DUET

Death lurked tonight.

The vampire huffed softly to herself, not quite a laugh. Rather lame poetry, if she did say so, and not all that profound, either. Of course death was lurking. Never a day that it wasn’t. That was the meaning of life.

She leaned against the broad trunk of an Eastern white pine, one of the oldest and stateliest in these woods. In her black parka, boots, and balaclava, she blended into its stout shadow completely. But for the weakness gnawing at her edges, she could have happily spent the night here.

She often came to the nature preserve to escape the relentless press of noise, stink and calamity, both arcane and mundane. Vampires loved their toys as much as the mortals did. She knew the trails well, hiked them in all seasons. Earlier she’d been invited to a hunt in the city, and while she was beginning to grow a bit desperate for a good jolt of energy and some friendly warm-blooded companionship, all she really wanted right now was space. Snow, trees, the cleansing cold air, and that immense sky hoarding its stars during the new moon.

Instead, she got owl-calling night.

Cars pulled in around the nature center and eager humans spilled out laughing and chatting, a veritable blitzkrieg for those who kept to the shadows. A general hubbub then, during which she debated leaving for the city after all. Then they sorted themselves into clusters of twenty or so and sallied into the woods, each with its own guide, their Goretex and Mukluks skritch-skritching as they walked. She decided to wait and see what happened. Mostly she didn’t feel like leaving the tree.

The nearest pod approached her spot slowly, crunching their way up the plowed dirt road leading to wilder parts of the nature preserve. Her wolf-keen nose picked up their scent a few seconds before her – what, wolf ears? picked up their breathing and heartbeats, difficult to hear beneath their myriad other noises. They stopped on a small rise in the road and stood muttering to each other for a minute.

The vampire considered. Was it wolf ears? Owl ears? She tried to remember. She hadn’t picked up a fantasy novel in a while.

Whale ears?

A giggle nearly startled out of her. This was immediately followed by the urge to do a whale call, just to see what the owl-seekers would do.

Dropping her head against the tree, she watched the group. They were still a few hundred yards away, too far to make out any of their murmurings. Impatience welled. What was taking them so long? Did they seriously think they’d find an owl right there, within sight of the nature center and its yellow outdoor light and parking lot and banging side door?

She’d half a mind to stroll jauntily up the road toward them, laugh blithely that she must have somehow walked right past them – and here they’d shush her – and then she’d quiet down and melt to the back of the crowd. Find somebody to pick off from back there. Might be a lot quicker than waiting for the whole event to play out.

On the other hand, it’d be peaceful. She could sit in the woods after, gaze up at the stars. Unlike the city, she wouldn’t have to move on right away. Aquarius, Orion, Ursa Major.

Eh, who was she kidding. She could never pull off blithe.

“Follow me,” the guide mouthed wetly, in what he probably thought was barely a whisper. He should have known better. Footsteps crunched, and the group was moving again.

Hallelujah.

They moved as a many-legged, multi-headed night-blob, apparently believing that gluing themselves together would protect them from monsters in the woods. Yet they also wanted to hear an owl, so their many heads swiveled toward the woods, straining to hear the faintest hooting over the symphonic swishing of their snow gear.

Someone whispered, “S—sss---ss—s-s?”

“Shh!” someone else hissed.

Owls always heard that. That’s why you got shushed. Hard to hear owls if you’re talking, even whispering. Vampires heard it too, easily, even at a hundred paces.

She watched them come down the road, leaving the open fields surrounding the nature center behind and entering the deeper embrace of the woods.

“Okay,” the guide whispered, which didn’t have any s’s in it. The group halted before him and waited.

She tried to count the heads. Why vampires got preternatural hearing and smell but only moderately elevated night vision, she’d never understand. It truly irked. But her eyes couldn’t separate the mass of their bodies. Twenty heads, maybe? But for the woman in an ice-blue coat, wrapped in the arms of a taller man wearing what appeared to be desert camo but could have been leopard print, and the stout white-haired woman in a school letter jacket, they looked like a single mass with most of the heads focused on one head.

