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Abbie called her husband before locking up the office, to assure him that she was coming home. He was very understanding, but he tended to worry about her. Then she escorted Sandra to her car and made sure she drove away.
IT was weeks later before Abbie stood in the newly carpeted living room. Fresh hex signs had been painted over the doors and windows. A priest had blessed the house. A medium had come and told Brian Garner’s ghost that it was dead. Abbie did not know, or want to know, if the ghost had been stubborn about leaving.
The house felt clean and new, as if it had just been built. Perhaps a registered psychic could have picked up some lingering traces of evil and horror, but Abbie couldn’t.
The kitchen door stood white and pure. There were no stains today, everything had been fixed, everything had been hidden. And wonder of wonders, she had a client coming to see it.
The client knew all about the house and its history. But then Mr. Channing and his family had been having difficulties of their own. No one wanted to sell them a house.
But Abbie had no problem with selling to them. They were people, after all; the law said so.
She had turned the lights in the living room and kitchen on. Their yellow glow chased back the night. Charles had been unhappy about her meeting the clients alone, at night. But Abbie knew you couldn’t sell to people if they didn’t think you trusted and liked them. So she waited alone in the artificial light, trying not to think too much about old superstitions. As a show of great good faith, she had no protection on her.
At exactly ten o’clock the doorbell rang. She had not heard a car drive up.
Abbie opened the door with her best professional smile on her face. And it wasn’t hard to keep the smile because they looked like a very normal family. Mr. and Mrs. Channing were a young handsome couple. He was well over six feet with thick chestnut hair and clear blue eyes. She was only slightly shorter and blond. But they did not smile. It was the boy who smiled. He was perhaps fourteen and had his father’s chestnut hair, but his eyes were dark brown, and Abbie found herself staring into those eyes. They were the most perfect color she had ever seen, solid, without a trace, falling. A hand steadied her, and when she looked, it was the boy who touched her, but he did not meet her eyes.
The three stood waiting for something as Abbie held the door. Finally, she asked them in. “Won’t you please come inside?”
They seemed to relax and stepped through the door with the boy a little in front.
She smiled again and put a hand out to Mr. Channing and said, “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Channing.”
The three exchanged glances and then polite laughter.
The man said, “I’m not Channing; call me Rick.”
“Oh, of course.” Abbie tried to cover her confusion as the woman introduced herself simply as “Isabel.”
It left Abbie with only one other client, but she offered her hand and her smile. “Mr. Channing.”
He took it in a surprisingly strong grip and said, “I have looked forward to meeting you, Ms. McDonnell. And please, it’s just Channing, no Mr.”
“As you like, Channing. Then you must call me Abbie.”
“Well then, Abbie, shall we see the house?” His face was so frank and open, so adult. It was disconcerting to see such intelligence and confidence in the eyes of a fourteen-year-old body.
He said, “I am much older than I appear, Abbie.”
“Yes, I am sorry, I didn’t mean to stare.”
“That’s quite all right. It is better that you stare than refuse to see us.”
“Yes, well, let me show you the house.” Abbie turned off the lights and showed the moon shining through the skylights. The brick fireplace was an unexpected hit. Somewhere Abbie had gotten the idea that vampires didn’t like fire.
She did turn on the lights to show them the bedrooms and baths. They might be able to see in the dark, but Abbie didn’t think it would impress them if she tripped in the dark.
The female, Isabel, spun round the master bedroom and said, “Oh, it will make a wonderful office.”
Abbie inquired, “What do you do?”
The woman turned and said, “I’m an artist, I work mostly in oils.”
Abbie said, “I’ve always wished I could paint, but I can’t even draw.”
The woman seemed not to have heard. Abbie had learned long ago that you didn’t make conversation if the client didn’t want to talk. So they viewed the house in comparative silence.
There was one point in the master bathroom, when the three had to crowd in to see, that Abbie turned and bumped into the man. She stepped away as if struck and to cover her almost-fear she turned around and nearly gasped. They had reflections. She could see them just as clearly as herself. Abbie recovered from the shock and went on. But she knew that at least Channing had noticed. There was a special smile on his face that said it all.
Since they had reflections, Abbie showed them the kitchen more thoroughly than she had been intending. After all, if one myth was untrue, perhaps others were; perhaps they could eat.
The basement she saved for last, as she did in most of her houses. She led the way down and groped for the light pull cord but did not turn on the lights until she heard them shuffle in next to her. She said, “You’ll notice there are no windows. You will have absolute privacy down here.” She did not add that no sunlight would be coming down because after the mirror she wasn’t sure if it was pertinent.
Channing’s voice came soft and low out of the velvet dark. “It is quite adequate.”
It wasn’t exactly unbridled enthusiasm, but Abbie had done her best. She pulled on the light and showed them the water heater and the sump pump. “And the washer and dryer hookups are all set. All you need is the machine.”
Channing nodded and said, “Very good.”
“Would you like me to leave you alone for a few moments to discuss things?”
“Yes, if you would.”
“Certainly.” Abbie walked up the stairs but left the door open. She went into the living room so they would be sure she wasn’t eavesdropping. She wondered what the neighbors would think about vampires living next door. But that wasn’t her concern; she just sold the house.
She did not hear them come up, but they stood suddenly in the living room. She swallowed past the beating of her heart and said, “What do you think of the house?”
Channing smiled, exposing fangs. “I think we’ll take it.”
The smile was very genuine on Abbie’s part as she walked forward and shook their hands. “And how soon will you want to move in?”
“Next week, if possible. We have had our down payment for several months, and our bank is ready to approve our loan.”
“Excellent. The house is yours as soon as the papers are signed.”
Isabel ran a possessive hand down the wall. “Ours,” she said.
Abbie smiled and said, “And if any of your friends need a house, just let me know. I’m sure I can meet their needs.”
Channing grinned broadly at her and put his cool hand in hers. “I’m sure you can, Abbie, I’m sure you can.”
After all, everyone needs a house to call their own. And Abbie sold houses.
A TOKEN FOR CELANDINE
This story is set in the world of my first novel, Nightseer. It’s set on a continent hundreds of miles away, but it’s still the same world with the same magic system. Marion Zimmer Bradley rejected the story by saying that I’d done a pastiche of Tolkien, and elves really should be left to him, but do send another story and try again. I disagreed about elves being left to Tolkien and sent the story out again. It sold next time out, to Memories and Visions. And I would send Ms. Bradley my next story, and have the pleasure of her buying it. No elves in that one.
THE prophet was an old man crazed with his own visions. He crouched against the dark wood of an elm. His fingers dug into the bark as if he would anchor himself to it. He gasped and wheezed as he drew in the morning air.
We had been chasing him through these woods for three days. And I was tired of it. If he ran this time, I was going to put an arrow in his leg. Celandine could heal him of the wound, and she could finally ask her question. I had not mentioned my plan to the healer. I thought she might object. The old man looked into a bar of dazzling sunlight. The glow showed his eyes milky with the creeping blindness of the very old and the very poor.
