Herschel Dvorak stared out the window; remembered his initiation. It had been the day after his twelfth birthday, the night before Christmas.

"It's time, my son," his father had said. "You're old enough to understand now."

Herschel had come to him, asked the reason for the sudden strange sensations in his body, the lambent longing in his soul.

"We are different, Herschel. We have powers that others don't possess. And needs that are extraordinary. We are accursed. Yet, we are the elect, the chosen."

His mother, as he recalled, being quite impatient, had interrupted the aerating of soil in her casket. "Oh, Vlad, don't be so dramatic. Tell the boy that we're vampires and get on with it."

"Joella, my darling, ever the pragmatist. Would you please allow me to do this without interruption? After all, I've given you great leeway in the boy's life."

"Such as?"

"His name, for one. 'Herschel' is so common, so unstately."

"An old boyfriend of mine, Vlad. I remember him fondly."

"Loved him so much you could just eat him up, I suppose?"

"Don't be crude, Vlad."

"I like my name," said Herschel.

"Back to the business at hand," said his father. "Joella, if you'll allow me?"

She'd turned back to sifting the moist dirt.

"Here, read this short pamphlet. Shouldn't take you more than a few minutes. Then we'll go night prowling, you and I."

"Yes, father," he answered, glancing at the paper in his hand. Vampire Catechism and The Daily Blood Communion. Turned out to be an interesting read.

Then, as the night slipped into its blackest garb, Herschel accompanied his father in search of that first rite of passage.

"Be particular, my son. Don't settle for just any soul. While the fat ones have plenty of blood, their veins are full of cholesterol and plaque. Leaves an unsavory taste in your mouth."

"Yes, Father," he'd said, straightening his new birthday cloak. Even now, he recalled the pubescent urges that had surged through his body.

"There," said his father, moments later, "the young lady under the streetlamp. She'll do fine."

Herschel had made somewhat a mess of it, biting first buttocks then breasts before his father had stepped in and showed him the proper place to start.

"The neck--right here, Herschel. The tender nestle of throat where the pulse trembles ever so softly."

Herschel had drawn blood in geysers, spewing it in every direction.

"Don't chew with you mouth open, son. It's bad manners."

Finally, when the blonde lay supine, gasping her last breaths, his father had pulled him away.

"Mustn't be a glutton, my boy. When you finish them off like that, you have to find a place to dispose of the body. Wouldn't want to stir up attention by leaving a corpse lying around."

"Why didn't she scream, Father?"

"That stare, Herschel. You have that natural, disarming stare. It's very hypnotic." He reached down and took the girl by the wrists. "Well, how did you like it, son?"

"Exciting, Father. She has...had lovely breasts, and a wonderful--"

"Lagniappe, my boy. And you must always taste the throat first. Proper etiquette, you know."

"Thank you, Father. I'll try to remember."

They'd carried the girl's body to the edge of City Park, tossed her into a deep cistern.

It had been a wonderful experience. Birthday, Christmas, and rite of passage all rolled into one. And, after that initial experience, Herschel had been insatiable. He tried round ones, thin ones, redheads, brunettes--but he had his favorite. 'Gentlemen prefer blondes,' his father had said. And Herschel, in that respect, was his father's son.

The years rolled by, happy years that transformed Herschel into a splendid vampiric specimen. When it was time for him to go off to college, he had but one question.

"What if I fall in love, Father?"

"It's a luxury you can't afford, son. That emotion will cloud your mind, cause you to lose sight of your goal."

"And what's that, Father?"

"Why, to live forever, Herschel. And to enjoy it to the fullest. If you fall in love, you will be plagued with responsibility, handcuffed by compassion, and perhaps even--god forbid--develop an inclination to submission."

"What about you and Mother?"

"Ours was a marriage of convenience, my son. Her father owned the casket factory in Batesville."

Throughout his freshman year, Herschel kept the desired commitment. He had many girlfriends, and was able to maintain a 'bite-'em-and-leave-'em' attitude. Then, the first week of his sophomore year, he met Mordée Duncan.

As they say in the storybooks, she was everything he'd ever dreamed of. Cool, blonde, and sensuous. And when she rebuffed his efforts to nibble her throat, he didn't object.

'Take it slow', he thought. 'She's special.'

Now, he was at the window, watching, waiting.

'I'll meet you after class,' she'd said. 'I have something to tell you.'

'You're not going to tell me that you don't want to see me anymore, are you?'

'Don't be silly, Herschel. I love being around you. We seem to have so much in common. But, I have to share something with you before we go any further.'

He'd worried all morning. Had she been a porn star before she enrolled in college? Was she a transsexual? As he paced the floor, he heard a gentle knocking.

"Come in."

Mordée entered the room. Herschel rushed to embrace her.

"Curiosity is killing me," he whispered in her ear. "You must tell me--"

She kissed his cheek; let her mouth glide down his throat. "I want you," she said.

"Oh, Mordée, I want you, too."

She rolled back her lips, rested her glistening fangs gently at the nestle point.

"No, Herschel. I mean--I really want you!"