Then I began feeding.

Suddenly the look of pleasure on her face transformed into one of terror. She thrashed and tried to pull free, but I held her tight as I sucked all the verbs right out of her voice and her mind. The hunger in the language centers of my brain began to dull as they became satiated.

Apparently she was multilingual, judging from the influx of English, Romania, Spanish and even some ancient Celtic, Welsh, Greek and Sanskrit verbs that flooded into my mind.

Finally I pulled my lips off hers and she collapsed on the floor, gasping and wheezing.

"I ... not any help," she snapped at me. Then suddenly it hit her. The look I've seen thousands of times before.

She blinked, then glared at me with cold, hateful eyes.

" ... speak ... I ... no verbs."

"That's what I told you."

"b.a.s.t.a.r.d! You ... my verbs."

"I said it was the truth."

"I ... you. I ... I ... " She bit her lip and I could see her struggling to form a single word, just one verb phrase. But she couldn't do it.

"Look, it's only temporary," I said. "In a few days, you'll regain your verbs. It's like blood cells. You lose some, but you'll grow more back."

"I ... you. I ... you."

"Easy now."

"I ... a secret of my own."

"Let me guess. You're a nounpire and to seek revenge you're going to drain all of my nouns from me."

"No. I ... another idea. You ... for what you ... I ... a witch."

"You mean like Samantha like on Bewitched?"

"Not that kind of witch. I ... more powerful than her. And I ... you a curse."

"A curse?" I blinked. "Don't you need verbs to cast curses?"

She shook her head, then turned and spat on me. The spittle hit my shirt and burned like acid. I screamed and stumbled back off the couch.

"A curse. Starvation. The only food for you ... second person singular English verbs in the subjunctive mood, past tense."

My heart sank.

"Wait a minute," I said. "Can't we discuss this?"

"No. Now out! Before I ... you."

"Diana, please. You told me to prove it. I was just doing what you said."

"OUT!"

I sighed, knowing that I couldn't make any head. I turned and left her apartment, listening to Sinatra's "Strangers in the Night" on the way out.

Alone on the streets, I tried to take solace in the only thing I could. Verbs. I found a young man walking alone on the street that night and used a tongue twister on him. In the movies, Dracula hypnotizes his victims with his voice and that penetrating gaze.

On the other hand, I often use tongue twisters to catch them off guard and then drain them before they even know what hit them. But this time I found that it was almost impossible to feed. For a while after, I thought that she was just angry at me and had spat some random words. But when I tried to drain some verbs out of the man, all I kept getting was a rare "You had gone" and "You wouldn't have happened ... "

One might think that I could feed on the second person subjunctive mood and still live at least reasonably well. But out of all three moods, subjunctive was the rarest in English and the least nutritious and satisfying. It's like going to an all-you-can-eat buffet and only being allowed a few sc.r.a.ps of old lettuce instead of steaks and chowders and the rest of the salad bar. Sure, you can eat it, but it won't fill you up and sooner or later you'll have to go back looking for more.

Finally I let the man go.

"What the h.e.l.l are you doing?" the man said. He swung his fist at me and I barely managed to dodge it.

I turned and ran down an alleyway. He chased me for a block, but I managed to lose him behind a group of garbage crates. Once he was gone, I emerged and found an old Chinese lady.

The same thing happened, though.

In fact, I probably could have gone through more than half the population of Seattle and still not had enough verbs to live on for more than a day or two.

Despondent, I continued to roam the streets.

Why she couldn't have at least given me indicative or imperative mood? I wondered. Or at the very least the present tense for the subjunctive mood along with the past and all persons?

I needed to find some way to regain my ability to consume other verbs. Otherwise I might literally starve to death, no matter how much normal food I might eat. I even thought about taking a flight over to Great Britain, where at least they had impeccable grammar. But it wouldn't matter. Too many young English speaking people shunned the subjunctive mood for "may" and "should" and "might." Seeing that, I might as well have ended it right there. But being as stubborn as I was, I knew that there had to be some way that I could get rid of or at least allay Diana's curse.

I had one place left I could turn to.

Percy Dalvinger lived in a small apartment right next to one of the local coffee bars that seemed to cover every other square inch of Seattle. I hurried down there, ran up to his apartment on the third floor and rang the doorbell.

After two more tries, he answered. In the background a pot of tea whistled. He stood there, four foot five, the wrinkles on his craggy old face shaped like old English script, his lips as black as shoe polish.

Most shapescripters liked to remain in their print form as often as possible, morphing from book to book when the mood suited them or when the current paper where they resided was in danger of being lost. But Percy was unique in that he enjoyed his human form as much as he did his print form. Especially when he wrote himself out of his own stodgy books on English grammar.

"Lawrence?" Percy said in his Welsh accent.

"Yes, it's me," I said.

"It is I, you mean."

"Yes, it is I."

"Why have you come here?"

"I need your help."

