Free Verse of the Vampyre by Diana Killian

caught the sound of footsteps behind her.
    She glanced back. There was no one there.
    Mindful of her numerous self-defense classes, Grace cut across the road, keeping her pace quick and her posture confident. Her ears were attuned to any sounds. All she could hear was the echo of her own footsteps down the empty streets.
    But then there was a faint furtive noise a yard or two behind her. Without bothering to check, she crossed the street again. As she reached the opposite pavement she threw a look over her shoulder. This time she caught a glimpse of something and felt her scalp prickle.
    It had to be a trick of the light, but she could have sworn that her follower wore a cape.
    Lord Ruthven on his way to the pub? No. He would say something, call out to her. And, although it was hard to tell, she didn’t think the figure was tall enough. If she could get a better look…but actually this was as much of a look as she wanted.
    Suddenly the familiar streets seemed dull with shadows, and menacing. There were no homes along this stretch of road, and the shops were closed and dark. The police kiosk was on the other side of the village. She hated to think what she would say to one of her girls who let herself get into a situation like this.
    And had she really believed it was worth the savings not to carry a cell phone here? For a smart woman, Grace, she told herself, you really can be an idiot.
    Still walking, she felt around in her purse, pulled out her compact and held it up, half-turning. “Look, if you don’t clear off, I’m calling the cops!” She hoped her voice sounded more confident than she felt. She hoped that from this distance and concealed by her hand her compact might be mistaken for a cell phone. She hoped she didn’t fall over something while walking backward.
    Eyes probing the gloom, Grace weighed her options. She didn’t have many.
    There. Something moved by the corner of a building. She glimpsed white. A face? No, too white, too stiff. A mask? She faced forward again.
    She could see the theater marquee in the distance, featuring nothing and starring no one. The theater lights were dark, the parking lot empty. She began to jog. She heard footsteps behind her break into a run.
    This time she didn’t stop to look. Grace ran, too, purse clutched against her side and feet pounding the pavement. Puddles shimmered in moonlight. She saw the blur of her reflection as she raced past. And the reflection of something right on her heels. She ran faster. She ran for her life; adrenaline gave her wings.
    The Aston Martin sat by itself in the empty parking lot.
    Her keys were already clenched between her knuckles, blades out, as a last-resort weapon. Now she fumbled with them, jamming the car key into the lock.
    It didn’t fit. Was it upside down? The wrong key? She turned it this way, that way, for agonizing seconds before the car door opened. Jumping in, she slammed the door shut behind her and banged down the lock.
    She scrabbled to fit the key into the ignition. Again it seemed too big for the lock. She poked blindly. Her eyes raked the car park for her pursuer.
    Nothing. The shadows shifted with the moonlight, but there was no one there.
    The Aston Martin roared into life, and Grace peeled out of the lot.
    She was as angry as she was scared. Her heart banged against her ribs in that fight-or-flight reaction, or perhaps from her mad dash. Her hands gripped the steering wheel too tightly. Slowly, she drove down the narrow street, the car’s headlights spotlighting the corners and alleys of the road. There was no sign of her pursuer.

5
    G race woke to a morning as dark as night. Needles of rain glittered in the gloom outside the front window. For the first time she realized that all this rain could get on her nerves. From the chesterfield, which made into a bed, she spotted Miss Coke’s poppet lying on her dresser and was filled with uncharacteristic depression. She was homesick. She missed teaching. She missed her