The guide was half-turned away from them, hunched over a Star-Trekkian device in his hand, struggling to make it do something. Finally, he yanked one glove off with his teeth – to a few chuckles from the other heads – held the box up, stabbed it with one naked finger, and waited. All the heads went still.

The mating call of a male screech owl echoed scratchily from the electronic caller, dispersing weakly in the trees. She could hear the flatness of the recording, horse-like and high, followed by a short tremolo. The owls could probably hear it too, but still, it might fool one of them into responding.

He played it a few more times, rotating in place to aim it in different directions.

They listened, cocked with hope.

She listened to them listening.

Their hearts were pounding, a drumline of fifth-graders who’d never practiced together before, from the exercise, cold, and the excitement. Most of them were mouth-breathing rather heavily, too. They probably believed themselves to be silent. She wondered what the owls thought of that.

Something fussed in a branch over her head, sending a tiny shower of snow down on her outstretched glove, draped over a branch. She smiled a little, this one a silent hello to whoever was up there. Together, they watched the cozy scene in the center of the plowed road.

A few of the owl-seekers pointed suddenly, their heartbeats jitterbugging a few steps. Evidently this was the predetermined signal for “I hear something!” But they always retracted their arms again, shaking their heads. No, it was just a dog, squeaky tree branch, a car.

The screeches were silent tonight.

Go on, she imagined them thinking. Out with it, little owls. I need to go home with a really good story tonight. I want to be able to say Hashtag I Touched the Profound. Also, Hashtag Save the Owls.

The woman in ice-blue pivoted to face her husband. “S-ss-ss-s! Sh-st-s?”

Maybe it was the cheerful hue of her puffy coat, or maybe it was the way her round face radiated joy when she smiled, even if she wasn’t supposed to, but damned if this irritated vampire wasn’t drawn to her. Warmed a little, even. Some of the grump was sanded off.

The vampire bet, though, just to herself, that if she ever got through all the woman’s layers of scents and odors – shampoo, soap, lotion, dryer sheets, spilled food – not to mention clothing, she’d taste exquisite. Ripe, but not overripe. Sweet, but not too sweet. Maybe a touch of defiance, righteous horror at being culled from her tribe too early. A little spice. She could always do with some spice.

Oh honey. Death lurks everywhere, always. Life is not a privilege, merely a procrastination, and so is death. We all have our duty to the coil, both still aboard and shuffled off.

Speaking of shuffling off, this vampire might find herself swept away if she didn’t do something about it soon.

Well…at the very least she could think of one way to get them moving again.

Standing in her shadow, she cupped her hands to her mouth, ready with the low five-note invitation of a male Great Horned owl. Sure to get a good duet going with a female – she’d done it before – and also, sure to silence any screech owls working up the courage to respond to the first guy.

But before she could, the owls did her one better.

Her upstairs neighbor launched himself from a branch twenty feet up and swooped low over the startled group with a sudden shriek that rent the air, as the old stories put it. Ghost owl, church owl, golden owl, death owl, went the nicknames. Tyto alba.

Half the group screamed, and the guide dropped his electronic caller. All heads swiveled as one to watch the ghostly flier, borne on wings of stealth and secrecy, disappear into the forest beyond.

The vampire raised her eyebrows in appreciation. A barn owl. Not even what they’d been fishing for. Raising a hand to her forehead, she gave him a ski-gloved salute.

You win.

Then she stepped out of her shadow, two postholes through deep snow, and down onto the smoothly plowed road. The group was still aflutter with the shock of the surprise, the sublime encounter. The vampire joined them, coming to stand right beside the woman in ice-blue as if she’d been there the whole time. She gazed in the direction the owl had gone, as they all did, subtly drinking in the sweet-warm brew of living, undulating energy emanating from the woman beside her.

When the woman in blue turned to her and hesitated, not recognizing her, then recovered and said, “Did you see that owl just now? Wasn’t that just spectacular?”

The vampire shook her head in disappointment, then nodded, speeding up and smiling inside her balaclava, letting it reach her eyes. “No, I was over there. I heard him, though. Yes, I’ll never forget that.”

The guide herded the group back down the trail, all pretense of tranquility lost, and she walked with them. Keeping her eyes on the ice-blue coat in front of her, she thanked the owl.

I win too.