The second victim
They say that after the first kill, you are immunized against guilt; killing, feeding comes easy. That is what H. says. He repeats it so constantly, it is getting boring. By now, I am so used to it, I mean killing. I like it, I like the hunt, the scent, the fear of the prey, and the feeling of hope when it thinks it has outwitted you. No one outwits me; I am like a cat, I like to play with my mouse. More I kill, more I forget. Some drink wine to get drunk, I get drunk on blood; I forget; because when I am sober, I remember and I cannot bear to remember. Because then all becomes so clear, so sharp clear, it takes my breath away; even my special I-do-not-breathe-in-my-sleep breath. It is so intense that my heart who has stopped beating for so many months, years, decades, I have lost count, this ghost of a heart breaks, and I cannot breathe, a terrible hand digs through my chest and crushes it while I pray it kills me too. But then it recedes and I am still alive or dead. Alive with their memories, begging to drink again so I may forget when I do not want to forget. When the thing the most precious I own is my memory, that memory kills me again and again. As of now, I am still a bit drunk, the pain has eased, but the memory I want to keep is not gone, or has returned, I do not know. So I walk again the alley, I know all the details, the cloudy skies, the sounds of those alien voices, the colors, mostly brown, and that one thing in the middle of all that chaos, that thing that changes all for me, forever, I am flying back in time, and the monster hand is starting to crush me.
France May 1917
"No, no way, you cannot station more soldiers in the manor"
The French majordomo has turned purple so angry he is about lodging more Tommies on the estate. The commanding officer with his limited command of French shakes under his nose, the HQ orders. Monsieur le Baron must accept to give food and a roof for the British troops he is leading; Mr. le Baron may not like him, the feeling is mutual. An older frail gentleman appears at the gates, the soldiers are tired, they just want some bread, a bit of "tay" "seelvooplay" and a dry friendly bed, or straw bed, but a bed, not a trenches one. His commanding officer is getting angrier at the minute; the old geezer looks friendly though, even it is obvious he does not understand one word of what the soldier says, the majordomo refuses to budge. H knows that in less than 30 seconds, he is going to hear that dread sentence
"Sergeant, you know their lingo; please translate and I want tea in my room in 10 minutes, plus hot water to wash. And tell them the soldiers can sleep in the barns"
He expects the same routine, the same joke to be played again and again. By now, he is used to play interpreter for his captain. For once, the education given by the Dublin catholic school is proving useful: he can speak French fluently, more fluently than those Frogs can speak English. Slowly, he is getting closer, ready for his part, he knows his cue, he is…
"Hi, Sir, may I help you?"
The door has flung open, letting out the apparition. Even, his officer has stopped arguing; even the two old buffers have stopped counter-arguing.
"Please, do come in, gentlemen: Gaston, you will show those poor soldiers to the barns, have Cook warm up some water, and bring cakes and wine to our friends; I want them to sleep in fresh bed linens, take the linen out of the oak wardrobe, it still smells of lavender, the lavender I collected in Provence 4 years ago"
"Dear Uncle, I know you want to welcome this noble officer in the Grand salon, Marie Louise is getting the Champagne bottle and the glasses ready"
The apparition waves the men to enter the manor, all has been sorted in a few sentences, and she has forgotten no one, no one but him; where is he supposed to go? She turns to him and he knows he will never forget this instant, should he live one hundred years. What is it, but he feels inadequate. Mumbling some nonsense, he feels silly; he knows better that to gap his mouth open, but he feels like it. She…she, she holds his forearm and together they enter the house.
His officer is surprised at the young woman attitude, all his Brutishness is revolted by this Gallic lunacy. Fair enough, the woman is good looking…for a French woman but she lacks sobriety, modesty; thank Heaven, the Baron is in awe of his uniform.
"Sir, my brother is fighting further East, I am quite sure Uncle would be grateful if you could tell us if you have any information how the battles are doing?"
She pours some of that bubbly stuff in a fancy crystal glass, and she brings the glass…to him. While she poured and played hostess like she had done that all her life, he has had time to keep an eye on his surroundings. All is elegant, quiet, sure of itself; If furniture could be self-assured, it would be. It also spells money, a lot of money. As they were getting close to the main house, he has taken notice of 2 cars, French and not cheap, neither cheap is the dress his kind hostess is wearing.
How does one describe a Goddess, a princess? No, an angel, that is, she is an angel and he is dreaming, but he is not. Small wonder his officer is casting dark looks at her. She has cut her hair, short, short enough to show glorious chestnut waves. Her skin is pink, like a rose; my God, he is speaking like a youth. And her eyes, her eyes are periwinkle blue. Her head is…perfect and her lips are made to be kissed. Even better she is tall for a woman, not as tall as him, but pleasantly tall, and he likes it more and more. No better than a stupid youth, if he could, he would smack himself. A for her ankles, she is wearing one of those daring short dresses, showing ankles up to mid calf; driving men insane seem her motto.
