by Aya DeAniege
Books By Aya DeAniege
Contracted
Contract Taken
Contract Broken
Contract Renewed
Daughters of the Alphas
Masked Intentions
Wraith’s Rebellion
At Death's Door
Being Written:
Contract Signed
Cheating Death
His Grace
Fragments*
Prototype*
Copyright 2017 Aya DeAniege
This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual events or people, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
All Rights Reserved. This book may not be reproduced in part or whole without written permission except in the case of small quotes for reviews, articles, or essays.
To my phone’s autocorrect, which went mad during the writing of this book, and to the phone which died shortly after completion.
In its dying words: tehehehehethehheehehe
My name and the names of mortals involved have been altered to protect our personal lives, our families, jobs, and so on and so forth. My interviewer number has been included, but like all other interviewers, my file has been completely wiped. The name placed here instead of my own, is Helen. That is what you may call me.
There was some talk of releasing my name because of some of the events, but we decided that it would be best to keep that quiet.
The vampires have retained the names that they gave me.
Quintillus, or Quin, is a vampire of some fifteen hundred years. He is the subject of my interview. He was turned by a vampire named Lu, whose age is unknown. Lu may be traced as far back as Ancient Sumer.
Lucrecia, many in the modern world know. She is the ambassador between mortals and vampires. She takes part in interviews, sits on panels, and speaks at public gatherings about vampiric rights. Her name was not always Lucrecia.
She chose her modern name as a calling back to her origin. I guess she was born in Rome, somehow, some way. I have wondered, but not asked, if she chose her name for its similarities to Lu’s.
For he has not changed his name in all the centuries. He has remained the same through and through. If a mortal were to utter the name Lu, they would think of Lucrecia, not the Maker of Quin.
Sasha is Lucrecia’s Progeny, and therefore Quin’s adopted sister. It seems she changes her name from century to century and refuses to tell anyone what any of her previous names were.
None of the vampires link her to Lucrecia, or to her Progeny, Margaret. Everyone knows that Sasha is there, that she exists and is a vampire, but none seem to give her a name, except in private. She is, of course, a very private vampire.
Lastly is Androgen.
Androgen is...
Well...
Androgen.
The important thing to remember when thinking about vampires, reading about them, talking to them, is that they are not the vampires from your books.
They’ve killed people—not just for food either—they’ve killed people for shits and giggles, and admit it willingly. There is this moral divide between vampires and most humans that cannot quite be crossed without crossing that line between mortal and immortal.
Without becoming immortal, it is difficult to understand just how little a human life means in the bigger perspective to vampires. Humans are little more than ants, or cows. They have no problem with animal cruelty because the animals they hunt have sharp sticks, atomic bombs, and are capable of being psychotic genocidal maniacs, just like them.
But this idea of God stops most, not all but most, of us from acting on our whims. Vampires don’t believe the big man in the clouds is going to welcome them into heaven, if they believe at all.
Some vampires believe that they are God. It seems when God gets bored sometimes he stabs a mortal to see what happens.
Or kidnaps a child.
I suppose my point really is: warning, these are not emo, whiny vampires who skulk in the shadows and are conflicted about chewing on humans.
That doesn’t mean that bad things, horrible things, don’t happen, just that they don’t sit in a dimly lit room crying about it. They don’t want a mortal to hold their hand and tell them everything is all right.
And sometimes, if it seems like they’re oversharing, it’s because they are secretly planning to murder you when they are done.
I sat in the little cafe as the sun set over the buildings. As I watched the people go about their evening outside on the street, I couldn’t help but feel surreal.
Surreal? Is that the word I want to use?
I had readied myself that evening as I might have for a date. I did want to make an impression, after all, and a lasting one at that. Perhaps I was a little more conservatively dressed than I would have for a date. More like a job interview with someone who I knew was attracted to me.
My blue blouse was completely done up, but for the top button. That last button didn’t exactly reveal my cleavage, but it did loosen the collar around my throat. One could argue for better access to the soft skin of my neck, but I wore all my button up tops like that. If it was completely done up, I felt like I was suffocating.
The shirt was only half sleeve. I suppose that too could be argued as easy access, but it was what I had ended up putting on that evening.
‘Ended up’ is a rather carefree term for how I had ripped through my wardrobe, chosen an outfit, and decided at the last minute that it was too suggestive.
Repeat that four times and you do ‘end up’ wearing something chosen at random with your eyes closed.
It’s a selection method that I rarely use, but it works quite well.
My dress pants were dark grey instead of black. I know black is the go-to colour, but I had felt like I was trying to make a statement with the colour of the pants. So, I went with the grey instead.
At least there, I had only had to choose between two options.
I picked yet another cat hair from my pants and tried not to grumble as I let it drift to the floor. Every time I thought I got it all, another one popped out of thin air.
