The Drink

Greetings

I love running my tongue over my fangs. There is something comforting about it, the smoothness, the slightly metallic taste. Maybe it’s the iron from the blood? It sets off a tingle in the pit of my stomach and if I am not careful, it becomes a full blown urge to drink. I like it when I drink, but just as the television commercial suggests, I try so hard to drink responsibly. It is so easy to lose control. You would not like me when I am not in control of myself. I can be, well, difficult. So being responsible is important to me. I've learned a lot over the centuries on how to control myself. I’ve had some success and I have some failures; I don’t like to fail. I think I have changed for the better, but I’ll let you judge how well I’ve done.

Life today is not anything like it was in the old days for my kind. Two hundred years ago if someone whispered the word vampire, it would make a mortal’s heart beat faster, out of fear mostly. Five hundred years ago, if someone said the word out loud, it might stop a heart from beating or cause a panic, like yelling fire in a crowded theater. Today, with all the books, movies and made-for-TV series on the topic, we have become the things of envy and desire.

We are sexy, we don't age, we live...forever. Potentially. And there is the pathos too, the suffering vampire, the one who longs for his humanity. The sensitive tragic blood sucker who desires to see the sun rise one more time. To feel its warmth wash over his skin and melt in his pores. It's mostly nonsense. The only part of being human I miss is having a purpose, a raison d’être - that, and the feeling of being warm. The only time a vampire feels anything close to warmth is when we are latched to a vein. Otherwise, there is nothing but the coldness, and nothing can take it away but the pulse of an artery as it is drained by an aroused, sucking, hungry mouth. Most vampires never think of their purpose, if they even have one. I struggle with that as much as I struggle to feel warmth. I suppose I can say I miss having purpose. I miss my warm flesh. I miss Yarik.

So, we drink to live. We drink for the warmth the blood sends pounding on a thunderous journey through our cold constricted veins. That red elixir is the only thing that takes the edge off the almost unbearable cold a vampire feels. We drink, to look more human, to pass, so we can walk among you mostly unnoticed.

There is a popular trend today in fictionalized stories of the vampire that I hate. Somewhere someone decided to change the rules. Yeah, the rules, about vampires, for example, who the hell came up with the notion that a vampire can run around in the daylight wearing nothing more than a pair of Maui Jims and a strong sunblock with no reaction or consequence to exposing one’s flesh to its rays?

It is, to say the least, uncomfortable for a vampire to go out into the sunlight. But these popular novels and movies that show vampires twinkling, shining and sparkling in the sunlight are nonsense. The other extreme, that we burst into flames, is equally ridiculous. The truth, as always, is somewhere in between. It is possible for a mature, healthy vampire to be in the sun, but skin should not be exposed for long periods, an hour or so at a time. Dodging in and out of shadows brings blessed relief. You often see us strolling on the shady side of a street or standing under a tree, waiting for the next cloud to dim the sun for a moment so we can linger, but direct exposure would be suicide. It is not that we immolate, but there is a chemical reaction that takes place when sunlight touches vampire skin. It quickly begins to redden, then blisters and darkens, and soon after it deteriorates. It withers like fruit, left too long unwatered and hanging on the branch in the yellow blaze of the sun. When this happens, when we are exposed for too long, a vampire’s skin begins to drop from the bone. But that would happen only if a vampire was left fully exposed to the sun for hours, and perhaps days before one would actually succumb to sunlight. It’s a slow lingering painful decay that immobilizes us. We do not go poof; more like old soldiers, we just fade away… :)

Many vampires have a translucent skin. Indeed, a vampire can look quite disturbing to mortals. I look disturbing. Veins, like road maps, blue and pulsing, crisscross just beneath the surface. Organs not hidden beneath bone are shadows, almost visible to the naked mortal eye, that quiver and throb, waiting for drink, for revitalization. When we drink, we change. Skin warms, blushes and reddens somewhat. The translucency of the flesh lessens and we become more opaque. Some vampires are indistinguishable from humans once fully fed. These are the ones that are enviable, because they truly can hunt the streets, dance at the clubs; they move undetected. Yarik is one of these. I'm not that lucky. Once I feed, I look more like a primped dandy from 18th-century France. A powdered wig would look quite natural on my head.

When we drink from a victim, we can look amazingly like the soul whose blood we drain, for hours at a time. Our bodies take on the physical and facial characteristics of the one we feed off of. Once I have fed, I suppose you might mistake me for being albino, and although I still get stared at, I do not look a monster, just a poor lad with a skin anomaly. But before I am sated, if I need to be out and about in decent society, I have to perform a ritual. Like an actor preparing to go on stage for a performance, I sit in front of my mirror and apply the right amount of foundation, a rouge to the cheek, I must darken the lashes. Translucent eyelashes are disturbingly odd. The hair on my head needs a color rinse; otherwise, like my lashes, it is translucent as well. It is then when I am colored and powdered, the monster is pushed slightly to one side, a wolf nonetheless, in sheep's clothing.

