I’m a pretty sad example of what one should do with eternal life. I’ve never reached any higher level of consciousness, I don’t have access to any great truths, and I’ve never borne witness to the divine or transcendent. Some of this is just bad luck. Like working in the fishing industry in Galilee and never once running into Jesus. But in my defense, there were an awful lot of people back then claiming to be the son of God. I probably wouldn’t have been able to pick him out of the crowd. And since I don’t believe there is a God, I doubt we would have gotten along all that well anyway.
I probably wasn’t always quite so atheistic. I don’t recall much of my early hunter-gatherer days, but I’m sure that back then I believed in lots of gods. And that the stars were pinholes in an enclosed firmament. There might even have been a giant turtle involved. And I distinctly recall a crude religious ceremony involving a mammoth skin and lots of face paint. But after centuries on the mortal coil I’ve come to realize that religion is for people who expect to die someday and want to go to a better place when that happens. It doesn’t apply to me.
Anyway, I sat around for days and mused over these and other subjects, mainly pertaining to my mysterious red-haired bugaboo. Gary and Nate were decidedly nonplussed about it, especially since I almost never moved from the futon except to get more beer—which I was still paying for, by the way.
“Man, can you at least shower or something?” Gary asked one evening.
“Later,” I muttered.
“How ’bout now? I wanna watch the game.” It did me no good to ask which game. There was always a game, sometime, somewhere, that absolutely had to be watched. ESPN may eventually be the end of Western civilization as we know it. And I should know, having witnessed the end of Western civilization at least four times.
We stared at each other for a while, and then I reluctantly ceded the futon.
“You should get out or something,” he recommended as I got to my feet and stretched out the muscle kinks.
Nate, from the kitchen, agreed. “Clear the cobwebs, dude. Get some night air.”
Obviously they had decided among themselves that having an immortal as a house guest wasn’t nearly as fun as it sounded. I should have seen this coming when they kicked Jerry out. (Literally. Nate drop-kicked him). But Jerry had left about two dozen stains on the walls, copped a feel on three girls who will probably never speak to Nate or Gary again, and clogged the toilet twice. He had been asking for it. Me, I just bought more alcohol and stunk up the futon. Was that so bad?
“What’s it like outside?” I asked, taking the hint and running with it.
“It’s nice,” Nate said quickly.
“Very refreshing,” Gary added.
“Sleep on a bench refreshing or head for the bus station refreshing?”
“It’s… brisk,” Gary amended.
“Kinda chilly,” Nate agreed.
“I got an old coat if you need one,” Gary offered.
* * *
It was indeed brisk, and the old coat Gary gave me smelled vaguely of vomit. To help cut the chill, I took with me a half-empty bottle of vodka that I might have also paid for. I started walking in the general direction of Chinatown, on the other side of which was South Station.
I had decided being poor in Boston in November really sucks. And the damnable thing is I couldn’t even remember how I’d ended up in Boston in the first place. Last time I’d spent any time there was in 1912, and there was nothing that compelled me to stick around then. Possibly I just hopped aboard a train at some point, not much caring where it went so long as it had a bar car, and rode it until it came to a stop. Wouldn’t be the first time I’d done that.
I was thinking it was time to consider accessing a larger quantity of funds. As I said, I do have some. I’m just not exactly sure how much. I kept walk-around money in my bag, which was in a locker in South Station, which I hoped was always open because that was also where I planned to sleep. The rest of my money was in a Swiss bank account, so I was going to have to make a few calls. I don’t think the Swiss issue ATM cards, but I never really checked.
Sobriety was also something to consider, although it should be noted I was considering it while gulping vodka. The idea that the red-haired woman was still alive was something worth sobering up for. Maybe it was time to start looking again. It would end in frustration as always, but it was still something to do.
About two blocks from my destination, I saw something curious—a hooker. At least I assumed she was a hooker, because if she wasn’t, her fashion sense was abhorrent. She was dressed in knee-high leather boots, a denim miniskirt (which she’d manually torn along the side to expose half of her left buttock,) and a faded black sleeveless half-shirt that read “Appetite for Destruction” on the front. Her hair was black and very large—length and height—and she’d gone overboard completely in the make-up department. Her skin was a pale white.
What made the view so curious was that it was about ten degrees with the wind chill, and she didn’t look cold at all.
“Lookin’ for fun, baby?” she asked as I approached. I sized her up once again, up close. No trembling in the wind at all, and she didn’t appear to be strung out on anything. Her nipples weren’t even erect. And it was just as cold next to her as it was everywhere else.
“Do I look like I have any money?” I took another swig of the vodka, now almost gone.
“Who said anything about money?” she asked coyly. “I’m just looking for a good time.”
I smiled. “Sure you are. What’s your name?”
“Brenda,” she grinned, her lips tight over her teeth.
“Brenda. You’re a vampire, aren’t you?”
“Excuse me?”
“It’s okay. I’m not on a crusade or anything.” I held up my open palms. “No wooden stakes. See?” (It should be noted that wooden stakes don’t work, so don’t try it. You’ll just piss off the vampire.)
“Go away,” she ordered, spinning on a spiked heel and pretending I wasn’t there.
