by Trisha Telep
Sebastian’s mouth twitched. “Be my guest.”
But before she could slide her hand into that deep pocket in his under tunic, the waft of a chill breeze skittered over the back of her neck again. In spite of herself, she turned to look at Max, to see if he registered the presence of another undead, and he gave a brief, annoyed nod. His lips moved in a silent oath – but whether it was directed at her, or the new vampire presence, she wasn’t certain.
“Vioget. What are they after?” he said sharply.
The lower half of Sebastian’s face turned crafty. “A particular well-thought of member of the ton has become, shall we say, enamoured of the undead. When he or she –” he glanced at Victoria “–and please note that I do keep my clients’ confidences – last visited the Silver Chalice, a personal item was left behind. One that could identify him or her.”
He stepped back, his hand beneath his tunic. “I was merely returning the item to its rightful owner, and I suspect that the person’s ‘enemies’ – shall we say? – wished to stop me. Apparently, this individual is rather prominent and it is a cause for blackmail. The undead have many friends here in London. Perhaps more than you would imagine, my dear Victoria.”
“Now that you’ve entertained us with your fantasy, Vioget, you might just as well get out of here,” Max said, turning towards the door. “You’ll be no help now.”
Victoria felt Max’s gaze pass over her and got the impression that he felt the same way about her. Blasted man.
“Why, I do believe I shall,” Sebastian replied, moving quickly towards a window.
In a trice, he was gone.
Having nothing further to say to Max, Victoria swished past him, her stake at the ready. The new undead presence implied that the vampire had just recently arrived nearby, and it led Victoria to hope that the creature hadn’t yet been able to find and isolate a potential victim.
Out in the hall, she paused for a moment and noted that the back of her neck had grown still chiller. That boded no good, implying that either there were more than one undead, or that the creature was very close by. So, putting thoughts of golden-haired lute players and arrogant vampire hunters out of her mind, she gave herself over to her instincts.
Down. Something told her to go down.
The cold prickle grew stronger as she swept down the curling staircase, unaware – and uncaring – whether Max had deigned to follow her. She didn’t need him.
At the foyer, Victoria pushed through a small group of costumed party-goers clustered near the entrance to the ball-room, and was just about to slip off down the corridor when she caught sight of Phillip. He was just coming out of the ballroom and carried a small cup of lemonade.
Blast.
With her tall hair, she hadn’t a chance of getting away without him seeing her, and so Victoria had to rush towards Phillip in an effort to head off an uncomfortable situation.
“Oh, thank you so much,” she cried, perhaps a bit more fervently than necessary. She took the cup with enthusiasm as she kept her stake hand tucked behind her.
“Are you mended and such?” he asked, edging towards her as if to take her arm. Perfect.
Victoria smiled up with genuine delight and jostled against him just as he reached for her. “The lemonade splashed everywhere, even up onto her chin.
“Oh dear,” she said, real regret in her voice. She hated that she had to do this, but truly, it was for his own good. And that of whomever the vampire might be stalking. The last thing she needed was for a curious beau to follow her. “How clumsy of me!”
“No, it was I, perhaps being a bit too enthusiastic over seeing the moon with you.” He smiled apologetically. Phillip would like to simply pull her arm closer and ignore the spill (she was certain), so she continued: “I’ll just be a moment, my lord. So the stain doesn’t set.” Victoria gave him a small smile.
“Of course,” he replied. “And I’m certain you’ll still have a thirst, so I shall occupy myself by obtaining a replacement. Do hurry,” he said breathlessly into her ear before releasing her arm. “Please.”
Victoria smiled up at him, warmth flushing over her face beneath the mask. “I will, Phillip. Most assuredly.”
He took himself off, and she turned and nearly barrelled into Max.
“I trust you’ve got your affairs in order? Dance card filled? Beaus lined up in order of title and wealth?” he said blandly. “If it wouldn’t be too much trouble, perhaps you could –”
She didn’t hear the rest of his obnoxious comment, for she’d sailed off down the corridor, following the sensation at the back of her neck. When she came to the same door behind which she’d nearly interrupted her mother and Lord Jellington, Victoria stopped.