And who decided that vampires need guns to fight each other? Guns! It's laughable. Even a newborn has the strength of 3 humans and the best-placed bullet to the heart would not kill us. We can vanish to human sight in an instant, and even to each other, we move so quickly we become virtually invisible. Our bodies have amazing regenerative abilities. Limbs and skin can grow in a matter of days, if not hours, depending on the wound. Unlike the way it is with humans, fighting among vampires is a rare thing. I have heard of a vampire war but once, and that was a thousand years before I was made. No. When we fight, it is rare, and not with guns. When we fight it is with cunning and brute strength, and to the death, and if I ever need to fight one of my own, it will be to win.

So, there are some myths that I'd like to correct here and now before I go on.

1. Most vampires do not generally walk in daylight. If we do walk in the light, we absolutely will not twinkle like a Cullen, a character from a recent series of popular novels of fictional vampires. We are sensitive to the sunlight however, and while late afternoon sun is perhaps the easiest to take, it is nonetheless uncomfortable. We need to shield our skin from it; it burns more quickly than a mortal’s, so we try to avoid it, especially in sleep. When we sleep, it is preferably in a place with no windows. Or, if it is in a windowed residence, they are shuttered and heavily draped. When we sleep, it can often be mistaken for the repose of death. To mortal eyes that is, indeed, the appearance. However, we sleep a shallow sleep, but during this rest, there is an amazing regeneration that takes place within. The drink is digested and absorbed, and it repairs any damage suffered. As we lie still in bed, the color once again fades, the flesh becomes transparent, and color recedes from the hair and lips. When we sleep, we are vulnerable and it is when we are the most afraid. For a newborn, when the sun rises, sleep is impossible to resist. The newborn’s body is still adapting and changing. The rising sun seems to take all energy away and sleep is heavy physically, though one is often conscious, aware of what is happening around oneself. Vampire sleep is similar to a coma perhaps. As a newborn, the body cannot move, even when prodded, but the mind is awake and active, aware of conversations that swirl around oneself. As you age, you require less sleep. The sun’s rising and falling does not have the same effect on you. You can be roused and even jump up and defend yourself if need be. The ancient ones don't sleep at all; they just listen, cold and unmoving.

2. We do not kill each other with guns like disgruntled postal workers. Over the last century or so, among the European vampires there has developed a loose, rather informal system to deal with family disagreements. So the notion that we need to shoot each other as though we lived in a spaghetti western is laughable. While some of the luckier vampires may be sexy once fed, most of us simply want to pass as human in order to feed off you. Generally, we don't want to marry you, especially the older vampires. The younger ones are more susceptible to human memories, what a relationship was or could be. If we interact with you, it is because it is necessary, especially in the present time, for us to survive. On occasion we become fond of a human, or use you for our amusement, or to aid us in daily life, doing things that might be difficult for us to do, especially in daylight hours. But for most of us, you are a beverage and your jugular - just a fancy straw.

_______

The year 1692 had been a leap year. It started on a Tuesday in January and was notable for several things. There was a decisive naval battle, a victory for the Dutch and English fleet over the French at La Hougue. It was the year the Salem witch trials, sadly, began. It was also the year I became. My name is Asher Christian Wexhome. I am VAMPIRE.

I do not remember much about the actual assault, by what novels would call, in a romanticized fashion, my creator or father. As far as I knew, at the time of my attack, father was a filthy, ravenous animal from the lower classes and I was in the wrong place at the wrong time. He pounced on me literally from above. I was leaving St. James Church one evening perhaps a little too late, after having said goodbye to the vicar and family friend, the Reverend Thomas Canton. I would often stay late at the church speaking with Thomas. I loved to talk philosophy with him, religion, good versus evil, the meaning of man in the universe. Were we forever bound by flaws and failures, repeating the same mistakes over and over? Was there a way out of ourselves, out of the human condition on this plane of existence, or did redemption only exist in the next world? I wondered about my purpose in life and what God had meant for me to do with the time he allotted me in this world. At one point, I had briefly debated with myself, the idea of becoming a minister, but decided I lacked an essential quality it takes to become a devout and successful man of the cloth. Faith, in myself and faith in His divine plan. I had too many questions that did not seem to have answers that satisfied me. When Thomas could not explain a theological point that I questioned, he would fall back on his old standby answer, that what I needed was to have a deeper faith. That answer never satisfied me. Blind faith, faith with out works, never appealed to me. I could have faith and trust for just so long. If answers did not come through righteous prayer, then either I prayed for the wrong reason or I could not hear the responses to my petitions.

So, I decided I would follow not a divine plan, but one that my human father had decided on. We would emigrate from Surrey England to the New World from a place called Shere Green. It was a small village, tucked in a valley between the Downs and the Surrey Hills, that has since become a haven for tourists with their snapping cameras and loud clothes, sucking on chocolates and sweets from local shops that now cater to such as them. We would leave our little village and cross the ocean first to the city of Boston, and then onward, to a small town in New England known as Concord, Massachusetts. I was twenty-two years of age, and had spent that evening saying my farewells to friends and neighbors. Thomas was the last on my list of goodbyes and we had spent too much time reminiscing. When I finally heard the clock strike the hour, it was 1:00 AM.

