dilated.

Then the euphoria hit—a slam to his gut—a sense of utter happiness. Deep abiding happiness—joy. Epiphany.

The desert images whirling through him, terrifying, awesome, ecstatic.

A feeling of orgasm overwhelmed him, his climax meshed to the image of a snow capped mountain rising from the floor of the mystifying red landscape.

And then:

He and Daryl are sitting cross legged—naked—facing each other, a foot or two apart—in the middle of desert dunes, the deep, black sky and all its untold stars swirling overhead, a vast wheel of icy light.

As if he were at the top of some great height, the air almost too thin to breath, James gasps for breath.

"Relax, Professor. If you fight it, you'll die. Just give in."

Daryl's eyes:

Glowing. Yes.

Friendly. Yes.

So compelling.

10.

Terrified: "Mars?"

Matter-of-factly, calmly, assuring: "Mars."

A breeze blows across the desert and suddenly—a jolt, like an elevator halting after a great descent—James was sitting again, clothed, on Daryl's couch, Daryl sitting in the chair, the cat curled in his lap.

The cup of tea, aromatic, steaming slightly—Didn't I drop it?—was sitting in front of him on the coffee table.

And James felt free to move—unshackled.

But he sits there, stunned.

"What did you do?"

"Let me tell you a story first. I promise to make it short. It'll explain everything."

Those eyes.

Compelled.

And he began as a father might, telling a favorite story to his son; a gentle voice weaving words full of nearly magical ideas: "Yes, we were on Mars, the place we both came from. The place all humans came from."

When James began to speak, Daryl puts his finger to his lips, shushed quietly, and continued: "You can ask things later. Just hear me out for now, please." He smiled.

"How can I fill in two billion years of history? Endless back story to get us to where we are now? No, let's just get to us. Modern humans are Martians—or better yet—Voyagers from what we now call galaxy M51. The Voyagers lived on Mars for millennia—it was so close to the world they traveled from. But then Mars became uninhabitable. The same asteroids that wiped out dinosaurs, wiped out most life on Mars. In weeks we went from a warm, watery world, to a hell of nearly airless, frozen tundra. Some Voyagers chose to navigate back to M51. We're still not sure whether they made it back; our ships—which can fold through space and time like going through a door—were damaged in the cataclysm. We can only hope. But others like us—like me—made it to Earth, which hadn't fared much better than Mars. We lived inside of our ships for many generations until the air cleared out and the forests began to resume. Then we emerged. Millions of years passed and the first humanoids appeared. We tried to stay apart, feeding on other animals, but..."

James again wanted to interrupt, he wanted to ask question after question, but stopped himself when, for one moment, he saw something in Daryl's eye—a glint of annoyance?

"... but it was inevitable that conflicts would arise. Conflicts and resolutions. Delightful resolutions. We found ourselves sexually compatible with early homo sapiens.

"Now after thousands upon thousands of untold generations, only a handful of us still have the genetic markers of the Voyagers. Descendants of the original Voyagers like me. Voyagers like the werewolves and vampires of legend..."

James felt himself revolting against the idea, "That's ridicu—"

"Not ridiculous, James. Not at all. Yes, Vampires and werewolves are myths—to a point. But the essence is quite true. The drinking of blood, the midnight turning into a beast—all true, mostly. Ah, living la vida lupo, my friend." He let out a small laugh. "The rest, of course, is the stuff of fiction. The hearsay about crosses, mirrors, garlic, stakes through the heart—nasty fairy tales at best."

He pets the cat, who slides off his lap and into the shadows behind the curtains. Daryl smiles, nodding towards the window, "Mr. Slithers doesn't like talk of wolves. Cats and dogs and all that."

He couldn't hold it in any more: "You've got to be fucking kidding me." He made to get up, but in an instant, Daryl was next to him on the couch, his hand on James's leg. More out of shock than anything, he sat back down.

"Let me finish."

"This is nuts."

"Then how do you explain this?"

And they're naked on Mars again.

Like that.

James is terrified.

"You see? It's real. All of it." He swings his arm in an arc over his head, "This is a primal memory that any Voyager with the Mark can experience. When you're Awakened, you remember it all. You remember your past, your heritage, you remember who you really are. The truth is back on our home world so many billions of years ago, we were a small, humanoid form with wolf-like features—intelligent, inventive, and, yes, feeders. We lived on the blood of lower forms. I should imagine that's where the vampire idea came from when we came to Earth."