She did not want to open this door again.
But before she could, a soft cry – much more frightened than the one she’d followed earlier – reached her ears. It came from further down the hall, near the back of the house and the servants’ area.
Victoria hesitated no longer and took herself off so quickly that she lost a slipper and her heavy coif bounced threateningly. The chill grew colder, and she heard another cry that led her to another closed door.
This time she didn’t wait. The back of her neck frigid, Victoria yanked off her mask and flung the door open.
In an instant, she saw three vampires and four petrified maids. Am impression of red eyes and gleaming white fangs drew her first, and Victoria lunged as well as she could in heavy skirts. She had the element of surprise, as well as that of her gender, as an advantage.
She shoved a goggle-eyed maid away from the vampire bending to her blood-streaked throat, and he bared his fangs as he came at her. He must not have seen the stake in her hand, for he left his chest unprotected and she slammed the point into his heart.
The vampire froze, then poofed into smelly, undead ash. Victoria whirled and found that the other two undead had released their victims and now started towards her. Her skirts caught up with her spin, then rocketed back in the opposite direction as she faced the undead.
One of them leapt towards her, fast and strong. But she was ready and kicked out from under layers of silk – rather more awkwardly than usual, but with enough force to catch one of them unawares. He stumbled back, crashing into the wall as Victoria spun to launch herself at his companion.
He was quicker than she’d expected and he caught her arm slamming her in the belly and she lost her breath, spots flickering before her eyes. Victoria gasped and flailed behind her with the stake, then kicked one of her feet out behind her.
She smashed into something soft and the grip on her arm released. Dragging in a ragged breath, she turned to find glowing red eyes and white fangs behind her. Strong arms whipped out and grabbed her shoulders, squeezing hard into her flesh as he yanked her towards him. Her neck was bare and the heavy tower of hair made it difficult for her to keep her head from lolling back.
Victoria kicked out again, but missed, and her foot got wrapped up in layers of her costume. But her stake was still in her hand and, with all her effort, she slammed her face forwards, bringing all the force of her forehead and jewel-strewn hair into the vampire’s face.
He cried out in surprise and she wasted no time, her arm whipped around to shove the stake home. Poof. He was gone.
And then there was one.
The vampire scrambled to his feet from where she’d shoved him against the wall moments earlier and Victoria stumbled after him, turning to chase him towards the door.
But Max was standing there and, before the vampire took two steps, Max’s arm moved. Casually. Poof.
Victoria fought to steady her breathing into a regular rhythm; the last thing she wanted was for Max to see her panting while he stood there as if he’d just arrived for tea.
He’d also disposed of his mask and the expression on his rugged face was one of bald annoyance. “Whatever possessed you to wear such a ridiculous gown?” he asked. “How in the bloody hell did you think you’d be able to fig
ht a vampire in that? Or did you think they might stay home tonight, merely because you wished to attend a masquerade ball?”
Victoria lifted her chin, infuriated despite the fact that she had already bemoaned the costume herself. “I don’t see any vampires about, so apparently I managed the task just fine.”
“You very nearly didn’t. That one nearly had you over the chair.”
“But I did. No thanks to you,” she added, realizing that he must have been standing there, watching, as she and her skirts battled three undead on her own. Blasted arrogant man.
Victoria suddenly became aware of the fact that Phillip must have long been waiting for her and she shoved the stake back into its little hiding place. “If you’ll excuse me,” she said, starting towards the doorway blocked by Max.
“Ah, yes, waltzes and walks in the moonlight await. I do hope you enjoy your evening,” he said. He stepped back to allow her to brush past, her gown catching for a moment before she made it through. “And, for the sake of the guests here, I hope that no other undead manages to breach the party.”
“Goodnight.” Her teeth gritted so hard her jaw hurt as she hurried along the corridor back to the foyer.
