Pap was too weak from blood-letting to sit as judge, so the whole evening went more like a hanging than a trial. 

Late that Tuesday night, they marched Tom to the front of the classroom. Despite the fear of werewolves, lots of folk turned out for the entertainment. Because of the milling around, I lost count at seventy-three, so there had to be more'n a hundred, most standing in the classroom aisles or packed in the adjacent hall. With the transoms open, you could hear the mayor's bluster all over the building and maybe catch an occasional breeze.

While Tom faced the crowd from the teacher's desk, they politely took turns shouting at him. I watched from the last row 'cause I didn't want to attract none of his limelight, particularly after they made reference to Tom's ne'er-do-well associates. 

Associates? I figure when the teacher uses a four syllable word to describe to me, I am about to be sent home for a whuppin'. 

The mayor called Tom incorrigible. If the mayor called me a five syllable word, like as not, I'd have to leave the state or be shot. Besides I ain't sure what it takes to become corrigible.

Mayor Harris smacked his hand against the teacher's desk. "When will you admit this tale about werewolves is a lie, a gross fabrication?"

Werewolves? Tom had seen only the one, and I expected him to point out the Mayor's miscount, but instead he slumped down so far in his chair that I thought he might melt through the wicker seat. He didn't answer. I hadn't seen him cowed before, and this new attitude worried me. 

On reflection, I can't blame Tom for not speaking. When righteous indignation inflames people, no excuse you make is gonna sit well. 

Indignation has that effect.

The mayor pointed to the back of the room. At first I thought he pointed at me, so I ducked behind Old Man McGinty.

"Count Lucarda," the Mayor said. "You are a scholar, a man of science and learning. Will you tell these good people that there are no werewolves?"

I peeked behind me. In the six months Count Lucarda had lived in Hannibal, I'd never seen him during the day, and the oil lamps in the school room didn't enhance his complexion. The man wore the gray countenance of an oak fence-post after twenty years in the weather, and the lamplight washed out his face as if it couldn’t distinguish between the high spots and the dark places. Even though the room was sweatin' warm and smelled of damp wool, he kept on his black cape, and unlike the other men, he hadn't removed his trim beaver hat. When he spoke, the words gurgled up from deep inside him like they was unwilling to escape his throat.

"Werewolves. Absolute nonsense." The Count squeezed his lips together like a kid hiding buckteeth. "I would as soon believe in vampires."

Maybe what Count Lucarda said started Mam on vampires. The mayor and a few council members chuckled, but most of the regular folk didn't join in. They whispered uneasily to each other until the Mayor's face flushed red. So he turned his wrath on Tom. 

That's when I first recognized vampires. I mean live ones, here-and-now vampires, not them found only in books or by campfire tales. Before they finished that night, the good folk on the podium bled all the imagination and enthusiasm right out of Tom. You could watch him wilt while they drained him.

I knew to call each of those vampires by his proper name, Mr. Harris, Mr. Holland, Mr. Curtz, and so on—upstanding citizens, each and every one of them. Their fangs tore in while they ranted, and they sucked the living joy from Tom Sawyer.

The next day—Wednesday, about mid-morning—Pap died.

But self-defense ain't murder. "Did you have to kill him, Jim?" 

Big Jim glances at Count Lucarda. 

The Count shrugs. "You tell your story, and I'll tell mine."

"I don't remember none of it." Jim casts down his eyes. "I made the deal, Master Sam, I took the bite. On nights when the moon goes full, I drops to all fours and runs wild. I ain't got my wits about me then, and I kills any man or beast I catch. When the moon is done with me, I can't remembers much 'cept my shame."

A pinch of hope tugs at me. "You weren't in your right mind?"

"Balderdash." Lucarda displays his cane. "During the gibbous moon, he can turn or not turn—as he chooses. Only the full moon seizes him against his will. He selected this life when he accepted the bite, and that choice led to this murder. Ultimately, he bears the responsibility."

The Count's words aren't crystal clear, but they make sense. I'm thinking that Pap would uphold the law and rule for the Count with no extenuating circumstances—that's the right thing to do—but I don't like the churn that doing right brings to my stomach.

