Blood & Love and Other Vampire Tales

by Rhiannon Frater

  “Is she like you? Does she take comfort from antiquities?” I ask this tentatively as I glance once more at the woman with the obsidian eyes.

  His laughter startles me. I have so rarely heard it. And before it always lacked mirth. Now it is a joyful sound. “I knew you would ask that. Yes, she is as ancient as I am. Equally so. Believe it or not, dear friend, she was my first love. But we were lost to each other for many centuries. Only recently did the Fates smile upon this weary, bitter soul and allow me to find her. I would die a thousand deaths to hold her and I feel I have done just that. Yes, yes, I have loved other women, but I never stopped loving her. She was always the missing aspect of my soul. I was not whole until I held her in my arms once more and she was mine. And I was hers.” As he speaks, I see a twinge of that old bitterness and sorrow as he speaks of years without her, but when he reaches the point where he speaks of finding her, his face once more illuminates and I feel a pang within myself. To know such love, it must be the most potent magic.

  Once more his gaze has strayed to her. “Ah, look! She has found herself a delectable prey. Actually, she promised me a bit of entertainment tonight and promised she would find us both an enjoyable feast.” He looks bemused and his clove cigarette dangles from his long, white fingers.

  His radiant wife is now talking to a lovely young woman with glimmering blond hair dressed in red. I see how intently the vampire is watching her prey speak and the yearning deep in her eyes. I shiver within myself, remembering the same looks from long ago. I still remember the sweet sensation of fear just before the fangs sink in. I take a gulp of my still too hot espresso and say, “Your wife has excellent taste in women.”

  He smirks slightly. “Yes, she does have good taste in women. She has provided me a lovely coterie of blood dolls to feed off of. I only hunt when I need the challenge. She is predator enough for the both of us at times.”

  My tongue is still smarting from the espresso, so I don’t speak for a long moment, but then I blurt out. “The blond is lovely. I noticed her myself before you arrived.”

  “You like women? I had forgotten that. Are you infatuated with the blond as well? Well, perhaps after we have had our little feast tonight, we can send her to you.”

  He is being generous. He may be devoted and smitten with his wife, but he is old. In the old days, how many concubines would he have had? I wonder, briefly, if the blood dolls have replaced what would have been his mortal concubines. I knew enough of him to know he was of royal blood. I shift in my chair, fairly certain he has already decided to add the petite blond to his collection of willing blood donors or, shall I say, blood mistresses.

  “No, sir, that is quite all right. Really.” I am embarrassed so I quickly study the drawing of the necklace once more. I can see why he desires it for his wife. It would suite her exotic looks completely.

  “Well, if you are certain. The offer still stands till we depart.” He smiles at me gently then turns his head to look across the room. “See how delicately she touches her prey? Hard to believe that is the same hand that ripped out a man’s throat a mere hour ago.” He says it casually, softly, but he said it to startle me. He always enjoyed doing that. I am easily flustered around him. It’s embarrassing, but he is like no other man. He frightens and thrills me.

  I do glance at his wife though. And she is ever so lightly touching the woman’s delicate semi-precious stone necklace. Garnets. I quickly recognize them as garnets. They are as red and striking as the vampire’s lips.

  “Dare I ask what happened out there in the snow tonight?” I am afraid to ask, but I desire to know. My former Master is a great warrior. I have seen him do battle with other ancients and win in a stunning fashion. He carries a katana with him wherever he travels and I once accompanied him to Japan while he renewed his studies in the martial arts.

