Blacke Harbor

“It is horrible,” Catherine said. “But it’s also extremely rare. In my entire career I’ve treated only about a dozen cases.”

Erik forced his gaze from the view outside the grimy old window and back onto Catherine’s face. She was studying him, he noticed. A flicker of concern danced across her pale face. “So what about men like me?”

“You,” began Catherine, “represent the kind of vampirism I call authentic vampirism. The mainstream medical community doesn’t like to talk about it but I’ve devoted my career to treating it.”

“What makes Catherine’s work so significant,” said Jurgis, “is that she’s found a particular pathogen that’s present in the blood of every single authentic vampire we’ve ever treated.”

Erik felt himself jerk backward. “Are you saying what I have is a contagious madness?”

“No.” Catherine answered a bit louder and a big faster than she should have. She glanced around the room and then leaned so far in toward the men Erik had a sudden vision of her black hair falling into the cold lobster soup. “But I believe every mental illness has a physical component. And several years ago my grandfather and I found this one.”

“I know it sounds a little far-fetched,” added Jurgis, patting Erik on the back of his hand. “But look at how many diseases we’re blaming on germs these days. Cervical cancer, diabetes . . . the number of medical conditions we’re linking to viral and bacterial infections grows almost every year.”