As I left the coolness of the 13th-century stone church and stepped into the warmth of a June evening, I sensed I was being watched. From the corner of my eye there was nothing more than a perceived shadow, a smudge on the cobblestones, a soft blur on the side of the old prison house I walked quickly past. It was nothing I was able to see so much as feel, a dark sense, a foreboding, then a noise - a snap of a branch and the fluttering of birds suddenly taking flight. I stood perfectly still looking up, straining to see what seemed to move through the tree above me, but there was nothing I could make out. While I would not say at that point I was frightened, I began to perspire involuntarily, not from the heat, but from something I sensed that simply seemed off and made my skin crawl. A tingle ran up my spine, the hairs on my arms and neck rising. I turned onto Middle Street, moving quickly, and as I did, the rustling in the tree tops became sounds that scratched along the thatched and slated rooftops of something that scurried along, keeping pace with my gait. Something was stalking me. As I moved faster, whatever was on the rooftop also increased its speed. When I stopped and stood silent, the shuffling noises also stopped. Now I felt it, it was fear.

Again I stopped and stood perfectly still, the moon slipped behind clouds and the darkness rushed forward to fold around me in an embrace I will never forget. I shouted out, Who's there? but of course there was no response, only the flicker of a candle as someone came to an open window to look out. I turned and began once again to walk, but this time faster, not stopping to answer the man who stood in the window, candle in hand calling after me to ask if all was right. I had walked not more than one hundred paces when I was snatched by hand, or claw unseen. My eyes looked down at my feet to see them rise from the cobblestones. Wind rushed passed my checks, I was being hauled into the air twenty feet or more and almost faster than my eyes could follow. The sudden height and motion sickened me and I thought I might vomit, but then was thrown onto a rooftop with great force and saw what I thought must be the devil himself pin me with one hand to the cool grey slate shingles. A strong powerful finger shot out and caught me under the jaw bone and he slowly turned my head from side to side, studying me. He leaned forward and put his face next to mine and breathed deeply. He was smelling me like a dog that had picked up the scent of a rabbit. He sniffed. Then a dark black fetid thing darted out from between his lips and he ran what was his tongue over them. I was not sure if I was dreaming, trapped in some terrible nightmare, or if God had abandoned me for some unknown sin and set a terrible devil on me. I thought I was losing consciousness, and for a moment everything did grow dark, but something foul licking my neck and chin brought me back to semi-conscious awareness. I had the impression that this creature was considering me, sizing me up, deciding if I was indeed what he wanted.

I tried to scream. My mouth opened, but there was nothing to come out. Whatever part of a scream I tried to expel was caught in my throat and hung in the air between my mouth and the devil’s lips. The pale monster that now lifted and cradled me in his arms breathed a sigh, and the stench of his breath was like the decaying petals of a hundred rotting bouquets. His lips parted, and as the moon returned from behind the shroud of clouds that had been hiding it, I caught my first clear look at what would be my creator. The white of the fangs and the redness of his hair I remember most clearly, that hungry almost demented look in his eyes as he tore into my throat. I knew I was a dead man. I felt wetness and smelled something sweet and felt the stickiness that I knew was my blood leaving my body. The last image I had was of a face, white and ragged with a trail of red smeared across black lips, and then as quickly as he had brought me to the rooftop, he tossed me like a broken rag doll to the pavement below, and with the pain came darkness as my eyelids closed.

I

Rest

I remember birds, and warm sunlight falling across bare feet and ankles. I heard voices in the room next to where I lay and I thought to myself, how did I sleep so late that the sun is up? Today we leave for America aboard the Arianna Leigh. My father had worked hard to save every shilling he could for almost three years in order to have the fare required for the four of us to sail to a new life. My father had a trade. He was a skilled cabinet and furniture maker and thought it a craft that would serve us well in the New World. It would afford him greater opportunity and he would be able to better provide for us and finally own his own business, something he was unable to do here in Shere Green. But, it was late now, and I must hurry to help with the trunks that had all been packed days before. It was when I tried to sit up that I let out an involuntary scream, pain like I had never felt before surged through my body; it was then that I remembered. It was no nightmare. The horror of the event flooded my thoughts as my hand caressed ribs swathed in tightly wrapped bandages. Each breath I took, seared my lungs like a burning ember and I tried to slow my breathing to a more measured speed to dull the ache. My hand moved up to my throat expecting the worst - expecting to find gore and blood caked over an angry wound. But to my surprise I felt nothing, just a tenderness on the right side of my neck and maybe, I was not quite sure, I felt a scab, two scabs closely placed to each other, almost undetectable.

Hearing me cry out brought my mother and father into the room with my sister Patrice following behind them. A look of relief crossed over my mother’s face and she took the chair placed near my bed and gently held my hand. Patrice smiled and leaned over to kiss my forehead. Father was the first to speak, asking how I felt, if I needed anything, inquiring of the pain, if anything could be done to make me more comfortable. My sister was talking over my father asking what had happened, how had I injured myself, was it a carriage accident, was I set upon by thieves or worse? It all seemed so mysterious and exciting to her.

They told me how I had been found on the street, delirious and bleeding from the nose and head, with three ribs broken and a fracture to my left arm. I had been brought by horse cart to Dr. Townsend's home where he treated my cuts and bruises and bound my ribs and set my arm.

He had administered herbs and medicines for the pain and to speed the healing, and brought me home where I was incredulous to learn I had been in this bed unconscious for three days. Three days! The Arianna Leigh had sailed I was sure. All my father’s dreams, the money for the passage, wasted. I leaned into my pillow and tried to keep myself from sobbing like a child.