Jim snarls and stands. The moon ain't fully visible through the broken warehouse skylight, but Jim's jaw lengthens and hair spreads across his face. His eyes scare me. If Jim gives up his wits, he may turn on me too. Maybe Count Lucarda knows best.

"Wait Jim." The count extends his hand. "I don't relish this. Justice must be served, but, despite young Sam's efforts, not necessarily human justice. A war lurks ahead, a war among humans, even while mankind remains oblivious to the death and brutality that rises around them. Only the imagined insults of political intrigue inspire them to battle, and that is the source of the coming war. Just a spark will ignite the conflagration. If vampires hold slaves to extract blood or if werewolves rip out a few throats, then the humans prefer ignorance beyond elemental uneasiness. If humans pass a controversial law or elect some group's nemesis, then the indignation over abstract philosophy will burn this land. My people rely on human indifference to secure their plantations and maintain their power. If war comes, we will find ways to feed our needs. Battlefields run deep with blood. Why should we waste it?

"I don't like war, Sam." The count looks to me. "And I didn't like Mr. Black. Despite these feelings, I cannot let Jim go. My honor requires that blood pay for blood."

 Jim stands tall, and the hair fades from his face. "How much blood does your honor demand?"

"Sufficient for the debt, but I can't drink your blood, Jim. Werewolf blood would destroy me. For you to pay, I must spill your blood un-harvested. Otherwise, I would drink from your throat to settle the claim, and then chain you on my steamboat until the full moon wanes. Once I freed you upriver near Fort Madison, you could cross Iowa into the Nebraska Territory. You could make a new life in the wilderness of the Dakotas, and my people would accept my word that blood repaid blood. But I cannot tolerate the blood of a werewolf, and so you must pay the full measure."

"I didn't come this far just to die for your honor." Jim crouches. "We fight."

"We promised to hear whether young Sam has any better wisdom."

The candle flickers, sputters and goes out. Except for the moonlight shaft through the broken skylight, darkness fills the recesses of the warehouse, but no one moves. Jim and the Count wait for me to speak before they kill each other. 

I know what human justice tells me to do, but I can't render the obvious verdict against Jim. More than human law governs here, but I don’t understand the law of vampires, and I'm not sure that werewolves have laws. 

I curse when my mind replays a familiar Sunday morning lesson. Before I can talk myself out of it, I speak.

"Can you drink my blood to pay Jim's debt?"

He can, and despite my fear, he does; but to my relief, he insists that just a taste of innocence is enough to settle the debt.

When the Count is done extracting the payment, Jim hugs me and kisses the fresh bite on my neck as if wants to seal the wound. 

The bite and kiss burn for hours.

Daylight.

With its paddles slapping the Mississippi, the shabby river boat cautiously maneuvers into the navigation channel to take Jim up river. Painted on the bow is the boat’s name, "The Huckleberry."

The leadsman on deck throws the lead line forward of the port bow. He waits for the boat to come alongside the line. The line slackens above the water, and the leadsman hauls up the line to read the knots tied in the rope.

"Mark Twain," the leadsman sings. "Two fathoms for a safe passage."

Maybe there is a war coming like Count Lucarda claims, but if a vampire, a werewolf, and a boy can find something to agree about, perhaps things will work out better than the Count believes. I can't see Jim on board the boat—maybe they've got him below deck—but I wave anyway in case he can see me.

The boat chugs north up the big river, and I imagine myself as her pilot. Imagination is a fine thing, usually much better than doing actual work.

Work?

Orion wants me to apprentice at his newspaper. That's good, but I ain't revealing any of last night's story as news. Look what they done to Tom for telling the truth. Public humiliation ain't—isn't—for me. 

When the truth is too outlandish for folks to believe, they'll still sift tall tales for glimmers of gold, and those sparkling flakes at the bottom of the story pan aren't so likely to rile up their moral dander. So, I'll repeat this tale all right, but I'm telling folks up front that it's all a bald-faced lie, made up to pass time with friends around the campfire. 

From that night forward, I live with echoes of the vampire's bite and the werewolf's kiss. Any flash from a girl's silky neck always captures my fancy, and when the moon is full, I get a craving to order my steaks bloody rare...and that ain't no lie.