Vampire's Dilemma

by Jacqueline Lichtenberg

  Julia looked at her watch. It had already been almost fifteen minutes. She started dragging her way backward down the hall, past the super’s empty apartment, past the dimly lighted laundry room, toward the alley door. She was going to make it!

  “Is that a rug?”

  “Ahhhrg!” Julia dropped the rug, spinning and tripping over the end of it and tangling herself up in her own feet. She grabbed for the wall. Mr. Goldstein was standing behind her in his pajamas.

  “Looks kinda big,” he said. “We had rugs in the war, you know. Used ’em in the officer’s quarters. The British gave us Gin.”

  “Mr. Goldstein,” Julia said, trying to remain calm. “You shouldn’t be down here.”

  “Wife sent me for a pack of cigarettes and a loaf of bread. Damn store’s closed!”

  Julia was doing her best to block Mr. Goldstein’s view of the rug.

  “What’ve you got there?” He’d already forgotten it was a rug.

  “I’m just…doing some Spring cleaning,” Julia stammered lamely, wondering how she was going to distract Mr. Goldstein and get the rug to the alley door in time for the Sweepers. She didn’t have time to get him back upstairs, and she couldn’t let him see the Sweepers, or them him. Then she remembered the laundry room. Taking the old man by the hand she led him into the safety of its warm, slightly humid environment.

  Mr. Goldstein was still having a one-sided conversation with himself about the war—something about carrier pigeons and the Norton bomb sight—Julia spied a folding chair, supplied for those tenants who wanted to sit and wait while their clothing moved from one cycle to another. Keeping one hand on Mr. Goldstein, she dragged it in front of a large dryer with a round window in the front. Grabbing whatever bright cloth she could find—abandoned clothing, rags, a bathroom rug—she stuffed it all into the dryer, then felt in her pockets for change. She slammed the dryer door and fed two quarters into the pay slot on the machine. The barrel started to turn.

  “Sit here, Mr. Goldstein,” she said. “I’ve put the TV on—I think its Ed Sullivan. You don’t want to miss anything.” Having strangers sit him down and turn on the television for him was something Mr. Goldstein was vaguely familiar with. He settled in. “What’s this?” He asked squinting at the swirling cloth behind the glass window.

  “Modern dance,” Julia answered, and fled back to her rug.

  She looked at her watch—one minute to go! Frantically she tugged and dragged, stopping only when her back hit the door. She turned and clawed at the locks. Yanking the door open, she almost gave another scream. A small man in coveralls was standing right outside, next to a quietly idling black van with darkly tinted windows.

  “Heard you comin’,” he said. “Sounded like a giant snake with asthma. Not much on stealth are ya’? An’ who was you talkin’ to?”

  “Nobody. Myself.” Julia panted. “I was afraid I wouldn’t make it.”

  “This the fella?” the Sweeper asked, looking at the bulge in the rug. “Anybody see you?”

  “No. I mean yes, then no. Nobody saw me.”

  “Right, then. Cash or charge?”

  “What?” Julia was ready to burst into tears. “I don’t have any money with me. I…I could write you a check.” And worry about it later, she thought.

  “No checks.” The man said.

  “But I can’t…you have to take him! Aeron said you took people away. I’ll pay you later, really.”

  “Well,” the man considered, “you are Aeron’s fledge. I imagine we can work somethin’ out.” He stepped back and thumped the side of the van. The back doors flew open and two other men in black jumped out. The rug and the super were quickly loaded up.

  The first man was writing on a small pad. Tearing the top sheet off, he handed it to Julia. Item disposal, it read. $750.00. Julia goggled at it. The man touched his forehead in a quick salute. “Pleasure doin’ business wif you,” he said. “Give me best to Mr. Aeron.” He jumped into the van and they were gone.

  * * * *

  Back upstairs, Julia paced her apartment, fighting the impulse to actually start wringing her hands. How long would it take for Sergie to be missed? Probably as long as it took a tenant to have one leaky faucet or overflowing toilet. Somebody would be sure to report his disappearance. What was she going to do? She had no money to pay the Sweepers, and only Aeron to appeal to for help, but she didn’t want to tell him what she’d done. He’d stopped coming by to check on her, and she didn’t know where he lived. In fact, she hadn’t seen him in weeks. He’d told her that he had his own unlife to deal with, but she suspected that he was deliberately giving her the time to explore her own fledgling excesses and come to grips with making her own way. If she survived, he’d be back. The problem was she needed him now. She would have to go looking for him.