It is all such a distant memory now, not the events, but the humanity of it. The concern expressed by my family. The love my sister always had for me. The great care and tender love my mother showed throughout her short span of years (by my standards). The strength my father had in abundance, when it came to things of character, providing for his family. Sitting here some three hundred year later, I look at it with dispassion and distance - not the distance of time, but the distance brought on by a transformation of nature. How a butterfly might feel if he could look at the disgusting worm he emerged from, and marvel that the carcas was ever a part of him. I wonder now, as I sit here in the comfort of my home in the middle of New York City, surrounded by literally millions of warm-blooded souls, how I cannot feel for them? Or maybe, I feel too much. A vampire should not feel... anything.

______

I have just dined and look my best. Color has flooded my veins and my skin looks almost human now, not like tissue paper, no purple arteries visible. I can walk the city streets if I want and not cause a stir. Across from me, seated in an upholstered, custom-made dining chair, sits my dinner, head resting on white linen, one arm dangling freely to his side like a puppet whose strings have been cut. Did you know that the food a human consumes gives flavor to the blood? It is not distinguishable by race, as much as by culture. For example, tonight I had Indian food. The spices from South Asia are quite aromatic and powerful. Someone from that culture has a distinct, almost nutty flavor. There I go, getting all Hannibal Lector on you, Clarice (giggles), but it is true. The French taste of Camembert and Brie. The Irish are starchy and Americans, well, such a diverse culture, but I would say they taste of beef. Red meat. God help me if I get a vegan. It's no better than sucking on a goat. Anyway, tonight was Indian. Or was he Pakistani? No matter, you take my point.

Here, let me shatter another myth. Vampires do not need to feed nightly. In fact, the ones that do usually end up with a kind of dementia that makes them very hard to deal with.

They become drunk with the blood and it affects how they think and act, much like a human drunk on too much alcohol. If they do this consistently, a type of lunacy sets in. When this happens, they become careless and endanger all of us. I told you vampires rarely war. That is true. But if one runs across one of these feeders that dine nightly, it is one’s duty to cull him from the hive so to speak.

In the old days, when people started disappearing, and you wanted to discourage the attention of vengeful townsfolk, you could make a show of yourself - snatch a villager and leave the body in the public square. Fear generates respect. With fear instilled, the humans would avoid us, locked inside behind closed doors at night and minding their own business in the day. No one questioned why bodies floated down the river in the morning sun or why some people simply vanished. They knew why. They accepted it. Today, a prostitute goes missing and cops are everywhere. In the 21st century, everyone seems to matter. If it becomes public knowledge that the corpse in question was lacking corpuscles, the papers go wild, the Internet lights up. Claim to be a vampire and you can get a reality TV show. Today, we need to hide our handiwork. There is a reason why people pictured on the side of a milk carton rarely show up.

The truth is, we don't need to feed nightly; once or twice a week is plenty. I've known older vampires that feed only once every six to eight weeks. I have heard it rumored that some don't need to eat at all. They achieved the lofty goal, transcending to the Third Degree of vampirism, if the stories are to be believed. For the present, I am content to eat twice a week, though frequently a meal could consist of more than one helping. This boy at my table now looks to be about my age when I turned. Beautiful dark cinnamon-colored skin. Holding my arm next to his makes a shocking contrast. Now that I have fed, there is some tone and color to my skin, but compared to him, I am as a marble sculpture, cold and hard and I think in my own way quite beautiful. But this creature seated here is so stunning. Point of interest - once they are dead, or nearly so, and the blood all but gone (similarly, as when eating crab or lobster, you know that if you crack the joints in their little legs you find some extra meat?) well, with humans, there is always a little extra pooling of warm blood to be found in the fingertips. A fang inserted just so, in the end of a finger or toe for that matter, and voilà. What's the line? Good, to the last drop. Yum.

______

It was with much relief that I learned my father had not lost the money for the voyage to America. He was able to transfer passage from the Arianna Leigh to the Cole. The captain of the Arianna Leigh, a family friend, was quite sympathetic to our plight. The entire village was aware of what had happened to me, though not aware of the entire horror. I thought it best not to talk about what my mind held as both vivid and fragmented imagery of the attack. The white face, the red lips, hair that seemed almost alive. The foul odor of his fetid breath and the way the demon was able to carry me to the rooftops - who would believe me? I still wasn't completely convinced myself of what had happened. When I had to relay to my family and the town elders the events of that night, I said only that I was set upon by a thug who wanted my purse and when I resisted, beat me with a club and fists.

The Cole was set to sail from Portsmouth in a little over three weeks. Dr. Townsend thought by that time I would be well enough to make the voyage as long as most of my time on ship was spent in my bed resting. When the two-month voyage was over I would be moving about comfortably, though many more months would be required for all the healing that needed to take place.

The first four days after I awoke from the attack I lay snug in bed, propped up with pillows and wrapped in blankets even though it was quite warm. My sister Patrice and my mother watched over me, diligently attending to my every need. I could feel strength returning to me; though the discomfort of breathing was somewhat eased, occasionally there would be a stabbing jolt of pain that stopped me cold and quickly reminded me just how serious my injuries were.

