squeamish, and she seemed to read my thought. "Will not hurt,” she whispered. "I don’t really make the bite. I just drink, with the lips and tongue.”
"Uh—sort of a supercharged kiss?”
"You understand everything!”
So I finished unlimbering my egg-stained necktie. Catalina made contented little sounds that became a sleepy humming. In a moment or so, I wasn’t dizzy or nauseated. Her hair was the softest that ever touched anyone’s cheek or throat . . . hell, a pint blood transfusion didn’t seem to hurt the professional donors. . . .
"I mus’ not be piggish,” she finally said.
Somehow, Catalina seemed to be getting more substantial. If she hadn’t been such a perfect lady, I’d have slapped her hip just to check up on the sound. I was groggy, all right, but altogether, it was nicer than I’d ever figured it could be, sitting on a tombstone with an armful of vampire.
When the air had the taste of dawn, she stirred and said, "Is time to go home. The sun will soon rise, no?” She made a sudden gesture. "Look. Over there!”
I turned. There was nothing to see. When I faced back toward Catalina, she was gone. A spiral of whitish fog seemed to be sinking into the stone. That did make me feel funny.
She actually lived under the slab. The real article. It’d be nice if Prof. Rodman’s blood-builder didn’t work. Which gave me some long thoughts as I trudged wearily homeward.
THE sun rose before I got there. The boss had backed his heap out of the garage and was playing a saxophone solo with the accelerator to give her a fast warm-up. He uses Green Gold lube, so he figures you can’t ruin an engine, no matter how cold it is when you gun it.
He saw me trying to sneak in, and he poked his head out and yelled, "No damn wonder I been catching you asleep in the battery room! If you don’t get Judge Mottley’s business back, I’ll fire you.”
Mr. Hill was not playing. The judge’s account gave the station prestige. I had more than Spanish vampires to contend with.
Mrs. Hill was blinking and smoking her morning cigarette when I stepped into the kitchen. I used to think she was nice-looking, but now blonds seemed a bit stuffy. She said, "You’re up awful early, Eric.”
"Yeah, and I feel faint, too,” I said, and dug into the oatmeal.
She looked at me rather funny, but said no more. Getting up in the middle of the night to get Hill’s breakfast was tough, I gathered.
So was that day at school. Most of the time I didn’t know whether they were talking about torts or tarts. What with sleep-walking around the campus, I was eyeing more co-eds than I ever had before. I was looking for the honey who had ribbed me last night.
Somehow, I lived through the day. Four bowls of chili under my belt bucked me up enough for the night at the filling-station. It was on El Camino Real, the old Royal Post Road that reaches from San Francisco to San Diego. The good padres used to march from one mission to the next, on foot. It was a laugh, picturing what they’d have thought of Catalina.
That idea led me to a detour. There was enough time, so I went to that slab in the thicket. By daylight it looked bleak and lonesome, but this was no time for sentiment. I lifted a picket from the snake fence and pried at the slab. It was easy to work it away.
There was no digging to do. The burial crypt was of squared stones. In the bottom was a home-made casket, with handles of tarnished silver. Like the plate on the lid, they’d been hammered out by a smith.