  * * * *

  When Julia walked into the bar, Aeron was in his usual booth, one hand wrapped around a glass of Scotch, the other busy with a pencil, proofing his latest manuscript. He must have heard her slide onto the opposite bench, but he barely bothered to look up.

  “Day off?” he asked. Julia winced. He hadn’t forgotten that she should be working at this time of night.

  “I quit.” Julia confessed. “I hated waiting tables. People who come into a diner in the middle of the night are just there to take up space. They don’t eat, and they don’t tip.”

  “Fired, huh?”

  “It wasn’t a good fit.”

  “Pity. Vampires make good waitpersons. Evening hours, excellent tips. It’s all in the eye contact, you know.”

  “Thrall? I tried that. A three hundred pound transvestite left me ten dollars and a love note. He was back the next day claiming he’d made a nine-dollar mistake. I just couldn’t do it anymore.”

  “You could start painting again,” Aeron suggested, mildly. “I know someone who saw one of your shows in SoHo. They said you were brilliant: ‘A symphony of light,’” he quoted.

  “Wait a minute.” Julia sat back in disbelief. “That was from my review. You mean the art critic for the New York Times is a vampire?”

  Aeron lifted one hand and shrugged—much of his eloquence in his shoulder movement.

  “God, I thought he and his entourage were just being arty, all dressed in black.” Her eyes narrowed. “That gallery bitch still has a few of my pieces. I bet she heard I was sick and squirreled them away, hoping I’d die so she could shove up the prices.”

  “Julia,” Aeron’s voice was sharp. “You have got to stop wallowing and get on with it or you’re going to end up living in an alley and sleeping in dumpsters. Becoming a vampire hasn’t taken away your talent or your vision, it’s just adjusted your point of view.”

  “That’s easy for you to say. Writing your little romance adventures doesn’t seem to be a problem for you. The housewives of America probably can’t wait for the next one to come out.”

  Aeron sighed. “Julia, when I was alive I couldn’t read or write. I was a grown man when I was turned, and the only thing that had been required of me was that I lift a sword in defense of my lord, my king and my country. My sire taught me to read and write, after I became a vampire. She opened a world to me beyond my earthly imagination.”

  “I just want what I had, Aeron. To be able to paint. I can’t do that in the dark!”

  “It’s not dark out there, Julia. It’s just a different kind of light. Make friends with it.”

  Julia resisted the temptation to go, “Humph!” She’d come for confession and absolution, and instead she was getting a pep talk from a hack.

  A card appeared in Aeron’s hand, “I have a commission for you if you’re interested.”

  Julia was flustered. “What?”

  “A commission,” He repeated as if speaking to a particularly dense child. “To paint a portrait.”

  “Whose?”

  “A vampire I know. He’s very traditional, and very rich. He doesn’t believe in photography. His last portrait was destroyed in an unfortunate…fire. His scar
s are healed, so he’s ready to commission another one. I recommended you.”

  “A portrait? Aeron, I haven’t been able to lift a brush since, you sired me. I asked to become a vampire so I could continue to paint. You made me, but you never told me how that would change my abilities! Now I can’t paint. I’ve lost the will, the inspiration. I couldn’t do him justice.”

  “Julia,” Aeron gave her his full attention. The bottomless depth of his stare made her very uncomfortable. “I will tell you this only once—I never lie. That means I’m telling you the absolute truth now. You can do this. This vampire is as shallow as a stagnant pond. He has no inner depths to probe. Paint what you see. He’ll be thrilled, and you’ll be paid. Trust me on this.”

  Julia had had a long night. She took the card mostly to stop the lecture—then decided it would only complicate things to mention the super.

  * * * *

  Aeron watched Julia retreat. When the door closed, he threw his pencil down, breaking the point. Idiot, he chided himself, what did you expect? One lapse in judgment, one moment of sympathetic procreation and there goes the result! He shook his head. It was his penchant for tourism; trailing after the living to watch them perform their desperate human rituals. He had to stop doing it. It only brought him trouble.