"Whatever for?"

"A witch named Diana. She put a curse on me."

"A curse." He laughed. "Why on Earth would she do that for?"

"Because I showed her what I really was."

"Yes, I suppose that would do it." He nodded for me to come inside, then closed the door.

"Right. Come in, sit down. Would you like a spot of ink tea?"

"No, thank you." I sat down in one of his sumptuous leather chairs in the living room. He had several bots of inks lying open on a chess table. He took one and swallowed it down like a shot gla.s.s full of vodka as he went into the kitchen.

Shapescripters always needed their daily dose of outside ink to keep their part human/part living ink forms stable. He shut the kettle off, made his ink tea and then came back and sat across from me.

"So, this curse ... might you tell me what it consists of?" Percy said.

"I can only consume English verbs that are in the subjunctive mood, second person singular, past tense," I said.

"Sounds dodgy." He sipped his ink tea. "And the problem is?"

"I'm starving. That's my problem. Already I can feel the hunger for verbs. It's gnawing in my stomach, in the back of my mind. I can't think about anything except consuming verbs."

"Well do not look at me, old chap. Because I am not your one stop shop for verbal cuisine."

"No, no, it's not that. It's justaaI need some way to stop it. Do you know of a cure?"

"For a curse? No, I am not a warlock, for heavens sake. Sure, I may know a few incantations and how to take possession of werewords for my own personal uses, but I draw the line squarely at curses, old chap. Not my style, I'm afraid."

"So you're saying that you can't help me?"

"No. Please, do not put words in my mouth that you are not willing to take out later on."

"I wouldn't dream of it," I said, and smiled at him.

"I might have a way for you to regain your verbal abilities, but I am not making any a.s.surances on this matter. The only reason I am even helping you is because of what you did for me back in 1937."

Back in 1937 I saved a shapescripter that he loved named Miriam from being destroyed along with hundreds of other books that the n.a.z.is burned at one of their rallies. Although she had gone on to other beings since then, Percy still felt that he owed me a debt of honor. To be honest, I don't think it was fair of me to impose it upon him after all these years. But then I was desperate and willing to try almost anything.

"At midnight tonight go to the very top of the s.p.a.ce Needle," Percy said. "I know of a coven of local witches who convene there every Tuesday night and they might be able to help you with your problem, provided that you are willing to offer them some compensation."

"Like what? Newt tongue? Or lizard eyeb.a.l.l.s?"

"Hardly." He gave me a dour look that was pure English. Then he stood, went into the kitchen and came back with a bottle of red wine, an old vintage way back from 1472. "I know a number of witches who love old wines, especially those that are rare vintages. And this is one of the rarest brands that I have." He handed it to me. "It is yours."

"What am I supposed to do?" I held it up. "Get them drunk?"

"No, offer it as compensation."

"Are you sure it will work?"

"No, old chap. I am not sure that it will work. But it is the only thing that I think might help your situation. And I hope that it will settle the debt that I owe you."

"Yes, it will." I looked down at the French wine and smiled. "I just hope that this hasn't become vinegar."

"Highly unlikely. This wine has been magically treated so that it will last for at least fifty centuries."

"That's good to know."

"Good luck, my friend. I truly hope that you do not starve."

"So do I," I said.

I nodded to him, then stood and left his apartment.

Just a few minutes before midnight, I arrived in front of the s.p.a.ce Needle with the bag of wine in tow. The place was deserted and closed for the night, but I managed to convince the security guard on duty to let me in with a well-placed tongue twister that sapped his will. He took me up to the top level and I thanked him and gave him another tongue twister to make sure that he wouldn't come back up anytime soon.

On the top level the wind howled and blew my trench coat all around me. At that point my hunger tore through my guts like acid and each step was a struggle.

I went around the top level, searching for the witches, but they weren't there. I was about to give when I caught a wisp of silk rise up from the top level onto the roof. Then it dawned on me.

Percy had said the very top and I thought he had meant the top floor. But they must have meant the top of the needle. I went around the building, looking for some room or place that could give me access. But all the main doors were locked and I couldn't find any ladders.

I thought about calling the security guard back to help me up there, but then a witch caught me. She was a tall blonde with ice blue eyes and tanned skin.

"What are you doing up here?" she said and put her hands on her hips. "This place is closed for the day."

"I'm sorry," I said. "I mean no harm. I came to seek conference with your coven."

"What about you talking about?"

"You're a witch, right?"

Recognition flashed across her face, but she remained still.

"My name's Audrey," she said. "And what are you, might I ask?"

"My name is Lawrence, but you can call me Larry. Most people do whether I like it or not."

"You haven't answered my first question. What are you?"

"I'm a verbpire. I-never mind. It would take too long to explain. I need to get up there and speak with the group. It's important. Here, I brought something for you." I reached into my bag. She tensed, but I told her to stay calm and pulled out the wine.

"What's in the bottle?"