Repeat after me: you are an Irish impoverished catholic sergeant who has no job but this soldier position; she is a wealthy French girl. She is way miles out of your league. Show some restraint, remind her not to be so friendly, those Gallic girls, they are not like ours, they are hot and not virtuous. My colleens are good girls and you are a Jeza…
She turns her eyes, those laughing eyes into his and he is lost. She is the most beautiful thing in the world. If she would ask it, he knows he would kill without thinking. His officer finally seems to realize that he has to thank her for such a friendly welcome and tries to speak without his help; as the sun sets over the manor roofs, the light gets subdued and her beauty is even more striking. A bird, an aristocratic bird, a thorough-bred mare, the way she holds her head, all makes her each second more lovable. Even this stupid officer has come to acknowledge it: they are in the presence of a lovely girl. As he notices the smug smile of the English man, he feels a stab of jealousy, the bastard will quickly establish "he" is gentry, and try to win the girl affections.
But too late, for some unknown reasons, Mademoiselle has decided that the officer would sleep in the Emperor room. "Our beloved emperor slept in that bed, what better room can we give you?" The Englishman is so proud to sleep where the Corsican Ogre, Mademoiselle retires."And I will take you to your own room, it is not as historical as your leader, but it is quite nice" She smiles, she positively smiles, a hint of mischief.
"Too bad, our emperor was…a little bit short; I fear your officer feet will be out of the bed soon enough"? She could be planning to murder his Captain; he would let her have her way. The Manor is a rabbit warren, up and down they walk, the silent young sergeant and the laughing girl.
She is 22; she drives, yes, her own car. She was educated in Paris, her British nurse taught her English till she turned 18. After that anniversary, she ran the riot Act to her widowed Uncle, she was to have no more Nurse, at best a paid companion when she was walking in Paris streets or visiting Art galleries, but no more at home. It was bad enough that one day, she would have to marry! Then the war, the war happened, and all she really wanted, the freedom, was hers. "So you see, Uncle calls me shameless , then we laugh, I love so much Uncle, he has been the father and mother I never really had" and he had laughed with her. No soldier, no war, just two young people having fun and playing hide and seek in a fusty old pile. She stopped at a door, opened it and he almost gasped. "It was Papa's before he met Maman"
The room was almost monacal, yet it was friendly, some bookshelves, with well read books, a leather armchair, a large bureau, a large single bed, overlooking a flower garden, peace, quiet. On the wall, a young man pastel was looking at him. The nose must have been her mother and possibly the wavy curls, but the eyes were her father gift, those eyes that saw through you, the very same highbrows and the lips this time stern, trying so much to look forbidding and disastrously smiling. She looked at the portrait with wistful eyes.
"Papa had a miniature made he gave to my mother, later, much later, I copied it and painted this myself, Uncle says he can't bear it, it looks too much like his Brother. Which is why he had it hanged here, he says if there are ghosts, they will not be offended here"
After arranging a candle in his candlestick, making sure he was equipped with matches, she had left, taking all the light of the world with her. He lay on the bed, looking at the ceiling, trying to figure how to fall out of love for what seemed to be hours. A knock on the door had him rushing to open it to her, and to be met by a food tray carried by a disapproving maid. From her, he was told that a formal supper was offered to his Captain, Mademoiselle Julie playing hostess.
How ridiculous it was, everything was. Falling in love at first sight, most likely an unrequited love for a woman just intent to be as nice as can be to her brother fellow war companions, next was that jealousy he felt against the innocent Captain. At least, the Captain knew the rules of her world; he would not be tongue-tied, not stupidly mute, devouring her with his eyes. What next in that madness, the next step he knew to his shame. He knew what happened next, and dreaming, no worse wishing to teach her the tricks of the girls he had met in the soldiers' whorehouses was not right at all. But he loved her and surely to want to make love physically to the woman you really love, was not wrong surely. That was his last conscious memory of the day.
From that day, his Captain had been a pain in the neck. Arthur was doing his best to keep him as far from the officer, but to no avail. Good faithful Arthur, his recently made Corporal had seen the mist rising for his stupid eyes whenever Mademoiselle Name was pronounced. The Captain also had noticed the looks he was giving her whenever he could, and had made it clear. Nothing was acceptable, he was a sergeant; honor to his country had it that he would be honorable and not pursue Mademoiselle with his unneeded assiduities. Too bad, the prick was not allowed to enforce his rule on Julie.
The maddening girl had carried on, unperturbed by her Uncle discreet coughs, the stormy looks of the British Officer and the reluctance of the object of her captivating smiles. Julie had fallen for the Irish man that was it. One can so much deny oneself of the Holy Grail, then one evening after leaving his men enjoying the tea, coffee, chocolates, cookies Cook felt those poor men needed, he met her near his door.