  “Hunters. Dhamphir tonight. Miserable half-breeds. We were strolling along through the park when I sensed them. I was about to draw my katana when my beloved asked me for the honor. Who am I to refuse?” He smirked at the memory and I almost stutter out a brisk, stupid question. I bite it off and let him speak, but I wonder, how could such a great warrior allow his love to fight for him. “There were four of them. Not too old. Most likely new recruits to whatever cause they are fighting for. Ah for the old days when dhamphirs merely sought out their vampire fathers, killed them, then went off and lived their miserable life. Now they are organized and hate us all.” He shakes his head. “Well, the first one rushes her, thinking her the weaker of us two. She caught him easily by the throat and ripped it clear out. The second shot a silver stake at her, which she caught, and drove into the chest of the dhamphir attempting to leap on me from behind. “

  Soft laughter draws his attention away and I also glance toward the bar. The exotic female vampire is now seated with the woman at the far end of the bar. With what must appear to the mortal woman as rapt interest comes across to me as predatory. Her gaze is fully on the girl’s face. And yet, somehow, I know she is watching us. I can feel myself blush.

  “What happened then, sir?”

  Waving off the absentee waitress who suddenly strolls toward our table, he exhales and settles more comfortably in his chair. “Can you get the piece?”

  Understanding, waiting for the waitress to be out of earshot, I say, “Yes, of course. In fact I believe I know the collector who has it. I suppose price isn’t an option.”

  “Of course.” He glances at his wife to see that she is now gently trailing her fingers up and down the girls arm. Her nails are so long, so red, so deadly. I know the girl doesn’t see this, but I do. I feel as if I am watching a snake mesmerize a small rodent.

  I shiver.

  “She then drew my katana and decapitated the second assailant. About this time, the fourth appeared wielding a crossbow. She set him on fire with a mere look. Then she heaped the bodies on the burning one and we watched them disintegrate into ashes within a minute. They burn as fast and thoroughly as we do.”

  I shiver even more now and look back at his beloved. No wonder he loves her. She is his equal. Just as beautiful, just as deadly. I feel a pang of desire for her and lower my eye to regain my composure.

  His smirk is enormous now. Obviously, he is enjoying the telling of his story immensely. And I am sure he is trying to charm me as well. “It all happened within two minutes time. Afterwards, she had her way with me. It was as much a rush of exhilaration for me watching it as it was for her to do the actual kill.”

  “Sir, you did not always enjoy killing.” He was always a kind-hearted man. Defender of the lesser. That is why it was easy for more insidious creatures to manipulate him. He always believed the best of them and all their lies.

  “Nobody fucks with me or my family.” The deadness in his voice chills me. The rage in his eyes thrills me. The passion in his words makes me blush. “I may stand against those who would cross the fine line between our world and the mortal world and wreak havoc. I may defend those who are weak and innocent. But no one shall take from me what is mine. No one.”

  I dare to look at him once more and he abruptly smiles. It disarms me so completely I smile back.

  “Which is why if you need anything, you are always free to come to me.” It is a promise. I know he will always be there for me. I am a new vampire. Nervous at my new condition, but I know he will come to my aide if I should need him.

  “I know that, sir. I will call upon you should the need arise.”

  He nods and sits in silence for a long moment. He calmly smokes, relishing the mortal habit he has taken as his own.

  I tuck away his drawing, not even glancing at the check still in the envelope. I know it is blank. Looking toward his wife, I now see that she is claiming her cloak.

  “You are happy, aren’t you?” I startle myself with this question.

  The incredibly beautiful creature with the mesmerizing eyes and long veil of black hair nods. Again, the flash of sadness and loneliness is chased away by what I know is
love. “All that’s best of dark and bright meets in the aspect of her eyes.”

  “Lord Byron,” I say automatically.

  “I often wonder if he saw my beloved one night before writing that poem. She is gentle. She is loving. She holds me in her arms and I feel nothing but contentment. I feel she utterly knows me, yet she is a mystery to me. One I absolutely enjoy. When I wake, it is her hair I smell, her skin that is so soft against me. I lose myself in her eyes and worship her with my body. My goddess. My love. My passion. No one shall ever take her from me. The night she dies, I will follow. There is no life without her.” His voice is soft, seductive and passionate. His words, though said so gently, are fierce.

