Chosen

It's a little after nine when the doorbell rings again.



It catches me as I come downstairs, having finally roused myself off the couch to shower and change from the sweats and T-shirt I sleep in when I'm alone to the jeans and T-shirt I live in when I'm awake.



As usual, I don't think to check to see who is outside before swinging the door open. I wish I had.



Mrs. Williams' unexpected presence catches me totally off guard.



She registers the shock on my face while her own betrays nothing. After a moment, she says, "May I come in?"



Numbly, I nod and step aside.



What am I supposed to say to her?



She crosses the living room and slumps onto the couch. Her eyes sweep the room, appraising, assessing, taking measure of how I live. Her expression remains detached. Even when she feels my eyes on her, she does not react except to meet my gaze with her own.



It's then I see it. The subtle changes.



She's about forty-five, slender, attractive. She's dressed in designer widow-tailored black crepe slacks, charcoal blouse, fitted black blazer. She always had a patrician air about her, the look of one used to being pampered. Her face now is drawn with grief, but the lines are softer, her skin more youthful, her eyes brighter than I remember.



I sense something, too.



A vibe coming off her. Powerful. Intrusive.



She looks away from me. Her shoulders bunch. She knows I'm studying her.



She's wishing she hadn't come. Realizes now it was a mistake.



I know what she's feeling. I know what she's thinking.



I know because I'm in her head.



She's been turned. She's vampire.