" The William Shakespeare — the guy who wrote the plays?"

Mr. Crepsley nodded. "Plays and poems. But not all of Shakespeare's poetry was recorded; some of his most famous verses were lost. When Shakespeare was dying, Paris drank from him — Shakespeare asked him to — and was able to tap into those lost poems and have them written down. The world would have been a poorer place without them."

"But…" I stopped. "Do you only do that with people who ask, and who are dying?"

"Yes," he said. "It would be evil to kill a healthy person. But to drink from friends who are close to death, and keep their memories and experiences alive…" He smiled. "That is very good indeed.

"Come," he said then. "Brood about it on the way. We must be off."

I jumped on Mr. Crepsley's back when we were ready to leave, and off we flitted. He still hadn't explained how he could move so fast. It wasn't that he ran quickly; it was more like the world slipped by as he ran. He said all full vampires could flit.

It was nice, watching the countryside drift away behind us. We ran up hills and across the vast plains, faster than the wind. There was total silence while we were flitting and nobody ever noticed us. It was like we were surrounded by a magic bubble.

While we flitted I thought about what Mr. Crepsley had said, about keeping people's memories alive by drinking from them. I wasn't sure how that would work, and I made up my mind to ask him about it sometime later.

Flitting was hard work; the vampire was sweating and I could see him starting to struggle. To help, I took out a bottle of human blood, uncorked it, and held it to his lips so he could drink.

He nodded his silent thanks, wiped the sweat from his brow, and kept going.

Finally, as the sky was beginning to lighten, he slowed to a halt. I climbed down off his back and looked around. We were in the middle of a country road, fields and trees all around us, with no houses in sight.