  The barmaid stopped at his table. She’d always been Aeron’s favorite server—she knew when he needed to talk, and when he needed to be left alone. Plus, she had lovely red hair and an abundance of curves.

  “The fledge is a problem, huh?” she asked, plopping her tray down and taking a seat on the edge of the padded bench.

  “She’s all at loose ends, Meg. Can’t find her place. She painted landscapes when she was alive, and now she’s in mourning for the sunlight.” He shook his head. “I never should have made her.”

  “But her sad story brought your chivalry up, and you couldn’t resist.” Meg teased.

  “No, her sad story brought up my past, and I gave into it.”

  “You’re too much of a romantic, hon.”

  “It balances the killer in me,” Aeron offered, with an ironic tilt of his shoulder.

  “Eat to live,” the barmaid reminded him.

  Aeron raised his glass. “Drink to forget.” He sighed and took a swallow. “I have a feeling she’s done something I’m going to regret.”

  He set the glass back down. “Bring me another would you? I have to finish these galleys or my editor will stick a stake in me.”

  The barmaid laughed. “Forget the Scotch, I’ll bring you a house special: Bloody Mary, B negative, extra Tabasco™, hold the celery. And for you, sweetie-pie, on-the-house.”

  Aeron watched her lovely round derrière swing its way toward the bar.

  He snorted. Goth clubs were for the living. This was what a real vampire bar was all about!

  * * * *

  The first thing Julia did when she got home was take the landscape off the easel and stick it in the closet. The next was to put her brushes away. They were practically useless anyway. It would take work to make them soft and usable again. She didn’t have the energy.

  She’d stuck the card Aeron had given her in her bag along with all the other bits of detritus she carried around with her. She was going to throw it away. She had no desire to be an artist anymore—Aeron would have to understand that—she’d find something else to do.

  Julia’s bag was a big carryall and a constant source of surprises. She had to paw through its contents to find anything she’d dropped into it, and then she usually came up with something entirely different than what she’d been after. As she searched for the card, her fingers found something bigger. It was a book; Aeron had given her a paperback of one of his novels. She’d slid it into her purse after he’d shown it to her, planning to take a look at it later so she could see what a vampire’s idea of popular fiction might be. It was called “Vow of Honor.” Not a very catchy title for historical romance. The illustration was very “hero with a sword.” He wasn’t a knight in full armor, but wore chain mail under a leather tunic—and he had a very large sword indeed. The woman he was protecting looked defiant rather than all “save me, save me.” Julia had to give the artist points for that. A small, blond boy clutched at her skirt.

  “By A.K.Ryder,” she read. Julia wondered if that was Aeron’s real name, or just one that would look good on a book.

  Daylight was coming. Dawn caused a prickle on the back of Julia’s neck. It was time to turn in. Julia made sure her door was firmly locked and the curtains tightly closed, then settled into the covers of her bed. She’d always had a touch of insomnia and becoming a vampire hadn’t changed that. She decided to read herself to sleep. Aeron’s novel would probably work better than a pill.

  Three hours later Julia was still awake. Aeron’s book wasn’t pulp fiction, it was about war, blood and betrayal; honor and courage against all odds—tragedy, poetry and death. It wasn’t a pretty tale, but it was deeply compelling. There wasn’t much sex in it, unless you considered rape to be in that category. As much as everyone in the novel espoused honor, compassion and chivalry, these things were not qualities characteristic of an advancing army, especially if you were on the other side and fleeing for your life. Both victory and defeat left a trail of blood, devastation and death behind it. She couldn’t believe that Aeron had written this. Her very own sire, a seemingly dispassionate vampire in a rumpled suit who spent his best hours sipping Scotch in a working class vampire bar was capable of an amazing turn of phrase. His descriptions brought the world he wrote about to life. He may have taken to a dark life, but he hadn’t forgotten what the glint of sunlight off tens of thousands of steel helmets advancing toward the field of battle looked like. Nor did he scorn the moonlight when it helped his hero see the path as he led his lord’s wife and son to safety, as he’d sworn to do. The book was brilliant, and it pissed her off. Aeron had obviously withheld some vital piece of information from her—an important clue to what her afterlife could actually be like if only she could—what? The true possibilities still escaped her.

