Night Runner by Max Turner

night. That my body was just a shadow, an extension of the darkness.
    After we’d put a few miles behind us, Mr. Entwistle began to speak.
    â€œYou’ve lived a half life,” he said. “Like a caged animal, alive but not free. But you feel differently now, don’t you, boy?”
    I nodded. I did feel different. Excited. Uncertain. I was being hunted by another vampire, my father’s killer. And his minions. An avalanche of trouble was headed my way, but I was strangely unafraid.
    It was true that I had no idea what was going to happen to me, but there are many kinds of uncertainty, and uncertainty about the future is just one of them. There is also the uncertainty of where you fit in. Where you belong. Until my escape with Mr. Entwistle, I never felt as though I really belonged anywhere. My parents were dead. I had no brothers or sisters. No home of my own. And as much as I loved Nurse Ophelia, I certainly didn’t belong in a mental ward. But those days were over. At that moment, I knew my place. I knew what I was. The problems that had made my life miserable back at the ward—my reaction to the sun, my food trouble, my transfusions, my bouts of anger, the need to be alone—these things had always been shrouded in mystery, because no one could explain why I was like this, why I was so different. I’d been waiting for an answer. For a cure. Well, the waiting was over. I was a vampire. A creature of the night. Inhuman. Beyond human. Stronger. Faster. Tougher. And the certainty of this gave me a profound confidence. I was finally where I belonged. In the darkness.
    â€œTo run, to hunt with another vampire, is to realize your true self,” Mr. Entwistle said. “You realize how you were meant to be.” He stopped to sniff the air, then glanced at me from the corner of his eye. “But be cautious. It is at moments like these that your desire to kill will be strongest.” He turned and scrambled over a tall wooden fence.
    We were in the old west end, a neighbourhood of century-old homes. I can always tell when I’m running in an older neighbourhood. The houses all have wide porches, whose whole point seems to be to welcome guests to the front door. It’s way different in the new areas of town, where the houses are all the same and the garages jump out at you like the cars are more important than the people. Whenever I imagined living a normal life, in a normal home, it looked a lot like the one in front of me. It was set well back from the street on a large lot with huge trees all around.And even though it was dark and a bit rundown, it had a strangely inviting feel.
    â€œAre you ready?”
    I didn’t know why Mr. Entwhistle was asking me this, but I said okay anyway.
    â€œWell then, let’s go.” And he started up the lane.

Chapter 17
The Safe House
    W hile I walked beside Mr. Entwistle, our feet scuffing on the paving stones, the world of the night opened up like the pages of a book. Something—probably a cat or a squirrel—was moving quietly through the hedge off to our right. Bats hunted overhead. I could even hear the beating of moth wings; dozens were circling under the street lamp behind us. I sniffed at the air and noticed a faint trace of wine.
    â€œWhose house is this?” I asked.
    Mr. Entwistle laughed. “Mine.”
    He turned towards a carport on the far side of the house. There was a Porsche underneath. A cherry-red convertible. He took out a set of keys, unlocked the door and reached inside. When he resurfaced, he was holding a cellphone to his ear.
    â€œJust need to check my messages.”
    I had to smile. I guess he wasn’t such a disaster after all.
    He led me up onto the porch, then through the front door and into the hall. I was curious to see what he’d have stored away in a house so old, so I was surprised to discover that it was nearly empty. No shelves or carpets or pictures or lamps. Only the living