With a roar of fury he scrambled over the ruins of the church — nuggets of stained glass, the altar with its charred swath of linen, the roof beams fallen on top of the pulpit — and he propelled himself in a frenzied leap onto the organ’s remains... a palisade of sooty, paint-blistered pipes, barring him from God on the other side. He could hang there by jamming his hand into the mouth of one of the pipes, sharp metal cutting into his fingers; and with the other hand, his right hand, too burned to play piano but still strong enough to hold a knife, he slashed at the pipe barrier and howled, “Stupid!

“Stupid!

“Stupid!”

Rain fell soon after sunset... just a light shower, but enough to bring Rogasz back to consciousness.

He hung, arms outstretched on the rack of pipes, both hands thrust into mouth holes in the flues. His knife had fallen some time ago, after failing to do more than damage the false gold paint.

The dog had run off, upset by the vampire’s shouting.

Rogasz released his grip and dropped to the ground, landing heavily on the scattered debris. It was slick with the rain; he slipped and went sprawling. If he injured anything, if he broke bones in the tumble, he was no longer able to feel such insignificant pain.

Juliet’s face was wet in the twilight, her clothes lightly soaked. He didn’t like seeing her that way, but he didn’t want to cover her up. The rain had made the charcoal letters of her name bleed down the frame where he’d written them. Rogasz stared at them for a time, wondering if he should wipe the words away and write them again. No. The frame was wet, all the charcoal, too; he might not be able to write anything this time, and a streaky epitaph was better than nothing.

“I could have saved you,” he said. Gently, the vampire laid his hand on her cheek. “I could have made you like me; then you would have survived... like me. You wouldn’t thank me for that, not in the long run. Still, maybe I should have given you the choice. I don’t know. I don’t know.”