  Julia fished the card out of the trash. She wasn’t going to let him get away with this! There was a secret here and she was going to find the answer. If Aeron could write, she could paint some snooty, vain old bloodsucker. It was just a portrait anyway—hardly art at all. At least it was a start.

  That evening she called the number on the card.

  * * * *

  Julia arrived at her new employer’s door clutching her brushes, paint, canvas and easel. The house was large and expensive looking. Night-blooming jasmine, covered the low iron railing that separated the brownstone from the street. Stopping briefly to touch the fragrant blossoms next to the gate, Julia made her way down the short front walk to the door. She’d forgotten that there were actually flowers that bloomed at night. The thought raised her spirits.

  Her knock was answered by a short, bald creature in an old-fashioned frock coat. His squeaky “Enter” only added to his rodent-like appearance. He waved Julia in, making no attempt to help her bring her parcels through the door. Once inside, she let everything slide to the floor with a thump. After all, she thought, she hadn’t asked for this commission, and she certainly wasn’t going to be intimidated by this poor excuse for the undead. This was going to be no challenge at all.

  “I’m the artist,” Julia announced. “Aeron sent me to paint your portrait.”

  “Oh, not me, Miss,” the little rat-man snickered. “You’re here to paint the Master.”

  Oh, Lord, Julia thought. “The Master. This is every bad vampire movie ever made. If he looks like Bela Lugosi, I am so outta here.…

  Motioning her to follow, the little man started toward the back of the house, leaving Julia to gather up her things and hurry after him.

  Once beyond the entry hall, the carpeting was deep, the lighting subdued. Dark paintings lined the walls; some so obscured by ancient varnish that the subject defied even Julia’s enhanced eyesight. Everything smelled of furniture wax and
musty, un-circulated air.

  Finally, the squeaker stopped at a tall pair of double doors. With one motion, he threw them open, announcing loudly, “The artist, Master.”

  Julia was surprised. The room was a large conservatory stuck somewhat fantastically on the back of the house. Glass rose on all sides, curving into triangular panels on the circular roof. In the middle of the tile floor, an area had been covered with a large oriental carpet. On it, an ornately carved chair, and side table, had been carefully arranged. Candelabra were scattered everywhere. Tall, iron candleholders stood on the floor, short silver ones rested on occasional tables and low plant stands. The dark glass of the conservatory threw the flames back at the lone figure in the room. Julia’s old enemy, the moon floated above it all, its dusky glare insinuating itself through the glass roof, the questionable blessing of its light flickering on and off as clouds scudded across its scowling face. She vowed not to let it distract her.

  “El Conde…” rat-man began.

  The tall figure tut-tutted impatiently, shooing the little man out of the room like someone clearing pigeons off a walk. The door shut behind him.

  The ‘Conde’ was suddenly at Julia’s side, taking the canvas, righting the easel, setting the satchel with her paints and brushes down on a stand. He grasped her now free hand in both of his, introducing himself. “Jean-Luis Miguel Ferdenando Rochas del Compensadas, my dear. I’m so pleased you had time for me.”

  “Ermm, yes,” was all Julia could manage.

  Reaching out, the vampire touched his long, bony fingers to one side of her jaw. “So young,” he said, wistfully. “Aeron always did have an eye for potential.” Then, remembering himself, “This way, my dear. I have prepared a place.”

  Julia set up her easel on the edge of the carpet. The waxing moon cooled the darkness outside, but the candlelight warmed the shadows and softened Jean-Luis’ sharp angles. The tall vampire looked nothing like Bela Lugosi, but he did look like a Count. He was Whippet-thin and his glossy black mane of hair rose from a widow’s peak to sweep back over the top of his head. His eyes, below thick arched brows, were a deep, dark blue. He had high cheekbones and a long, thin nose with a prominent ridge. He was dressed elegantly and, Julia suspected, with great care in black slacks and an antique brocade jacket the color of dried blood. He would be interesting to paint.