“You must be a young one,” I pressed.
“You’re crazy,” she shouted over her shoulder. “I should call a cop.”
“Go ahead,” I said. “That’ll be fun.”
A car slowed for her. She gave the driver a little show, leaning over and shaking her fairly impressive pale breasts. He decided after some consideration to shop elsewhere.
“When was it, twenty years ago?” I asked. “Couldn’t have been much more than that.”
She turned and looked at me long and hard. Not threatening, just curious. “Twenty-seven,” she admitted.
“Thought so.”
“You’re not one, are you?”
“Nope.”
She circled me. I think she was trying to be intimidating, and if I found vampires frightening, she might have succeeded. But the truth is the percentage of vampires that are also evil killers is about the same as the percentage of normal people who are also evil killers. Brenda didn’t look like a killer; she looked like a mall rat.
“You smell like vomit,” she said, her nose crinkling.
“It’s the coat. It’s a loaner.”
“How did you know I was a vamp?”
“Maybe you noticed how everyone else is dressed in layers? The Guns ‘N Roses concert shirt doesn’t help either.”
“I like it,” she insisted.
“It’s very fetching. But the band broke up a long time ago. You haven’t learned how to keep up with the times is my point. But you’re young. That always takes a while.”
Brenda stopped circling and met me face to face. “And how would you know?”
“I know a lot of vampires. And I’m older than I look.” I extended my hand. “I’m Apollo,” I said, giving her the name she was most likely to have heard.
“No way!” she exclaimed. “The one-who-walks-by-day?” She grabbed my hand and squeezed, just a bit too hard.
“Oww,” I said.
“Sorry. My strength, it’s…”
“I know. It’s something to get used to, isn’t it?”
I’m something of a legend within the vampire community, if you hadn’t already guessed. I’m most often described as another vampire but without a sun weakness. I gave up trying to correct the misapprehension about three centuries ago. The name Apollo—Greek god of the sun—was given to me by a vampire named Magnus in the eleventh century. It certainly wasn’t because of my stellar physique.
“Wow, I cannot believe I’m talking to Apollo!” she gushed. “The one who made me told me all about you! You’re like, a legend!”
“This is a treat for me too, really,” I said. “Look, I have to pick up something from the train station, but I was wondering if I could ask a favor.”
“Anything!”
“Great. Because I need a place to crash.”
“O-okay. It’s not much…” She was already reassessing her opinion of me. That was fast. One of the drawbacks of being a legendary figure is that inevitably the legend outstrips reality. She probably thought I had magical powers and could leap tall buildings in a single bound.
“Brenda, I guarantee I’ve seen worse. I only need a place to stay for a night or two, and then I’ll be out of your hair.”
“Sure, but… it’s just that I haven’t eaten yet…”
“Right. Tell you what, if you can’t snag a quick bite while I’m gone, you can nibble on me. We’ll call it my rent for the night.”
She brightened, provided that’s possible for the undead.
“You’d let me do that?”
“Sure. Just don’t go nuts or anything.”
“It’s a deal!”
“Great. I’ll be right back.”
I left her to her street corner and made my way to South Station, where I hoped my bag was where I left it.
As I found out later, around the same time Brenda and I were negotiating the rent for a night’s stay, something unpleasant showed up at Gary and Nate’s. Something that was looking for me.
* * *
Brenda lived in Chinatown, a short three blocks from the corner she was working. It was a second floor apartment above a restaurant that specialized in something called “hot pot,” which I later discovered means “come boil your own dinner.”
The word “apartment” needed translating, too. It was one room plus a toilet that had evidently been installed in a closet, with a bucket and a sponge instead of a tub. I wasn’t getting that shower. I might have credited Brenda with being far enough along to realize she didn’t actually need to sleep in a coffin except that the place was so small it nearly qualified as one.
It did have a bed, though. Clean sheets, too. This made some bit of sense, especially if Brenda brought any clients to the place. Vampires have an acute sense of everything, but their sense of smell is particularly exceptional. I imagined she washed her sheets after every appointment, probably at the all-night laundromat around the corner.
She shut the hallway door, cutting us off from the dangling bare bulb out there and plunging the room into total and complete darkness. (The windows were heavily shuttered, for obvious reasons.)
“I told you it wasn’t much,” she apologized, moving freely in the dark.
“Brenda, I can’t see anything.”
“Oh, sorry. I figured you could see like me.” A flame sputtered to life in her hands, which she marched over to a candle resting on the windowsill. “I don’t pay for electricity,” she explained. “No phone either.”
“That’s okay.”
“Boy, you’re really a lot like them, aren’t you?” she observed.
“Like who?”
“Humans. You’ve… ass… what’s the word I want?”
“Assimilated?”
“Maybe, yeah.” She sat down on the bed. “No strength, no eyes… and hey, your heart is still beating.” Good hearing being one of the aforementioned heightened senses.
I sat next to her. “I’m not a vampire. The truth is, nobody knows what I am, exactly. I sure don’t.”
“Wild,” she said, with about as much sincerity as one can say that particular word. “So, you don’t drink blood or anything?”