"Bonsoir, Mademoiselle, good night"
"What have I done to deserve your anger?"
"I am not angry… I do not understand, I am thankful for what your uncle…and you are doing for us"
"Why do you try to avoid me?"
"No, not at all, I am simply occupied and…"
She was now close, closer to him, dangerously closer for his well-being, for her well-being. She was now very close, so close he could smell her perfume, honeysuckle with touch of …. He could see her quavering lips now at very close range; this was getting too close, way too close for his sanity, way too…
Their lips just touched each other, at first, barely registering each other texture, strength. Then the pressure increased more and more, and then he was holding her, pressing her against the wall, putting all his strength, all his weight on her, holding her for dear life. Whatever would happen, those lips and their owner were his, forever.
The door opened, he pulled her in, closing it, never stopping holding her, kissing her. Then they both lay on the bed. He wanted more, but she was not ready yet. And he accepted it, they had all the time, that is if he was not killed the next day back to combat; but tonight was theirs and they simply held, cuddled up, kissed and slept together like two children, two innocents facing the Moloch War is. Tonight was theirs.
"What are you doing?"
They blinked in the morning light, the young man and the young woman, their clothes on, wrinkled, but buttoned up enough to reassure any duena.
An iron hand seized her delicate wrist and pulled her away from his arms. She was fighting, game girl as she was. But despite their denial, she was whisked out of his room. A last plea for him to fight for their love and she was gone like she had never existed.
"What were you thinking? Is this the way you thank Monsieur for his kindness toward us?"
"Nothing…nothing happened"
"Thank Heaven; what were you thinking? Do you realize who she is? The girl is an heiress, way above your reach and well above mine. She is the stuff our dukes marry; American millionaires marry if they are lucky. You will never be allowed but to dream of her. Her Uncle told me she is as good as promised to a Swedish royal and you dare bed her!"
"I did not bed her, I, we , we simply lay side by side; I never…"
"Sergeant, you have put our army in disrepute, you have trifled with a lady's affection; your behavior toward her was a shame, an outrage, how dared you?"
"I love her, Sir, I…"
"Stop that nonsense, that madness. You are confusing lust and love; the first petticoat around and you jump on it, I know those girls, they are intent on driving men sexually insane…"
His fist smacked his officer jaw
"How dare YOU? She is virtuous, she is innocent, and… we love each other."
"What next? You intend to marry her, you the poor jobless Dubliner you intend to bring to your hovel one of the richest girls of her country? A girl used to the most delicate refinements, your yearly wages would not pay one pair of her shoes"
"We leave this morning; we take the train and back to combat. Do the honorable thing, forget her, protect her good name, you out of the picture, no one will mention this unpleasant incident".
They left, he tried to keep his head straight, but he looked over each window, each door, hoping to see her. Her car was gone. They left, nothing more to say.
Out of all places he has found love thanks to war and now war far from being cruel was the only friend left he had. He would die, in a blaze of glory. He knew it had been a dream, the dream of a poor boy aspiring to catch an angel, but angels belong to a realm which was closed to him. His Captain would probably write to the old French man that his niece honor had been permanently protected, the young man had been killed courageously fighting, she would be allowed to discreetly grieve and soon enough her aristocratic fiancé would take her far away from this romantic nonsense.
As he walked in the wood that morning, he was begging Death and war united to call him and allow him to forget he had won and lost the biggest prize of all, the soul mate he craved, the woman he loved and would love for ever.
In the mist, he saw some other soldiers, same uniform, OK, but they were doing something odd.
France, July 1917
Now, the deed is done. He is a beast, a killing machine, a well honed killer. A shark, says H. He has fed on his poor unsuspecting friend. Pretending to forget everything, in the madness of the war and the HQ inconsistencies, kill here, kill there, and kill everywhere. Really, his … his kin do kill a lot less than those stupid bemedalled generals. Not only they kill, but they wound, permanently, he knows what damage war can do to a human body. Not pretty. Herrick suggests they leave, Seth is looking at the airplanes like a child; for an Old One, he is like the children when they go to the cinematograph. To leave the front, they need a car, but all the cars are not for them, all for the army, armies and wealthy civilians. No choices but take the train and be at risk of recognition. That is until he remembers her, and her car.
The sweet irony of it. He has become what he is because of her; his smile becomes cruel; why not visit her and remind her of him, a nice gentle night visit, a kiss, in each other arms and then , then what. This time, the man needs are not going to be denied, his special needs in fact, his very special needs.