  I wonder briefly if she feels this way for him. But when I look to her, I see that those black eyes are resting on him and in their depths, those starry depths, I see his words reflected in her gaze. In that moment, I want to weep. The beauty of it enthralls me. And it draws from deep within me the desire to love as they do. And I feel hope. A new hope that in my new existence eternity will grant me more than power, but perhaps the love my mortal life never gave me.

  His eyes rise to meet hers and they smile. Though her fingers are intertwined with those of the blond girl, her aura seems to wrap around him. As if drawn together by a greater force than either of them can withstand, they move seamlessly together, him rising as she bends toward him. Their lips meet in a kiss that is chaste, yet beautifully sweet and passionate. A simple press of lips then his hand strokes her cheek. The look into each other’s eyes and I know in that moment, the world and I cease to exist for them.

  Nervously, anxiously, the girl peers around the goddess to gaze at him. I see in her eyes my own desires and blush. I know tonight she will know how it feels to be adored by vampires and feel her blood drawn out in delicious ecstasy.

  “My love, this is Marie. I have invited her to join us on tonight’s little adventure in Manhattan.”

  I am thrilled by the sound of her voice as much as I am by his. It is as thickly-rich as his and gently accented.

  Taking the hand of the trembling mortal girl, he lowers his lips and kisses her knuckles while gazing into her eyes. I see the girl’s fears die away and she is enraptured. She is theirs and I feel a pang of jealously.

  “Marie, it is a pleasure.”

  The girl is transfixed and says no more, merely smiles and blushes. The vampire strokes her cheek gently and gazes at her husband with love so fierce and complete once more my chest hurts to gaze upon it. It is as if I have intruded on a sacred and private moment.

  I stand and grip my briefcase as I realize they are departing now. Already his wife is wearing her sweeping cape and the girl is buttoned snuggly into a leather coat. He dons his own coat and turns to me. As we shake hands, he grips my hand firmly for an instant. It is a moment of affection that I treasure immediately.

  “It is always good to see you. Keep in touch, my dear friend.”

  “I shall. And may you enjoy your night.”

  “Ah, but I shall.” His wicked smile speaks volumes.

  He will feast well tonight.

  His wife seems to notice me for the first time and I feel rumpled and nervous under that gaze, but she suddenly smiles. “Good night, Terry.”

  When she says my name, I blush. I love the way it sounds slipping from her lips.

  His fingers trace over her cheek and he kisses her mouth softly.

  Once more, their love seems to block out the world around them and they alone exist. And then he takes her hand and guides her out of the café, the human girl still holding her other hand, seeming to float behind them with a mesmerized expression.

  I see him glance back one more time at me and nods his head as I smile at him.

  And then they are gone.

  I stand alone for a moment. I start to pay the bill then realize he has taken care of it. The crisp dollar bills are neatly stacked in the center of the table. The vision of the money seems to return me to the real world and for the first time since he entered the café, I hear the steady loud buzz of conversation and music around me. The mortals around me once more seem to have substance and flesh and I am amazed at how drawn up I had been in the man and his bride.

  And in that moment, my heart breaks a little. For I realize I have seen into a love I can never fully comprehend and can only dare to dream of. I was but an outsider, but while in their presence, I had felt a part of it. It had both thrilled and frightened me. And now they were gone.

  Blinking back a few tears, I walk into the cold Manhattan winter night

  The Memoirs of

  Moniki the Great

  January 7, 1937

  My name is Moniki and I’m going to be seven years old forever. Yes, that’s right, seven years old forever. Which is a good thing because I think grownups are stinky and boring. So boring it makes me want to roll my eyes. Well, all grownups except for my Mama and Papa, of course. Besides, kids have more fun than grownups.

  Anyway, I’m writing all this down because Papa gave me a brand new journal. Because someday I’m pretty sure I’m going to rule the world I think I should write my own memoirs because people will want to know about me, Moniki the Great, Empress of the World.

  Plus I’m grounded in my room so I have to do something to keep me from crawling the walls. And I can crawl the walls if I want to. And fly. And make things go on fire. And all sorts of other magic stuff.