“Nope. I eat rare steak from time to time.” I polished off the last of the vodka and started to roll up my sleeve. “I assume you’re still hungry.”
Her eyes lit up. “Yeah. But, you know, only if you want to.”
A point about vampires. They can and do have sex. I’ve tried it. It’s not bad. A little cold, a little dry… it’s kind of like screwing a very lively statue. Usually the vampire is doing you a favor because they’re not particularly turned on by intercourse, although that’s not always true with the younger ones. Drinking blood, however, is an orgasmic experience nearly every time, hence her enthusiasm. Yeah, she had to eat, but there was more involved. In a lot of ways it’s more fun watching them eat than having sex with them.
“A deal is a deal,” I said, extending my arm. “I assume you know how to stop yourself.”
“Oh sure. Haven’t lost a John yet.”
“How’s that work?” I asked. “Do you wait until after they’re done, or during?”
“During, usually. That way we’re both having our fun.”
“And they don’t mind?”
“Nobody’s complained yet. And when I do it well, they don’t even notice.” I found it hard to imagine not noticing one is being bitten, but that’s me.
She held my wrist lovingly.
“Cheers,” I said.
With a grin, she bared her fangs and dug in. It only stung for a second. Then the two of us leaned back slowly onto the bed, Brenda in a blind frenzy of rapture and me watching her. Lying there, it occurred to me how very much she looked like Eloise.
Chapter 5
Viktor is getting more talkative each day. He really isn’t a bad guy, despite all the poking and prodding. I assumed I’d be dealing with your basic mad scientist type—if there is such a thing—purely based on what he’s trying to accomplish. But he’s hardly mad at all, just a little loopy. Everybody on his team is friendly, actually, and comes in varying shades of loopiness. Best of all, they let me hang out in the lab even when my part is done. Which is great, because these guys are all very talkative.
Today Viktor rambled on at length about my telomeres and how they don’t get any smaller. He feels this is very important, but unfortunately I can’t figure out why; the phrase in layman’s terms apparently doesn’t mean anything to him. I just nod and let him talk, hoping something of use will come out of it.
He’s obviously hoping I pick up on some of his excitement. I think that would make this easier for all of them, knowing I was happy to donate my freedom to the cause. And because every time I smile about something they start talking more, I’ve learned to accommodate them. If I’m lucky, soon they’ll start talking about the others.
* * *
I met Eloise in the winter of 1356 in France, while I was working in the castle of Enguerrand de Coucy in Picardy, the northern region near the border of the Holy Roman Empire. Picardy was almost perpetually snowbound, and the castle was 200 years old already at that time, so the damn place was as drafty as hell, but it did have a few things going for it. Foremost, it wasn’t Paris.
I have developed likes and dislikes regarding major cities over time, and one thing I’ve learned is you have to pick your spots. For example, Caesar’s Rome was a fine place to be, as was Aristotle’s Athens. But Paris and London up until the World Wars were almost completely intolerable, as was early New York and early Berlin. Basically, Paris in 1346 was one gigantic smelly sewer, which made some sense, as neither the flush toilet nor deodorant had been invented yet. And the plague only compounded the problem. Nobody knew quite what to do with plague victims, so they usually lay where they dropped and just added to the overall bouquet.
Altogether, I was pretty happy in my drafty old castle on a hill overlooking nothing in particular. It was quiet, not nearly as smelly, and the plague rarely made it to us.
(Not that I personally had to worry about it, but stinky dead people are stinky dead people and I’d just as soon rather not have to deal with them.)
Strictly speaking, I was a servant. I don’t like to put it that way because Lord Coucy was a generous man who treated most people he met with a reasonable degree of respect, so I never felt much like one. And my singular talent, the one that got me the room in the castle instead of the hay loft in the stable, was that I was literate. Coucy could read and write as well as the next man but nobody else in the place could, which made me, simple peasant that I was, extremely valuable, especially when he was away.
And he was away all the time. This period was later known as the Hundred Years’ War on account of France and England kept fighting each other over French sovereignty. (Or something. They just didn’t like each other. Still don’t.) While he was off fighting various noble battles—which France invariably lost—I kept up correspondences and maintained the books, looked after Mme. Coucy, and basically hit on the staff whenever I could.
The castle was built on the peak of a hill, with thirty-foot walls that made three quarters of the keep virtually impregnable to everything except the march of time. The fourth side was open to a small village, itself surrounded by a low wall, with gates at the far end that were lightly guarded on most occasions and not at all in times of war. One might be led to believe the opposite, except that nobody bothered to attack us during war. Most of the battles took place in Southern France, in places like Poitiers and Crecy. There were no guards because all able noblemen went to battle. I was an able man but I was not noble. I wasn’t even French. I claimed to be a Jew from Venice. (I did not look particularly Jewish, per se, but nobody in Picardy had ever seen one so I got away with it. Intolerance reared its head on occasion, but I had the protection of the lord of the castle, so I stayed pretty well out of trouble.) What noblemen remained were advanced in age and had already seen too many battles in their lifetimes, so busied themselves with maintaining order in the Coucy-le-Chateau in the lord’s absence.
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