Night Runner by Max Turner Page A

room had any furniture—just two wooden chairs that sat near the fireplace. There was a small, round table between them with a half-empty glass of wine on it. An overturned bottle was lying on the floor, accounting for the smell I’d detected on the walk.
    â€œI must have been in a hurry,” Mr. Entwistle said. “Never leave a glass half full.”
    He walked over to the table and drained the glass. I stared at him dumbly.
    â€œOh, sorry,” he said. “Did you want some?”
    I shook my head and raised my hands so he wouldn’t bring it any closer.
    Mr. Entwistle sat down, then he kicked the other chair over to where I was standing. The echo was loud in the empty room.
    â€œMost vampires can’t take anything but blood,” he said. “The instant you’re infected, a rapid metamorphosis takes place in your body. The pathogen isn’t well understood, so no one knows exactly what happens. But you know the results. Most things you can do better—run, hear, see, smell, heal. But some things you can’t do at all. Eating is one of them. Cells can no longer make digestive enzymes to break food down into substrate. It takes about thirty years to reactivate those portions of your DNA that produce enzymes for metabolizing alcohol.”
    I didn’t know what he was talking about and I didn’t ask. Half his words sounded made up. He bent over and retrieved the bottle from the floor. Then he peeked down the neck to see if anything was left. Apparently there was enough. He tipped the neck over the glass and a thin red stream dribbled out. Less than a sip.
    â€œThirty years, so you’ve gotta be committed.”
    He offered the sip of wine to me. I took the glass and sniffed at it. The smell made me think of mouldy fruit, rotten and sour. The expression on my face made him laugh. I handed it back. There was no way I was putting that stuff in my mouth.
    â€œThirty years to be able to drink wine again. Thirty years . . . seems like a short time to me now. But not back then.” He snorted. It might have been a laugh had there been any trace of humour on his face. “Those were the plague years. The time of the Black Death. Took my wife. My son, too. But not my daughter. She lived—for about another ten years. Soldiers killed her. Burned her as a witch. Edward’s men. Edward III. Ever heard of him?”
    I shook my head.
    â€œWell, that’s not terribly surprising. He wasn’t very popular by the end. But things were different back then. Life had no value.”
    He looked at me, and his eyes were smouldering.
    â€œThe place is pretty empty, isn’t it, boy?”
    â€œYeah,” I said.
    â€œSurprised?”
    I nodded, then shrugged. “I guess.”
    â€œWell, I’ve learned not to get mired in the past. I don’t collect things. I don’t need things. I have faith, and I have a purpose, and that’s what matters.”
    He held up the last mouthful of wine so that the crimson liquid glistened in the moonlight streaming in through the back windows.
    â€œTo finding purpose,” he said.
    He upended his glass while I stepped over to the chair across from him. My shoes were still a bit damp and they made squelching noises on the floor.
    I sat down and felt myself drifting away. I had never concerned myself with purpose. I’d spent most of the last eight years wondering what might be wrong with me and whether anyone could make it better. I had been waiting to be fixed. And while I’d waited, myonly concern had been how to spend my time so that I didn’t die of boredom. I tried to explain this as best I could, and I think he understood me.
    â€œThe biggest problem was that you didn’t know yourself. But you’re on track now that you’ve discovered the truth.”
    He looked at his empty wineglass with a sad expression. Then he stood and walked into the kitchen. When he came back he had