My shoes were sensible somethings that I had borrowed from my roommate, Erin. Thankfully, we were both the same size, and she was out of town for the week with no ability to protest. They were black, they fit, and they didn’t hurt my feet after ten minutes of wear.
I had yet to find a pair of dress shoes that I didn’t end up ripping off and throwing across a room when forced to wear them for more than an hour. I was already getting that pinched toe feeling and was wondering if staging a break in so that I could burn the shoes and walk home barefoot was going a bit far.
My dark brown hair tumbled around my face and down my back to between my shoulder blades. I hadn’t bothered trying to tame it that night. The hair was thick and naturally had a body to it that everyone was envious of.
Let them try to wash it, or put it back in a ponytail. See how long they thought a wild mass of hair atop their heads was a good idea. It was at least slightly tameable if I attacked it just the right way the moment I stepped out of the shower.
My instructions had been very clear. No perfume, deodorant would be allowed, and very little makeup. Preferably only organic compounds for everything used. Chemicals were not allowed.
I had heard of people being able to taste some chemicals, or even being allergic to certain products which no one else was affected by. I imagined the rule was there because of something to that effect.
Of course, I didn’t know if any of my makeup was organic. It was all discount products, whose labels and packaging were long gone. I assumed that none of it was safe.
Yes, I was there for an
interview/date type situation without makeup on.
I’d dare you to bask in the glory that is my face, but I felt very self-conscious without some makeup. Not even a lip gloss or lip balm to help soothe my ego.
Failure to comply with the rules would result in instant dismissal. I did not want to be dismissed. All five-foot-five of me was in desperate need of a paying job.
Erin wasn’t going to let me rain check on rent again, even if she could afford the whole thing. She shouldn’t have had to pay for me the first time, but my life had gotten complicated quickly.
Which had led to me sitting in that cafe.
The only other occupant of the cafe was a man sitting by the window, wearing a fedora and big sunglasses. He was wearing a light grey dress shirt with a dark vest over the shirt with that diamond pattern dyed into the vest. His dark grey slacks were freshly pressed.
All in all, he looked out of place. The clothing didn’t match with the fedora and giant sunglasses.
He was tall and lean and just looked out of place. The fact that he was wearing a vest with that pattern on it even?
I suppose I’m not exactly a fashionista. Maybe that style was in, and it was just that I had a dislike for the vest, dress shirt, and slacks all in grey colours.
Or maybe it was the brown shoes that did it. Or the bright purple ribbon around the dark grey fedora. Or even the gaudy gold ring on his hand, too large for it to be comfortable, surely.
The ring looked out of place. There was something off about the colouring, like it was too yellow. It was larger than I expected to see, which was probably the point of the ring, to draw attention or start a conversation.
Had he raided his grandfather’s personal belongings? And was he there just to be seen, or was he waiting for someone?
Despite the odd clothing choice, the man did have a noble beard. It was black, full, and obviously very well kept. Not too long, just long enough that it came off his chin a bit, was shaped ever so slightly. Like he had just decided to take up the art of beard sculpting.
He was probably one of those men who had no problem growing a beard. I’d venture a guess that he had gone to bed the night before with a clean-shaven jaw and woken with that majestic beard.
It was that kind of beard.
He watched the street as if expecting someone he knew. Before him sat a cup of mocha latte in a cream coloured mug and a half-eaten biscotti, forgotten on the little ceramic plate it had been delivered to him on.
The mocha latte fared only slightly better, as he’d pick it up only very occasionally and sip, then place it back on the table. His sips were small, barely enough to wet his tongue. Over the course of our time in the cafe, it hardly seemed to have gone down at all.
I was aware that he was nursing his coffee because I was doing the same, in the back corner of the cafe.
The cafe sat on a busy downtown street. Across the four-lane street stood a huge stone church. It had been there for some two hundred years, built by people whose names I had forgotten.
Look up the history of the church and avoid being atheistic about it.
A gathering was happening at the church. Maybe the man was waiting for a lover in the cafe while they attended.
Gatherings were a new thing over the last few months as people tried to understand a change in their perception. The new events happened both at churches and community centres. People came together and talked, making friends in the process, and then went about their lives.
Religions welcomed their new flock with open arms, but I wasn’t quite sold.
For me, attending church after such an announcement was a bit like getting house insurance after your house burned down.
You didn’t believe before. You’re still going to hell with the rest of us not-quite-good-enough people.
I had an aunt who regularly lectured me on being a whore spawn of the devil. While I realize she was one very far side of the debate, it was enough to put me off organized religion pretty well for good.
If there was a God, one little announcement would not suddenly give the whole population a blank slate.
It could still be a very elaborate conspiracy by a handful of people. While it’d be difficult to pull off, I didn’t think it was completely impossible. During orientation, we had even covered just how such a thing could be managed in the modern world.
