The Society of S

“I miss you, too.” In a way I was telling the truth: I missed the boy he’d been before Kathleen’s death. “Maybe you can come and visit us sometime.”



“Maybe.” But the way he spoke made it seem a remote prospect. “Ari, I need to ask you something. Kathleen said some things about you. She told me that I should be careful around you, that you weren’t —” He stopped talking.



“She told you that I’m not normal?” I said. “Well, that’s true.”



“She said — stupid stuff. She was into that weird role-playing and witchcraft, and who knows what else. But she acted sometimes as if it were real. She said you were a vampire.”



In my mind, the word glowed like embers.



“And I know that’s ridiculous, but I still have to ask if you know anything about how she died. Do you know anything?”



“All I know is what I read, and what you told me,” I said. “I had nothing to do with her death, Michael. I wish I’d been there that night — sometimes I think I might have been able to save her. But I got sick, and you drove me home, and the next thing I knew, your father called mine to see if she was with me.”



“That’s what I thought,” he said. “I’m sorry I brought it up.”



“No apologies needed.”



I asked him if there were any leads in the case. He said that the police were questioning stable hands.



Once I’d sorted through what I knew about my father, and what my mother had told me, some facts emerged as possible means of tracking him down. I wrote them in my journal.



First, every January my father went to Baltimore. Going to Baltimore next January might be of use. But January was months away, and I wasn’t inclined to be patient.



Second, my father was devoted to his research. To conduct the business of Seradrone, and to stay alive, he needed a steady supply of blood. That meant inquiries should be made to the Green Cross service, and perhaps to funeral parlors. But where?



Third, he relied upon his helpers: Dennis McGrath and Mary Ellis Root. Find them, and a trail might lead to my father.



Fourth, contact his tailor.



Those were the immediately obvious avenues to finding him. Of course, he might have done something unexpected — run away to India, or begun a new life as a teacher or writer. But I didn’t think so. As my mother had said, most vampires are creatures of habit.



That night after dinner, Mãe, Dashay, Harris, and I sat outside in the moon garden that lay on the house’s northern side. (Joey had been sent to bed by Dashay; the moon excited him, and he made too much noise.) Mãe had planted an array of white flowers — angel’s trumpets, moonflowers, flowering tobacco, and gardenias — in a circular plot, and we sat on two facing benches made of weathered teak, watching the flowers seem to glow as the sky darkened. A half moon hung low in the June sky, and the heavy perfume of the tobacco plants made me sleepy. Around us, mosquitoes droned, but never even brushed our skin. Their noise reminded me of high-pitched string instruments. I know it’s not a pleasant sound for humans, who fear their bite.



I told the others about my plan to find my father. The Recovery Plan, I called it. They listened without commenting.



“I plan to begin making calls tomorrow,” I said. “I feel well enough, and my head is clear again.”



“That’s good,” Dashay said. Next to me, Harris made a sound of agreement.



Mãe said, “And what if you do find him, Ariella? What then?”



I didn’t have an answer. Her face was half in shadow, and Dashay sat beyond her, nearly invisible. I tried to imagine my father sitting on the bench next to my mother, taking in the night air, admiring the lanternlike glow of the flowers, and I failed. I couldn’t picture him with us.



The child in me wondered, What if he doesn’t like monkeys?



Nobody spoke. Then the quiet was shattered by a sound: “Wha-wha-wha!”



I was the only one who jumped. Harris actually reached over and patted my hand.



The noise repeated, and this time it was answered by another sound: “Who-whoo.”



The exchanges went on for nearly a minute. I couldn’t tell where they were coming from. Then, they faded away, until all we heard was the drone of mosquitoes again.



“Owls?” I whispered, and the others nodded.



“Barred owls,” Dashay said.



Suddenly I thought of my father’s lullaby. Across from me, my mother’s eyes flashed in the moonlight. She began to sing, to the melody he’d sung to me: “Jacaré tutu / Jacaré mandu / tutu vai embora / Não leva méia filhinha / Murucututu.” Her voice was dark silver — as haunting as his, but sharper, sadder — and it shimmered in the moonlight. When she stopped, there was silence. Even the mosquitoes were quiet, for a moment.



Then I heard my voice. “What do the words mean?”