When she arrived, there was Phillip, waiting for her, holding a much-needed cup of lemonade.
“Ah, there you are,” he said, his attention scoring over her in a way that made her face heat up. “Whatever happened to your mask?”
She looked up at him. “It’s nearly midnight. And,” she added, sweeping her lashes down demurely, “I thought it might get in the way.”
Phillip pulled off his mask, then slipped his arm through hers, lining her up next to his tall body. “Indeed it might,” he said. Then, pausing, he reached out to brush something from her shoulder. “Wherever did you get so dusty all of a sudden?”
Victoria smelled the mustiness of undead ash and looked up at him. “I stumbled into the wrong chamber and stirred up a bit of dust,” she explained, smiling up in delight at the expression on his face.
“Indeed?” he replied, his hooded eyes dark and seductive. “Well, I certainly hope that stirring up dust doesn’t become too much of a habit.”
Victoria merely smiled. Little did he know.
A Temporary Vampire
Barbara Emrys
Thus far we had driven past Anne Rice’s mansion in the Garden District, where a limo in front had caused avid but disappointed speculation, and toured French Quarter scenes approximating killings by Lestat, Louis and Claudia. In one of these, ‘Lestat’ stalking a young woman was re-enacted. A woman dressed in nineteenth-century garments – so we would know it was not an actual attack on a tourist 0- strolled past a streetlight and into darker shadow. She looked over her shoulder twice, but in the wrong direction, for we had noticed the gleam of a pale face at another angle to her. She walked on, a bit faster now, but still as she passed the alley, he had her. ‘Lestat’ drew her to him, one hand over her mouth, and she fainted away. Then perhaps there was a full minute of him feeding, the bite and then lapping and sucking. There was red paint in abundance over her blouse. Then he let her go, limp, to the ground and looked straight at us as though still hungry. While the group reacted, he seemed to fade into nothingness. Perhaps there was a swirl of sparkly mist before the last spot was extinguished.
I appreciated this ‘Vampire’s New Orleans’ tour the same way a hougan appreciates a stop at the voodoo shop with a midnight trip to the swamps. Still, New Orleans was new to me, as was the American south; many evening tours had similar themes and I found the antics of the aficionados amusing enough.
I had successfully avoided the four single women and also the lonely older couple, and stuck with a younger version of them, recently married, for whom the tour was clearly a turn-on. Their exchanged glances and their constant bodily contact were feeding from the mild perversity. They used me as distraction that further heightened their tension and I, as it were, basked in their glow.
Then we made a final stop, end of the line, in Jackson Square. The daylight mimes had been gone long since, but one had lit her poses by torches of the sort made for patios in drizzly weather. In the intermittently revealing light she stood on a small platform draped in crimson satin, but she wore, of course, black. A softly draped dress as black as smoke. Her glorious hair spilled over it like liquid gold. She should have been too lovely too mime the vampire, but the effect was stunning. One saw the golden hair first, then the dark red mouth and the long incisors.
I realized belatedly that she was part of the tour.
Her ‘fangs’ looked so real they must have been expensive prosthetics. Her long white arms came slowly, languorously, and reached out to our whole group, yet to each of us alone. Her eyes looked at no one, and so everyone. When coins were tossed, she sank into a crouch and pulled her lips back. The young husband next to me gasped half aloud in sheer pleasure.
There are mimes that essentially clown and there are mimes that add reality. For the first time that night, even in this haunted city, she made the undead real.
Except for myself, which would not have been mime. Yet as I watched her strike pose after voluptuous and feral pose, it was as though only the two of us knew, and all these others were ignorant.
By now our little group had drifted away; the younger and older couples headed for bed, the single women for the bars. None had any interest in the mime beyond the momentary titillation. They tossed coins and a few bills and departed. Others had gathered, however, principally men by ones and twos, to whom she played as shamelessly as a stripper for the money they dropped into the collection box.