So, that we knew. So, that we’d be ready.
From where I sat in the cafe, I could just make out the bottom portion of the large double doors made of oak. They were partially open, though I couldn’t make out much more than that. I knew there were stained glass windows of saints.
One of them was the guy with a lion. Or being eaten by a lion. Or something of that sort. Perhaps it wasn’t a saint. Maybe it was just a commemorative window for all the Christians that were fed to lions.
I wonder if that actually happened.
Could always ask.
The cafe was in a building that was about half as old as the church. The bare brick walls and counter were hold overs from a previous business. The cafe had once been a bar which had been sanitized and sanded down until it was more presentable.
The wood of the counter was almost grey, and lacked the gaudy shiny surface or mirrored sides that I had seen in bars. Those had either been removed during the conversion or hadn’t been a part of the old bar. The only shine to the counter came from the gold kick bar installed at the bottom of the counter and around. Even that wasn’t quite shiny, so much as it was brushed gold in nature.
There were no bar stools around the counter. The cafe was tiny. It only had five tables, all lining the outer walls. In total the width of the cafe couldn’t have been more than fifteen feet, maybe less. Maybe more like ten feet. If you had two of me laid head to foot, we’d probably overlap, the cafe was that narrow. It did give a cozy feel, though a little claustrophobic at times.
Like right then, waiting for someone to come through the door.
There was a small outdoor section. The door leading to it was one table ahead of me. I had been given the option of sitting in the outside area, but then anyone could have hopped the fence behind or beside me. I wanted a little more control over this meeting of mine.
There were two more tables along the outer wall that sat adjacent to the outdoor sitting area. The last table was at the front, with a view towards the heart of the city. It sat just in front of the bar, but far enough in front of it that I had a pretty good view of the table.
It was also occupied by Mr. Fedora.
Basically, I was as far from the front door as I could get, in the darkest corner I could find. My back was against the back wall of the cafe, and my chair was tilted slightly, so that I wasn’t quite facing the front, but instead looking out across the cafe.
Mr. Fedora was sitting at my first choice of table. I had wanted to sit there because it would give me a clear view down the street. Shadows stretched long across the streets as the sun set, providing lots of hiding places.
Coming the other way, the buildings were shorter and further between. Mainly newer things built in the last fifty years. There was even one plot that had once been a building but had been ripped down and replaced by a parking lot. Behind the lot was nothing but residential housing, nothing to stop the sun there.
So, I figured if I could get to the cafe early enough, I could take the best seat in the house and watch the street towards downtown.
Mr. Fedora had already been there. He had been playing on his phone when I entered. Probably texting, maybe texting his date, considering the fact that the phone was now sitting face down on the table beside the coffee mug.
I’m a little surprised Mr. Fedora was using a regular cell phone instead of a flip model. It was a newer model. I knew that because I had upgraded two months previous and they had tried to talk me into waiting for that model to come out.
I could text but avoided phone calls whenever possible. I preferred being able to look someone in the eyes when I spoke to them. So,
a newer, fancier phone with small upgrades I wouldn’t notice wasn’t exactly something to wait for.
I was surprised because, with the fedora and glasses mixed with the vest, slacks, brown shoes and beard, I thought Mr. Fedora was some kind of hipster. The phone being sleek and new was a little out of place.
The beard gave me pause once more. I had a weakness for proper facial hair. Not the sprouts that some tried to do, not the maintained five o’clock shadow, but real, full facial hair.
I could get over the eclectic clothing choices for a beard like that.
The extra thump in my chest as I watched Mr. Fedora and he seemed to turn his head towards me, made me want to excuse myself to the bathroom to touch up makeup.
Except I wasn’t wearing any makeup, and I hadn’t brought any with me.
My purse sat beside my coffee on the table. It too had been borrowed from my roommate. It was little and black, with a wider strap. No embellishments whatsoever. It was Erin’s purse for breakups.
I don’t know why she even had a specific purse for breakups when she had been with the same guy for a year and a half.
Inside the purse was my phone—set to vibrate—a twenty-dollar bill, a couple of dollars in change for emergencies, identification, a charger, a case, and a lone condom.
You never know. I’m not that kind of girl, but I still like to be prepared.
Typically, I took a backpack everywhere, with all the things I needed inside. I had to cut out most of my items for the transfer to the purse. Not only was it a great deal smaller, but we could end up heading out to walk the streets some and I didn’t want it weighing me down.
The final item in my purse was a tablet. Hardly larger than a phone, it fit in the palm of my hand. Not a phone, though. It had a speaker and microphone and camera.
They should have just given us phones. Or not called a duck a unicorn.
The battery life of the tablet was supposed to be something like twelve hours. It charged with the same cord as most phones, and we had been told to take the charger with us everywhere. Abiding by the rules, the cord was in the side pocket of the purse.
