If I could breath, I would have choked. There She was- my Mirena. In my mind, I knew it was impossible; and yet, She stood before me. Alive. She stood at a stall in the open market, like any other civilian.
'It cannot be Her,' I thought. 'I watched Her die, in my very own arms. This vision before me is just that, a vision. It cannot be allowed to distort my memory of Her...'
Then, She smiled.
Like the entire world had come crashing down around me, I could not help myself- I stared. The look in her eyes, the way her left eyebrow rose when she grinned, as if she knew something I did not... It was quite nearly identical to my long-dead wife. There was but one way to know for certain.
I approached the stall she was at, pretending to browse the vendor's wares. "What could a beautiful woman like you be doing in a place like this?" I asked. The sort of line Mirena would never have fallen for, but it seemed to be popular in this day and age.
As predicted, I could see the disgust in her eyes, the almost aristocratic sneer on her lips. Her reply came quick and sharp, "And who are you to say where I should be?"
I smiled. Her accent was upper-class New York, but it was tainted by a slight Western drawl. "Apologies, my lady. I had not intended to offend you. Might I ask what book you are reading?" Obviously an attempt to mislead her, to distract her. Perhaps...?
"It is none of your business, but I suppose I shall tell you. It is The Monster, by a Romanian lord named Ingeras," she obliges me. "He lived several centuries ago, yet his works always brings me a sense of familiarity." Here she frowns, as though puzzling some long-forgotten riddle.
I smirked, recognizing the book my son had written. One of several. He painted me the hero, and labeled me a monster. Now, for the final test. I could only hope... no, I could not even do that. To hope is to bring about despair. I had had enough of despair in that first century. That first long, lonely century. I would only try this one last test, as I had tested all the other women who reminded me of Her.
"Would you be so kind as to tell me your name?" I asked disarmingly.
That time, it was her turn to smirk. "My name is Mina; and yours?"
"Vlad," I replied. "Just Vlad."
She payed for her book, and turned to leave. "Well, it was nice to meet you, 'Just Vlad'. Have a nice day." I could only watch as she began to walk away.
"No! Please..." Never had I been reduced to such pleas by a mere woman, save for my wife. My late wife. She turned around, looking at me warily now. "Have you ever heard that death cannot separate us, for one life-"
"is born from the other," she finished, and smiled. "That's my favorite poem. Where'd you find it? I can't even remember where I read it, but I can't seem to get it out of my head."
I closed the distance between us and whispered, "I wrote it."
To say that she had not believed me would be an understatement. She had struck me, using the back of her hand, as if I were some leper that dared look upon her on the street.
"How dare you," she accused. "I know that that poem is at least 500 years old. I did not expect any answer, let alone an untruthful one. Why not just say you don't know? Never mind. Good day to you sir." She stalked off in a huff. I turned and left; I could not afford to stay in any place where I had attracted that much attention.
And I had had such high hopes for her, too.
Alone in my apartment later that evening, I shed my overcoat. Picking the mail up off of the floor, I made my way to the kitchen. I didn't use it for much, except storing blood that I bribed managers at the local blood banks to sell me. I was not as able to hunt as I was in bygone days; people would notice if too many of their fellows went missing. Even criminals had friends, friends who would miss them if they disappeared.
I had no one.
Placing the bills in one stack, I threw out the junk mail. I had also received a letter from a Dr. Harker, who studied Romanian history. I had mailed the good doctor one day, inquiring about some artifacts she had received from what she said was "Castle Dracula". I had wondered at their authenticity, but was interested nonetheless in the artifacts, since I had left much behind when I was chased from my home. My mortal bloodline had died out after Ingeras' great-grandson had set out to seek his fortune, and never returned. For years, I was the only inhabitant of the once thriving Castle Dracula. It saddened me to see the ruins my home had become.
I opened the letter using the letter opener Dr. Harker had sent me, which had turned out to be the dagger my father had given to me when I was but a boy, the very same blade I had given my son after his coronation. After all, a vampire cannot rule a nation.
I smiled in rememberance as I read the letter, but my smile quickly turned sour. Dr. Harker had invited me to a gala in Los Angeles, California, in which she said that she would be showcasing many of the artifacts they had recovered from the abandoned castle. I did not like the thought of my family's secrets being displayed for the world to see. I went to the refridgerator, which is an extremely useful device, and opened up a bag of O negative. Rather hard to get, but it has a peculiar sweetness to it that I find comforting. Obviously, I had to go to the gala. It would be held in the Ritz Carlton in three days time.
I filled a goblet to the brim with the blood. I pondered my quandary as I sipped at my breakfast. Should I go, wait until dark, and retrieve my family's heirlooms? Or shall I stay, and enjoy the relative peace that I had acquired in New York? I had enough wealth to only have to work every century or so. I would make my fortune, spend it over a lifetime, and then make another one. I did not have to steal back these treasures. My honour, however, said otherwise. I drained the last of the blood from my goblet.
I would leave for the City of Angels on the morrow.