On the fifth day I sat in a chair by the opened window and watched people go about their lives. Occasionally someone would see me sitting there and come to inquire how I was feeling. There was still a lingering fear in the village about my attack. While the thief had not been caught, there was at least no further assault on anyone. It was widely believed that a transient passing through had committed the crime and moved on. If he was ever to be caught it would not be in Shere Green, no doubt the lout has moved on to wreak mischief elsewhere was how most put it.

It was almost evening, the sun low in the sky, and Mrs. Ames was at the window telling me how good I looked, happy I was recovering and cackling on about how she would miss us and though sorry about the circumstance, was happy we would have a few more weeks in the village before setting sail for America. It was as she spoke to me that I noticed something odd. Northward, rising rather steeply above the village are the downs, beautiful hills that run towards the countryside of greens and vales. To the south, where the downs and hills meet, there is a house at what is called Burrows Lea. The house, perched on the rise, is quite visible from my street and from the window where I sat. At first, I hadn't noticed anything odd or out of the ordinary, until what I had assumed was some object covered with a heavy oiled cloth, lumber perhaps or a piece of furniture, suddenly moved. I saw it from the corner of my eye. This tarpaulin swayed slightly, and when it did, I realized that it was not lumber or a wooden chest, but a man. A large brimmed hat, heavily veiled in a dark gauze, hung over the face. The hands were gloved and as the figure began to stand to its full height, I realized he was quite tall indeed. The oiled cloth hung from him like an old woman's shawl, clutched by one gloved hand, while the other arm was raised over the face blocking the sun (that could hardly have reached the person as he was standing in the shadows) looking directly at me. While I was unable to see a face beneath the veil, I was sure our eyes met and the feeling unnerved me. I looked away and then back again, straining to see more clearly, to convince myself that my eyes were not playing some type of trick on me. Surely it was a man, and he stood there in the shadows looking right at me with such burning intensity. Even though his face was hidden completely from me, I felt certain his eyes where locked on me.

Mrs. Ames was talking about the Claridge boy who had gone missing just two days after my attack. I was only half listening to her, trying to keep the figure on the hill in view. As Mrs. Ames spoke, I remembered that mother had mentioned the Claridge boy to me briefly. I had overheard them speaking about it when I was in and out of consciousness early on, but I must confess, I gave it little thought, heartless as that might sound. He was a young boy maybe eight or nine. Mrs. Ames talked on about it and I tried to listen but my attention was focused well past her shoulder to the rise of the hill where he stood, staring. Sensing my attention was no longer focused on her conversation, she surmised I must be tired. She apologized for taking too much of my time and wished me a speedy recovery. I looked back towards her and thanked her for her kind words. She moved on and out of sight, heading towards the center of the village. In the few short moments it took for us to say our goodbyes, when I turned back towards Burrows Lea, the figure was gone. My eyes searched the shadows where I was sure I had seen someone dark and oddly disturbing, but there was nothing there - if there ever had been. The house stood silhouetted against the fading blue of the afternoon sky. Clouds, white and billowing, indicating a storm was approaching, climbed high into what was left of the blue.

For the remainder of the day I was restless. I sat in the garden with Patrice and we spoke of the upcoming trip; I always steered her questions away from the night I was nearly killed. The horror of it fascinated more than frightened her and she continued to pry and probe my memory.

A young girl of nineteen, Patrice was beautiful. Unlike most girls her age, she showed no interest in fashion and hairstyle or in pursuing a potentially suitable man for marriage. She was intelligent and independent. She loved challenges and adventure and was someone I could trust completely to always look out for my best interests. She was tall for her day, five foot seven inches, with stunning chestnut-colored hair, usually pulled back and tied behind her head. Her skin was clear and in the summer always tan, spending much of her days outside, not one for housework and darning, much to my mother’s chagrin. She had a grace that came naturally to her as did our mother, but was more comfortable walking the fields or fishing or playing sport with me than serving tea and doing needlework. Because of her sense of adventure, she had no hesitation in leaving all she knew behind and heading literally to a new world.

Father had given us a voice in the matter of leaving Shere Green. I was an adult and quite capable of continuing on at the shop of McClure and Hawn, where I worked alongside my father. He had been employed for over 12 years by Mr. McClure and had been promised a partnership when Mr. Hawn retired. But that day had come and gone and still Father did not move into the position he wanted. He dreamed of designing and building furniture to his own creative specification, not simply following the same old patterns and styles that had been a part of the shop that employed him. Instead, once Hawn left the firm Mr. McClure was content in keeping the business in the family as it were, and while my father’s skills were appreciated and he was paid a wage for his skill that was adequate, he wanted more.

America was in need of craftsmen. My father read the trades and talked to people who knew people in the colonies - you could make your way there easily if you had a trade that was valued. Fine crafts where in demand as it was expensive for people to ship things from England. It made sense to him: he could own his own shop, build a good business and leave something behind to his family when he was gone. So when he asked if I would go to America, I quickly agreed. I thought it would be an adventure, a chance to see a new world and become part of it. Patrice would have been welcome to stay with our aunt Luli, but she was as quick as I to jump at the chance of an ocean voyage and a life in a new place. Besides, she said she would not be so easily parted from me or our parents. So as it turned out, there was very little discussion on the matter. We were all in - we would make our fortune together in the new world or we would fail. But failure was not something any of us expected.

