Mortal Wish by Tina Folsom

1
     
    On an island in the Gulf of Mexico, December 1991
     
    Jake watched the man as he tied the ferry to the boat dock, then proceeded to move the gangplank over the gap between dock and ferry and secure it tightly, before he hollered to the captain, “Boat’s tied up.”
    The captain waved back, then shifted his gaze to Jake. “Have a pleasant stay.”
    Jake walked over the gangplank and onto the dock. He’d been the only passenger on the evening ferry. He assumed that most visitors descending upon this tiny island of barely one thousand inhabitants had done so with an earlier ferry, but he hadn’t had a choice. Traveling during daylight hours was impossible for him.
    “Mr. Stone?”
    At a voice calling his name, he turned his head and noticed a gangly kid who couldn’t be more than twenty years old waving at him from next to the harbor master’s hut. The boy’s red hair was like a beacon in the night, as was the scent that came from him: fresh, young blood.
    Luckily, Jake had fed plenty before his departure from the mainland, not wanting to be caught hunting on the small island. He’d also packed blood he’d stolen from a blood bank in New York where he’d lived during the last year. There, anonymity had been his friend, whereas in small towns people looked out for each other and would interfere when they saw something odd happening—like him sucking on the neck of a juicy human.
    “I’m Jake Stone,” he called out as he approached the kid, whose blood smelled pure and rich, and just a tad too inviting.
    When he stopped before the youngster, holding his overnight bag in one hand, the kid gave him a wide smile. “I’m Carl. Welcome to Seeker’s Island. Mrs. Adams sent me. I’ll take you to the Sunseekers Inn.”
    Carl made a motion for the bag, but Jake didn’t relinquish it. “Lead the way.”
    The kid gestured to the street that ran alongside the small harbor. “I’m parked right here.”
    Jake arched an eyebrow. He hadn’t expected this island to allow cars. “Where?”
    Carl pointed toward a white object that stood at the curb.
    “A golf cart,” Jake murmured. With a sprig of mistletoe dangling from its rearview mirror?
    The kid nodded enthusiastically. “We don’t have cars on the island. But I get to use one of the golf carts to drive tourists around. I mean, it’s practically mine.”
    Jake forced a smile and followed him. Great: Carl was a chatterbox. That was just what he needed. If he’d had a choice, he wouldn’t have come to a small island like this where everybody knew everybody else’s business, but he hadn’t had a choice. This was his last resort.
    As Jake slunk into the passenger seat and set his bag between his feet, Carl started the electric engine and pulled into the street that ran alongside the coast. Houses and shops lined the quaint road and made him feel like he’d entered Disneyland. Well, Disneyland decked out for Christmas—because practically every store and restaurant was decorated with colorful lights, red and green being the dominant ones. And maybe this island was just like Disneyland, full of make believes and wishes for things he couldn’t have.
    “Are you here for the… you know?” Carl continued.
    Knowing that the kid was referring to the hot spring that was said to have magical qualities, Jake gave no direct answer and instead let his eyes wander toward the ocean and the impenetrable darkness beyond the shore. “The… you know what… doesn’t really work, does it?”
    Carl sat up taller as if wanting to display more authority. “Of course it does!” Then he lowered his voice and leaned closer, whispering now. “I grew up here. Everything you’ve heard is true. If you drink from it, you’ll get your heart’s desire.”
    Jake suppressed the urge to scoff. If the spring really worked, why was a young man like Carl still living here, performing the thankless job of chauffeuring tourists around the island? “Sure, whatever you