He stands up, stretching his athletic form towards the sky. He extends a hand and James gets up too. They walk side by side, the sand soft between their toes. "There's so much more, of course. How can I fill in two billion years of history? Endless back story to get us to where we are now? No, let's just get to us. Like me, James—may I call you that?—you have The Mark. We can't explain why some have it and some don't. Millennia of inter-breeding have destroyed it in others—perhaps. We don't know. But the important part is that some of us have a genetic marker, a blip in the genome that awakens in us the memories of who we really are. Voyagers. Beings capable of so much."

"What have you done?"

And they stood in Daryl's apartment again. "I've turned you."

"Turned me?"

"Activated the Marker. Begun to Awaken you. The primal memories of Mars." The Persian carpet becomes a rusty sand dune and then, in a whirl of disintegrating sand, becomes the woven rug once more. "The even more distant memories of M51." The ceiling lowers into an ebony vapor, the great swirling galaxy sinking downward past them as they seem to fly through—only to be in the paneled living room again.

"Why?"

"You'll finally understand what you've felt all along—those moments of déjà vu, those flickers of mystic connection you experience in yoga..."

"How do you know I practice..."

"...those psychic, intuitive experiences that you've never told anyone about, when you seem to know thoughts and outcomes and realities in ways you know are absolutely true. Those times when you watch television shows and movies—ghost whisperers and mediums and vampires and werewolves—and you just know it's all true but you don't dare tell anyone."

James sat down again. Daryl went back to his chair.

"And you'll help me find others, James."

"Why would I?"

"To feel community. To be with others who understand. And—my greatest dream—to band together to reveal ourselves once and for all to a fractured world that needs our help."

"What kind of help?"

He smiled.

The glowing eyes. "All kinds, James. All kinds."

11.

James shuddered. "I really gotta be going."

"Too late."

James got up to leave. "Yes, I can."

"This room—maybe—but not who you are."

Daryl made no attempt to stop him. James opened the door, looked back—Those eyes—and walked out. Quickly.

Down the stairs, out the door, into the cool autumn air.

He gasped for breath.

Then noticed: The vague glow around some people walking down Clifton as they moved beneath the street lights. Not all of them, just one or two.

There. Her. That girl. And him, too. He saw it clearly: A green aura of light around them.

In a burst of static, Daryl was standing next to him.

James gasps.

"That's how I found you. Your glow, that mossy nimbus of light."

James put his hands to his face: "What's happened to me?" Then glared at Daryl: "What have you done?"

"Made you whole."

In frustration: "Whole?" The girl passing them by turned for a moment and continued. He lowered his voice and moved in: "Whole? This is whole? It's a fucking bad drug trip."

"Not like drugs at all. You've been Awakened."

He paced a circle around Daryl. "If this is awake, I'd rather be fucking asleep. Jesus Christ, what the fuck've you done?"

Daryl seemed to soften, showing genuine concern: "I know this is frightening. My Awakening was, too."

It came out as a guttural yell: "Fuck you." And running to his car, screamed to no one in particular, "This is too much. Too fucking much."

He scrabbled for his keys, found them, hurriedly opened the door, and jumped in.

It was only a moment, but Daryl materialized in the passenger seat.

"Leave me the fuck alone." He broke into a spontaneous sob. "Please, just leave me the fuck alone." He looked over. "Please."

But Daryl wasn't sinister at all.

In fact, James found him beautiful.

Compelling.

"Please don't worry. I'm not here to hurt you." He put his hand on James's leg.

"How can I possibly know that?"

"You don't. You'll have to trust me."

"I can't."

Daryl took his hand back and placed it over his chest. He turned his eyes upward, glowing, glittering, shades of green melting into grays and blues—craning his neck back. A sound slowly emerged, a low note at first—a Tibetan monk's "Om," primal and deep—that transformed in a few moments into a moan—to a wail—to a nearly deafening howl, his mouth open wide and long, the teeth—canine, sharp, chiseled—bared to some invisible world far, far off.

James wanted to cover his ears but could barely move.

Then the sudden silence. Daryl turned.

Those eyes.

Yes.

In that one moment before he passed out, James—Compelled—uttered, begged that one word: "Please."

So Daryl lunged.