That evening I retired early. It was the most active day I had had since the attack, and while it was good to move about the house and garden, I was still weak from the ordeal and looked forward to a night’s rest. I lay in the darkness of my room, rethinking the day’s events, and always, my thoughts returned to the house at Burrows Lea. The moonlight touched the walls of my room; dark grey shadows of tree limbs danced on the ceiling and shattered filtered light made distorted shapes and images I could see even with my eyelids closed. It was the brightest moon I could remember and the air in the room was heavy. After twenty minutes with no sleep coming, I slowly swung my legs from my bed and stood. Walking towards the window I looked at my skin in the moonlight. It was pale, almost pasty. It looked odd to me for some reason and it disturbed me.

I stood at the second floor window and looked out from my room onto the quiet streets of the village, where I had a good view of much of the town stretched out before me. The spire of St. James Church was clearly visible, its cemetery laid out on either side of a brick walkway. The river that Middle Street crossed was running lazily through the village, where on summer days children came to fish or to chase the ducks and swans. Above it all was this house, dark as the rest of the village at this hour, but somehow it seemed darker; it had a brooding presence, if such a thing were possible for a home. Perhaps the effect was intensified because it was deserted and fallen down in places. There were rumors it was haunted by spirits, but no one took such stories seriously except for successive generations of children that kept the tales of ghosts and demons alive, handing them down to their younger friends, brothers and sisters like old clothing outgrown. The moon threw patches of silver across the fields and tried to illuminate the face of the broken down relic of a house, but its facade seemed to absorb whatever light happened to fall on it and stood there grey and cold.

Standing thirty feet or so from the front door, staring directly at me was that odd man. He was without the hat and wrappings he had used to cover himself earlier that day. While I certainly could not say I recognized him, given how completely covered he had been this afternoon, I knew it was he by his height, stance and gaze. How odd that sounds, because as before, I still could not see his eyes, but I felt them. As surely as if he stood in the same room with me taking in my face, this creature, this man with the oddly-colored piercing eyes, stared at me, and a shiver rose from the base of my spine and traveled to the nape of my neck, setting fine hairs tingling and making my skin crawl. I stepped back from the open window, hoping the darkness of the room would hide me from his stare. Involuntarily my hand touched my neck and I thought I felt the old wound that had completely healed throb and pulse; it wept ever so slightly.

I hid myself behind the drapery that hung from the window, but they offered little if any protection from his cold stare. It was as if he were inside my head, and I touched my temples before I was drawn once again to look at this Svengali, whose gaze I was seemingly unable to avoid. I stepped back to the window as a cloud passed in front of the moon and for the briefest of moments, the man in the grasses on the hillside blended into the shadows, and it looked to me as though he had disappeared completely. When the moon again shown bright and full, he was several hundred feet closer. How he had managed that distance in the briefest of time I was not sure. Now I was able to make out his clothes and form. Quite unlike the vampire of film, this was no suave, cultured, educated man of the world, but looked to me to be quite the brute. He was tall with a solid frame and strong build. His hair was red and fell to his shoulders. He wore a simple white shirt with a high collar, dark pants and what appeared to be a long blue coat, ill- fitted and torn, looking like something worn by a man of little means but dressed in his Sunday best. I could not tell his features from where I stood, but there was something about his manner that immediately convinced me this was the beast that accosted me now a week past. Somehow he looked more human. There was color in his skin, though he was still quite pale, the moon's light reflecting off his face and hands, the horrid smear of red across his lips was gone and in its place a feeble attempt at a smile, or was it a smirk? It was so oddly out of place on his form that I would have laughed out loud if it weren’t for the cold fear that entangled my heart. I swung away from the window again and pressed my back to the wall, eyes closed, trying to slow my rapid breath.

II

The Business of Being Vampire

It costs a great deal of money to be a vampire today. Fortunately, like any intelligent immortal, I invested wisely over the years and have a sizable fortune, to put it modestly. I have had several mentors over the centuries who guided and advised me, but to my credit, I have also developed quite a knack for knowing what stocks to buy and when, and also what to sell and how fast. I have had my favorites, and time has given me the ability to be able to tell public trends from sound business direction, where a country and indeed the world is heading and adjust my portfolio accordingly. I am in the market for the long term, I suppose you could say. Anyhow, my point was that it requires a hefty bankroll to be a vampire in the 21st century, to be able to live under the radar and maintain a certain lifestyle - that is, assuming you want to have an established life, live in one place over long periods of time and not find yourself being chased down dark alleys one step ahead of the law because you made some stupid blunder in either selecting or disposing of a meal. It is important to have connections - the local police department, of course, maybe a hospital, an occasional politician in your pocket is helpful - it’s like being in the mob in many respects. And who can get along these days without the skill and craft of a lawyer to look after your needs? I have also found it most helpful being associated with a local funeral parlor.

Living in a city like New York, it just won't do to have bodies piling up with no way to dispose of them. Of course not every time a vampire feeds he kills. Often a late night visit to the subway or a park will provide an adequate meal. I can and have fed on drunks and drug addicts who end up getting more than the fix they had thought they were after, or on laborers, returning home after working the third shift. Or on lovers intimately embraced with each other, who never realized that while they were entwined in each other’s arms, lustfully satisfying their carnal needs, I was latched to a wrist or a thigh, taking what I needed to get by. The wound is quick and painless, executed with skill, followed by a healing flick of my tongue to seal the puncture before I melt away unawares. But the real feast, the satisfying satiating meal that nurtures and strengthens and heals us, comes only from the draining of life. It is the dark blood that pumps its final pulse through the slowing heart and into one’s throat that we ultimately need. And when we are through and the life force is gone from them, we must face the dilemma of what to do with the leftovers.