And yet she still was inside the role. I found it unsettling, and I waited at a small distance until she shook off the vampire and stepped down. She threw a short cloak over her shoulders and tied back her hair, then tipped the money into her bag. Perhaps she had palmed the teeth; I couldn’t tell.
The change was enough that the last of the men sheered away. She cast one glance at me and, I saw with amusement, discounted as a threat. She walked briskly away towards Canal and, at a distance, I watched her enter a car drawn up there. The motor fired and the car drew away.
I continued walking but turned through the French Market towards Café du Monde, where I took the merest taste of chicory coffee and sugar powder, and I pondered what I had seen. Already I hoped she would appear again the next night.
And myself? I am the man at the far end of the bar, back to the wall, watching the rest of you. In the dim lighting you notice only the well-cut leather jacket and my distinguished silver highlights. Or else I’m the lone wolf strolling down Bourbon Street eyeing the passing parade but not entirely part of it. Hands in my pockets, shoulders relaxed, perhaps moving to the beats drifting out of clubs. Maybe you catch my eye and smile at me, and I smile back and walk on. Or maybe I stop and buy you a frozen daiquiri in a plastic cup and we walk deeper into the darkness, and in the morning you have a bruised throat or wrist, or elbow, exactly like when you gave blood. You hardly remember me and vow to drink less. I have made that vow also.
Once I had a family of sorts among the living, who knew me and were not afraid, but that was long since. Once I was not alone in my rambles, but he too, my Aubrey-analogue, is gone. I have come here as people shop for a retirement home or relocation with movable employment. I walk around thinking, is this a place for me? I was undecided before I saw the vampire mime.
The next night I was early enough to watch her arrive and set up. The torches were already in place and the platform and collection box. Perhaps the tour provided them. But she spread the silken drape, removed her cloak and dropped some money into the box. I walked around the square. There was no car waiting yet. Likely it would return. As I turned back I saw her staring into the darkness I passed through. Her body language changed as she stared, no longer firm and purposeful, but sinuous and sinister. Was it possible, I wondered, that she was vampire?
As she began, I made my way through the tour group to drop a bill into the
collection. I could smell her perfume, a rich, spicy odour, and her sweat. She was alive. She was superb. Each pose she held perfectly as a statue, without visible muscle tension, then shifted at the reward of money. But none of it was mechanical or false. If she learned not from experience and certainly not from most films, might she have learned from – a mentor, say?
People came, saw, paid and left. She had to have noticed me but she gave no sign at all, and I left before she was done, to prowl restlessly through the warm night among the still crowded streets. I fed at last from one so totally inebriated that any memory would seem by morning fantastic. Lying down for the day, it was her face, gold-framed, that filled my mind. I wanted her. Wanted her in my life. She was young and interesting. If she did not have a mentor – might she want one?
The living talk of more than one life in the same body, a concept I never understood until I had been . . . ‘turned’, I believe the current parlance. But my existence now is like that. There was my young life before, and my mature life, and then my lives after: my wild early years among Boston immigrants; my sober Massachusetts years in which I much identified with the region’s historical persona of guilt and bloodlust; my family years in Chicago with significant others, living and not; the companion years of making my grand tour. Now there were years alone and wandering with the impersonal intimacy of feeding and the illusion, sometimes, of friendship that is in fact passing acquaintance. How many more lives will I live in this body? I wonder. Is this a new one beginning?
I walked slowly from my large hotel (evening room service upon request) to Jackson Square in a light, misting rain. She was unlikely to pose in it. I sought out the Pirate’s Alley bookshop, still open to sell Faulkner, Chopin and even Rice. I handled one of her novels, wondering if this had been a source book for the mime. Faulkner I’ve never been able to read, but if I lived in New Orleans, perhaps I would come to understand him. I met Hawthorne, who’s more to my taste, and once discussed original sin with him. Nothing in the concept explains my state. No snakes involved, no fall from grace. I was not even precisely murdered, nor – at least once I understood my condition – have I often done more than steal blood. But then, I had a mentor.