She said, “A parent is asking for her child’s protection. She asks the alligator and the other beasts of the night to go away, to leave the child alone. Murucututu is the owl, the mother of sleep.”



“How do you know it?”



“Your father,” she said. “He sang it to you, before you were born.”



Next morning I decided to press on, regardless of the consequences.



I began with Seradrone and Green Cross. Both had websites — dull, jargon-ridden websites, but at least they provided contact numbers.



Seradrone had a Saratoga Springs area code. But when I called, I reached the familiar recording: the number was no longer in service. Next I dialed Green Cross. I expect a terrorist calling the Pentagon might have got more answers.



I said, “I heard that Seradrone went out of business, and I wondered whether we’ll still be able to get Sangfroid.”



“Where did you hear that?” The voice on the other end was clipped, precise as a computer’s speech simulator. I couldn’t even tell the sex of the speaker.



“My mother told me,” I said, keeping my voice young and innocent.



“What’s her name?”



“Her name’s Sara Stephenson.” Should I have said that? I wondered.



“You may tell your mother that deliveries will continue as scheduled,” the voice said, and the connection went dead.



Thanks so much, I thought. I went into the kitchen. Mãe was kneading bread dough at the table. The dough was a deep red color.



“Why are the Green Cross people so rude?” I asked her.



“Well, for starters, they’re not people.” She looked up at me, her hands still working the dough. “Want to have a try?”



“Not today.” I didn’t have much interest in cooking, anyway. In that, I guess, I took after my father. “Mãe, who makes Sangfroid? Didn’t you say it comes from Albany?”



“Check the can.”



I pulled down the black and red tin container from the pantry shelf. Its back panel read: “Made in USA. (c) LER Co., Albany, NY.”



Back in Mãe’s study, I used her computer to find a phone number for LER Co. An operator connected me to an extension for “consumer relations,” whose voice mail took my request for a return call.



I went back to the kitchen. “Mãe, how do I dial London? I want to call my father’s tailor.”



She was washing her hands in the sink. The bread must be in the oven.



“Gieves & Hawkes,” she said. “Number One Savile Row. I saw that label often enough.” She reached for a towel, then turned to me. “Ariella, you’re not going to call them?”



“Why not?”



“They won’t tell you anything.” She rubbed her hands dry. “British tailors are as secretive as the CIA. Probably more so.”



“They can’t be worse than Green Cross.” I thought of telling her that I’d used her name, then thought I’d better not.



But she shook her head as if she already knew. “Green Cross won’t give out information, even to other vampires,” she said. “Medical couriers have to maintain confidentiality.”



I was running out of ideas. “Maybe I’ll call Dennis.” But I didn’t look forward to talking with him — the man who’d helped Malcolm steal my mother.



My mother opened the oven door and looked in at her dark red loaves. “Can you smell the honey?”



“It smells pink,” I said.



“To me it’s the color of the poppies in the back garden.” She closed the oven door.



Another call, another voice mail message. Dennis would be out of the office until August 15. I didn’t leave a response, and I hung up feeling more relieved than disappointed.



But the Recovery Plan options were running out.



A few days later the Green Cross delivery van showed up. I met the driver with a smile and several questions. He said he didn’t know anything about making Sangfroid, and he hinted strongly that if he did, he wouldn’t tell a stranger.



I turned away. My mother came from the stables carrying two large baskets of Mayapple leaves and roots, which we’d harvested the previous day in the forest. Mayapple’s other name is American Mandrake. American Indians used it as a medicine, and now it’s being tested as a possible treatment for cancer. My mother traded it with Green Cross in exchange for blood supplements.



“We’ll need two boxes of the Sangfroid,” she said. “I trust the quality will be as high as the last batch.”



The deliveryman loaded the baskets into the back of the van, then handed her two cartons marked LER CO. “No worries,” he said. “Nothing’s changed.”



“I wonder where I’ll live when I grow up,” I said. “I mean, when I’m older.”



My mother and I sat in the living room. A faint strain of music came from outside. Dashay and Bennett were out on the grass with a transistor radio, dancing.



Mãe looked stern. “You won’t be older. You realize that, don’t you?” Her voice sounded frustrated. “Didn’t your father teach you anything?”



Of course he had. But I’d never thought through the implications: once you’re an other, your biological clock is stopped. You don’t age. You don’t grow. Only your mind can grow.



“How old do I look?” I asked.