Enter Antenucci's funeral parlor on West 54th Street. For over seventy-five years they have served me well. The elder Mr. Antenucci was with me for almost forty years until his death in 1974. His son Julian has been seeing to my needs for close to forty years himself, and his son Carlo will soon be brought into service, perhaps within a month or two. He is most anxious to come to me and I am thinking his twenty-first birthday might be the proper time.

When a human comes into the service of an immortal it is a sacred thing. Not all humans are meant for such devotion; the process of selecting a candidate and turning the mortal is like the bond that develops between a human mother and her babe. The connection is both physical and mental. When one is in service, the human is devoted for the rest of his or her life to attend to the needs of its master. I currently have five humans in service.

In the basement of my house just off Fifth Avenue and Seventy-Ninth Street, on the Upper East Side of Manhattan, behind a false wall is a walk-in refrigerated unit that can hold several dozen bodies at one time if it were ever necessary, though usually no more than four are there at once. If I eat in, like tonight, once the dinner guest is emptied, he is stored until I call for Julian. He drives his van into the garage, loads however many - I struggle for words - however many dinner guests I have accumulated over the past month or so and whisks them cross town to his establishment and starts the oven. Generally he will simply add one of my meals to a legitimate customer and up the chimney they go like the remains of one of Mrs. Lovett's pies. I did so like Sweeney Todd! Can't wait for the next revival. This system has worked well for me, and most vampires who live in cities or crowded urban areas need a similar disposal system, a way to cover their tracks and stay one step ahead of 21st-century law enforcement.

I stood up and walked around the table. This boy never saw it coming when I took him. He was sitting, napkin in lap, engrossed in conversation with me and chewing on a bit of lamb. I had seen him twice before and both times he seemed fascinated by my appearance and manner. I had not eaten in several days before I brought him to my table, so of course I had had to apply my makeup before going out. To do a good job - one that is life-like and does not make me look like a mannequin or a candidate for one of Julian’s slabs - can take several hours depending on how detailed I want to be. Getting the color inside my ears is quite difficult; it took me years before I was able to do it so it looked natural. I use a fairly pale foundation that smoothly covers the translucency of my unfed skin. I found if I tried using a darker skin tone I looked more like a cross-dresser or transvestite somehow. I use a product that has a soft tone in it, but not too much. I can apply the foundation quickly once I have colored my hair. That takes the most time. I was, as a human, a blonde and with pale makeup, a light blonde hair color seems to works quite well with the skin. My hair is just above my shoulders in length. I can cut it and style it any way I want but no matter how short I cut it, even shaved bald to the scalp, the next evening when I wake, it is always to the length it was the day I lost my human life. An eyebrow pencil, mascara, contact lenses to take away the paleness of the iris, and a flesh-colored lipstick applied and blotted several times completes the illusion that I am flesh and blood.

My hands are the hardest to disguise. The makeup rubs off so easily. Of course in the winter gloves do the trick, but the rest of the year I do my best to hide them, usually stuffed into pockets or clasped behind my back. False nails need to be applied. My vampire nails are like those yellow translucent sea shells one finds in abundance on the beaches in Florida and the Carolinas called jingles. Sigh! I am afraid I may have given you the impression that I am quite hideous. You’d be right, but I wasn't always so. As a human I was a good looking, handsome man, but now... well, It takes a lot of work to be me. A lot of time is needed putting myself together just so I can walk out into the evening air and mingle without frightening small children and dogs, to perhaps gossip with a shopkeeper or neighbor, to search for a meal.

As I have said, I had seen this young man first staring at me from the corner of his eye several weeks ago in the Frick Collection on East 70th Street not far from my home. It is a favorite haunt of mine. Henry Clay Frick had been a ruthless industrialist, a cut-throat financier and, generally speaking, not a very nice man. He had been chairman of Carnegie Steele Company, helped form US Steel, constructed railroads and with my help, survived an assassination attempt on his life in 1892 by a crazy anarchist named... Something, Berkman. His first name escapes me now. But that is a story for another time. Frick was one of the men who helped make me wealthy and for that I am in his debt, but more than that, he was a patron of the arts and his former New York City home, now a library and art museum, is his finest contribution to society by a man who was universally hated by almost everyone, fairly or not.

It was in this treasure of a museum while sitting in the little courtyard listening to the bubbling of the fountain, surrounded by Turners and Gainsboroughs, Renaissance bronzes and Limoges, that I first caught sight of this young man as he studied me. I was wearing a broad-brimmed felt hat and overcoat, gloves still covered my hands, and I did not think I looked so out of place on this brisk October late afternoon, except maybe that my dress would be more appropriate for a man who looked many years older than one who appeared to be in his early twenties. Yet the mortal stared, and stared and...stared!