  I couldn’t always do magic though. I used to be what my new Papa calls mortal. And he says it in this deep voice and it’s kind of scary and funny at the same time. He says it like it’s a really bad thing.

  Anyway, I used to be mortal. I didn’t like it a lot. My name then was Dominique Duchene. I don’t remember my Mortal Mama’s name at all. She went to heaven to be with the angels when I was a very little baby and still in my diapers. I remember my smelly mortal Papa real good. He wasn’t very nice at all. He would get very mean when he drank at the bar and he would yell a lot at my Grandmere and me.

  Grandmere was very nice to me until she went to be with the angels, too. She didn’t want my mean old mortal Papa to take care of me by himself and she used to pray at the cathedral every day for God to send a good lady to be my new mama.

  Papa was a policeman and would be gone a lot during the day and night, so his mama, my Grandmere, came to live with us in our little house on the corner. I remember the house had three floors and was very skinny. All the rooms were long and narrow and my room was at the very top of the stairs near the roof. I had one window in my room and it looked down into the street. I would sometimes sit on my bed and watch all the people walking below and the little cars carrying their passengers to places I probably would never go.

  Because Papa worked all the time and Grandmere was very old, I was always in the house, or in our little overgrown garden. I liked to pretend the garden was a jungle and crawl around in it until Grandmere told me to come inside.

  Because Grandmere was so old, her body didn’t work very well and she slept in the bedroom on the bottom floor in the back of our little house. Her room always smelled nice, like flowers, and she had the prettiest quilt on her bed. Near the window in her room she had this big chair that was the color of the sky and had big plump pillows on it. She used to hold me on her lap while she sat in this big chair and brush my black hair.

  “You have the most beautiful black hair, ma petite cherie. Like raven feathers,” she would say as she tied little red bows at the bottom of my braids.

  I remember she had the softest white hair and I would brush her long after she was done with mine. It was very thin and wispy. I would try to braid it, but my fingers would get tangled. She would laugh and fix it herself before cuddling me on her lap, giving me little kisses.

  I loved my Grandmere so much.

  Grandmere used to dress me up in a pretty white dress she made for me before her arthritis got too bad. She would braid my hair and pin it under a white hat and have me put on my shiny black shoes. Grandmer
e would then put on a pretty blue dress splashed with white flowers and a funny blue hat with a big floppy white flower on it and her best shoes. She’d take my hand and we’d look in the mirror and giggle because we looked so pretty and fancy.

  “What fine ladies we are, ma petite cherie,” she would say. “The finest in all France.”

  Once we looked our very best, we’d leave our little house and go shopping in the village. Grandmere had to walk slowly because she was getting old, but also because she liked to talk to everybody on the street. And everybody knew and loved Grandmere. She knew all our neighbors and all about their lives and all the shopkeepers kept their very best selections just for her. The butcher gave her special meat so that “the little one will grow up big and tall” and when I realized he meant me I would say, “Monsieur, I do not want to grow up. Ever.” And Grandmere and the butcher would laugh and think this was very funny.

  Of course, they didn’t realize I meant it. I didn’t want to grow up at all. Being grownup means being too busy, too serious, and having no fun. Why would I want that?

  We’d carry all our groceries in Grandmere’s big basket and I’d help her carry it when it got too heavy. At the bakery she would always buy me something sweet and gooey to eat. I was always very careful not to stain my good dress. She smiled and stroked my hair. She always told me how beautiful I was and how much she loved me. And she called me, “My little Moniki” instead of Dominique. It was her secret name for me. I always liked it.

  The priest at the cathedral knew Grandmere very well and they would sit in the little garden beside the cathedral and talk for hours. Grandmere would always give me a piece of bread to tear up and feed to the big gold fish in the pond. I was always happy in the garden and wanted to live there. All the flowers smelled so good and the grass was so soft.

  “Father Pierre, can I live in this garden forever?”

  “Dominique, this is God’s garden and God’s house,” he said not unkindly and smiled. “It is not for mere mortals.”