At the Twilight's Last Gleaming
OTHER BOOKS BY DAVID BISCHOFF
Dragonstar:
Dragonstar
(with Thomas F. Monteleone)
Day of the Dragonstar
(with Thomas F. Monteleone)
Night of the Dragonstar
(with Thomas F. Monteleone)
Dragonstar Destiny
(with Thomas F. Monteleone)
Gaming Magi:
The Destiny Dice
Wraith Board
The Unicorn Gambit
Nightworld:
Nightworld
Vampires of Nightworld
Star Fall:
Star Fall
Star Spring
Star Hounds:
The Infinite Battle
Galactic Warriors
The Macrocosmic Conflict
The UFO Conspiracy:
Abduction
Deception
Revelation
Other Books:
The Seeker
(with Christopher Lampton)
The Phantom of the Opera
Forbidden World
(with Ted White)
Tin Woodman
(with Dennis R. Bailey)
The Selkie
(with Charles Sheffield)
Mandala
Wargames
The Crunch Bunch
A Personal Demon
(with Rich Brown and Linda Richardson)
The Manhattan Project
The Blob
The Judas Cross
(with Charles Sheffield)
Hackers
Philip K. Dick High
The Diplomatic Touch
The H.P. Lovecraft Institute
At the Twilight’s Last Gleaming
Copyright © 2010 by David Bischoff
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Dear Reader,
Vampires! Zombies!
What with all the hoopla lately about such supposedly supernatural entities, it’s as though they were invented in the 21
st
century.
Nope.
They were around. Oh yes, they were around!
I mean, Stephanie Meyer didn’t invent fangs anymore than she invented puberty, adolescence or hickeys on teenage necks. And to listen to Anne Rice and Charlaine Harris, you’d think all the vampire action was in New Orleans and the South.
But they get it all wrong.
Now that vampires and their ilk are out of the closet, so to speak, and under girls’ bed sheets along with pop stars, Grandma can spill her truth.
I can tell my story.
Oh, and in case you might be interested at first, let me tell you there’s plenty of teenage hanky panky, bloodsucking, weird love and much, much more.
And come to think of it…my story does happen in the South.
South of Washington D.C. in 1968.
1968 — the year they say changed the world.
My name?
Why it’s Rebecca.
Rebecca, like the famous Daphne du Maurier novel of the same name that kind of started off the whole gothic craze in the 20
th
Century.
This is my vampire love story.
So turn off your cell phone, drape the garlic on the windows and listen up.
It’s not quite the kind of story you might think!
PROLOGUE
I
DREAMED I
went to Manderlay High School again last night. I knew that Death waited for me there.
The school was dark, its square windows staring out like the empty eyes of a zombie. Across the grass, wet with sprinkler dew, I walked like one possessed.
My heart thumped in my chest. I knew that my killer would be waiting for me there, but I could not turn back.
The moon was bright. It was just coming up over the trees, full as the wind-blown sails of a ship. The American flag in the front courtyard snapped in the breeze.
I pushed the bar on the front door. It whispered open.
I smelled new floor wax but, as always, I could see no custodian.
No, I thought. Go no further. Turn. Run. Run as hard as you can, girl. Run for your life.
The moon cast shadows in the foyer, but beyond them was darkness. I stepped forward, unable to control my steps. My shoes clicked against the linoleum as I walked into the huge expanse of the multi-purpose room.
A candle in the distance flickered meagerly. It has been set on a table, on the proscenium of the high school stage. Beside the dripping candle was a small black vase. From that vase grew a single rose, red as blood, rising up from shadow.
I walked toward the table, striding up the stairs to the stage, then along the proscenium. The stage curtains billowed in some ghostly breeze.
I went to the candle, and stared into it.
I picked up the rose from its vase. As I did so a thorn pierced my thumb. In the candlelight I watched a bead of blood blossom slowly on my skin, then drip with a hiss into the candle flame.
“Rebecca.”
I turned.
He was there. I felt the strength of the night again, the promise.
He came to me, but I did not run.