It was annoying and finally I said, There simply have to be more fascinating subjects in this wonderful place than me, for someone to be so fixated on, without taking my gaze from the fountain spilling water from its crown of acanthus leaves into its double basin below. I have never liked people staring at me, even when I am well fed and my former humanity becomes somewhat more apparent. But when I rely totally on makeup and contact lenses, my smoke and mirrors as it were, I am quite self-conscious. I thought perhaps it was the volume of clothes that caught his attention. I always overdress when I go out before sundown to protect my skin. Always in Armani or Abboud, silks and linens under a camel hair overcoat and cashmere gloves.

I am sorry. I had thought I was being discreet, it's just that… he stumbled for words and I knew he meant no offense. I've never seen anyone like you, and I mean that in a complimentary way. There was a long pause and then he blurted out, You are beautiful. He turned and walked through the colonnade of double Corinthian columns and disappeared into a gallery. Oh geez, I thought to myself, how can I let this one get away? His scent intrigued me. Sandalwood and curry. My nostrils flared and followed his scent as he walked into the central gallery and stood facing an oversized Turner depicting a battle at sea.

I was beside him in an instant and because I moved so fast, to his eyes I simply appeared out of thin air. He stumbled back a step, and my hand was on his forearm, steadying him before he could blink. How did you do that? he asked and he tried to remove his arm from my grip, but I held fast. Do what? I said and was instantly on his opposite side holding his other arm. Now I sensed something just shy of fear. He looked around the gallery, it was close to 6:00 PM, closing time. The room we stood in was empty except for an elderly man and a younger woman, perhaps his daughter or nurse, sitting on a bench, their backs to us studying a 17th-century tapestry. I suddenly had the impression the old man was listening to us, or trying to… no matter. Turning back to my new friend I thought to myself, ‘Don't play with your food,’ but then I felt...something, close to compassion and I put it from my head. How did you...? he repeated, and I saw the fine little dark hairs on the back of his neck rise, as though static electricity passed through his body. Magic I said and was gone in an instant. He let out an involuntary shout, turning round and round looking for me. The old man turned to look behind himself, to see what had happened. Seeming annoyed, he quickly put his pointer finger vertically to his lips indicating for the boy to be quiet, and he turned back to the tapestry he and the woman had been looking at, shaking his head.

I saw the young man again, or should I say, I eventually let him see me again in the same place. The Frick. He had returned every day since our first meeting and he wandered the rooms and galleries, not taking in the art, but looking at the people, studying the faces. He was looking for me. He didn't realize how often I had stood at his side or passed inches in front of him unseen. Once I almost allowed myself the pleasure of taking his neck, I was so close and his pulse so loud in my ears, but I fought the urge. After more than a week of him not finding me, his visits became less frequent. It was on the thirteenth day from when he had first met me that I decided to talk with him again. He had walked through each room, briefly searching for me, and then with yet another day of no success, began heading towards the lobby entrance planning to leave, ready to give up the idea of ever seeing me again. Near the front doors, as he passed the grand staircase, where a beautiful Aeolian-Skinner pipe organ, with its main console tucked in an arched niche, and gold colored pipes were displayed on the first landing, I spoke to him from the top of the stairs. You are very persistent, I will give you that. Both he and the security person who guarded the entry turned and looked up towards where my voice came from. The staircase was off limits to museum visitors and the guard was beginning to rise from where he was siting, ready to see who had slipped past him. But before he had time to fully stand, I was at my inquisitive friend’s side once more, steering him back into the courtyard with its double Corinthian columns and soothing fountain beneath a glass ceiling where I put his back to a wall. My face was not even an inch from his. I could smell his cologne, it was from Brooks Brothers. He pressed his body to the cool wall, but this time there was no fear.

We stood like that for almost a minute. Me breathing him in and he, staring at me boldly, looking fearlessly into my face. I knew at this close range he could see my skin smeared with makeup, the eyebrows just a little too defined to be natural the mascaraed eyelashes too thick for a man. He studied me, and just as I was about to release him, he said a curious thing. You're a vampire. It wasn't a question but a statement. It took me aback really. In all my three hundred and twenty years, no mortal had ever said those words to my face. Of course those that might have guessed it, were already in my arms being drained, and generally even then, the same fear that makes the heart pound and gush, drives any such seemingly irrational thoughts from one’s head, even as the deed is being done. There just had to be another explanation they often thought. Silly humans.

I let him go, and he sagged just a little, then stood his ground and repeated himself. You are a vampire! Well what can one say at a moment like this. He stated what should have been obvious to countless thousands of people I pass each day, but reason and rationality make excuses for these thoughts and push the obvious in other directions. And you’re a very foolish man to have been hunting me these past few days; what did you think would happen when you found me? He thought a minute and said, That I'd learn from you. That you’d take me in. I walked from the shadow of the columns we stood behind and sat on what I always thought of as my bench. A moment later he was sitting beside me, his course dark hair framing a handsome square face. He was close to six feet tall and I guessed weighed about one hundred and eighty-five pounds. He was well dressed - a button-down white shirt, khaki pants, well-made leather loafers and a dark sports jacket with a bold saffron-colored scarf tied around his throat.

What could I possibly teach you, Mr... I paused, hoping he would give me his name, which he quickly did, not missing a beat. It's Ajit, Ajit Chatterjee, he offered. It was an eastern Indian name, Bengali most likely. India is a good country in which to be a vampire. In remote