Los Angeles, California

The Hotel Cortez

2020

Mr. March clumsily exited a swinging wooden door trying to carry three silver platters full of food with him at once. Slowly, he made his way from the kitchen area of his suite to the large table in the dining room area. The Countess sat patiently at one end of the large, long table, and smirked at him as he started to drop some shrimp cocktail onto the floor.

"James, you're ridiculous, why don't you just let that pathetic woman come back?"

"It's a matter of principles!" shouted Mr. March, giving up and throwing everything else he was carrying onto the floor as well. After the clanging and clattering had ended he smoothed his hair back before it could become too mussed and then straightened his dinner jacket and took a deep breath. In an even, smooth voice he continued talking to the Countess, "The woman got me killed," he said, "What kind of good employee does that?"

The countess rolled her eyes and then took a sip from her wine glass. It contained a dark red substance. She grimaced at the taste.

Mr. March made a concerned face and went to his queen.

"What's wrong, my sweet? Don't like the 1945 Mouton Rothschild? I'll admit it is a bit of a recent vintage, but-" he tried to console her.

She slammed her fist on the table to silence him.

"I miss the blood," she said to him in a hurt whisper.

"I know you do," said Mr. March, bending down on one knee next to her chair and taking her gloved hand in his. He kissed it several times. "You will eventually get used to not needing it, I'm sure."

"I don't just miss the blood, though, James," she said, turning to him and looking him right in the eyes, "I miss the killing too, and... the turning. Just the other day I met a young man in the bar. He would have been a perfect new companion."

Mr. March stopped kissing and stood up, looming over The Countess.

"And what did you do with this young man?" he asked.

"I didn't kill him if that's what you're asking," said the countess. She casually reached past her water glass and plucked a cigarette out of a small silver box on the table. She lit it with a gold lighter and took a small drag and looked up at him.

"Good," said Mr. March, looking meaningfully back at her.

"I know your new rule about killing. If you can't do it, then nobody can," said The Countess. Mr. March walked to the other end of the table and sat down across from her.

"I try to lead by example," he said, taking a sip from his own glass of wine. "But you know that's not what I'm referring to," he continued.

"Did I screw him, James, is that what you're asking?" said The Countess.

Mr. March gave her a sideways smile, like a leer.

"Of course I did," said The Countess, exhaling smoke.

"Stay true to form, my dear," said Mr. March in a mocking tone. He didn't lose his temper. "Once an adulteress, always an adulteress."

"We're not married anymore, James," the countess said, defensively.

"We were never technically separated, either," countered Mr. March.

"Till death do us part, remember, dear?" said The Countess.

"Nonsense, death has done just the opposite. It has brought us together again," said Mr. March. "So why must you continue seeking out the company of rent boys?"

The Countess closed her eyes either in thought or in anger. When she opened them again and looked at the man across from her it was with both pain and resentment.

"I was used to being the center of attention. The disco queen," she hissed. "Now because of you, I'm trapped here. There's no passion, no blood. I can't live the life of a shut-in. I'm not you, James," she said.

"Now, now, let's not say things we'll regret," Mr. March said, threateningly.

"My goddamn head is in a glass case behind your armoire!" The Countess screamed, throwing down her cigarette. "If you want me to play your wife for all eternity, you better figure out a way to keep me entertained." She stood up and began to exit the room. All Mr. March could do was watch her go.

"I think you'll find it much more difficult controlling me than the other spirits around here," she said, grabbing a fur wrap off of a coat rack near the front door. "And bring back that frumpy maid, for fuck's sake." She ran her gloved hand along the frame of a mirror near the door. "Your cleaning skills are almost as bad as your cooking."

And with that, she left, leaving Mr. March to ponder.

Good thing she hadn't seen the body of his latest victim, rotting away in the bathroom.