She walks in the wood, toward the old house, she has picked up some wild flowers, she is as lovely as in his souvenir. She does not know his new friends, his eternal friends are closing on her. She looks at the flowers and he swears her shoulders are shaking. The bouquet falls and she cries, pitiful sobs. He knows she is heartbroken, just as much as he was. Too late, lady, but we still can have fun. A quick sign to the others, they let him have the lead, his first real kill, his first real blood, no poison, no mercy killing; just the daily bread, his second victim. She must have heard him, she lifts her head, and her short bob of chestnut waves glisten under the sun, she sees him and she runs to him; she runs toward him, she speaks an incoherent French, she touches his uniform, his hands, his face and she kisses him. She says she is so happy.
Arm under arm, they walk back to the house.
"They told me you were killed, or that you had deserted; I knew deep inside, you would not be a deserter and I knew you would not die. You cannot die, you cannot. I will not allow it"
"Your officer, he dragged me out of our room, Marie Louise dragged me to Uncle and next thing I knew, I was taken to Paris, in a convent, me! By the time I figured out how to escape, Uncle had come to his senses and brought me back, but you were gone, and no one would tell me where you were, no one…"
She cries, this time heavy child tears, hurt tears. He believes her. Too bad. But that is not a problem. He knows how to solve that problem, in a way no one would have imagined. As a live poor Irish man, he had no chances, as what he is now; she is the one to be lucky that he feels generous with her. They go through the side doors, no one has seen them. She takes him to… his room, no, somewhere else.
"To my own dungeon" They climb a turning staircases and end up at the top of an old tower, it is above the spire of the chapel and the scenery is beautiful, with the sun setting in the horizon. "It was part of the original castle and some 300ys ago when my ancestor renovated it, he kept it, and so it is just above my room". She holds his hand and takes him to her room.
She takes a lot after her father, it is books all over, but it is still a woman room, pink roses, fluffy things, yet the desk and the amount of paperwork on it is impressive. Near the window, an easel shows her latest work, an older woman, rather a woman a bit older than her.
"I am completing Maman; after I finish, they will be hanging together"
"You certainly are gifted"
"I must show you, but it can wait"
She smiles, she holds him and runs into his arms, she is happy, she could not show more trust in him if she could. He let her do, it is nice to feel loved, wanted, needed. He has decided, H. says it is too early to start having disciples. She is no disciple, she is the woman he wants and ever wanted.
They lay in her bed, thankful that she was given such a big bed. Tonight is her night, their night, to be followed by endless nights, immortal nights. She is going to become his and he is going to make sure she becomes his. He likes it; he really likes it, the unsuspecting bride, the beloved bride and the dark groom, the broody groom who is going to claim his blood rights.
A knock on the door.
"I want to be left alone, I have a headache, and I shall see you tomorrow"
The footsteps recede. They are alone in the tower; he is the king of her castle. She is shy as befitting to a blushing affianced wife. He takes the lead, removing every layer of cloth and throws them on the floor; so much for the housemaid tomorrow; they will be gone, happy together for a very long ever after after!
Her skin is soft, he hears her pulse racing, her heart pumping, it is intoxicating; his eyes turn black and he feels something has changed. She looks at him, not understanding, yet unafraid. She does not do afraid. Caressing his cheeks, looking at his obsidian eyes, she asks why, who, so many questions. A geyser of questions, but she remains unruffled, surprised, yes, afraid, no, no way, not her.
He wants her now, more than before. He does not care anymore if she is afraid or not, his fangs are showing, and he holds her wrists, gently stroking her neck. He knows she is not surrendering, her pulse is slowing down, and she looks through him, with those wide blue eyes of hers.
"Tell me the truth, the real truth. I love you, and you can read into my heart. I expect the same of you, you owe me the truth, I am not afraid, I should be but I am not, because I love you"
"You are mine, you were always mine, you were promised to me, and tonight, you'll be mine"
He tries to hold her still, he wants to drink her, make her, take her, blood and sex united. She opens her legs, and at the same time, frees her right hand and in less time to understand, he feels a knife under his ribs.
"I said: who are you? Spare me the Irish soldier stuff, I have read Bram Stocker. Who are you, really? It is not because I love you that you are allowed to lie or be disrespectful: I accept what you…you are, Show me respect tell me the truth."
She really believes what she says; he knows it, calm serene heart, and calm pulse. She really loves him, regardless of what he is, what he has become. Jesus, she loves him and he is going to prove her he loves her too. A knife, a dagger, what does she think? A quick struggle and the dagger is flying across the room. Crucified under his weight, she looks at him, through him, for him. So much for the dagger, so much for your lovely neck, as his fangs caress her.
"Is it…is it important to be… bitten? Drunk at? Ohhh, the thing you do, you know, now?" She is angry, she is very angry, she is adorable.
"It is our first night and you want to get drunk? Please!"
The fangs recede, the eyes remain black, she is not afraid, and he likes to be what he is really, now. The night is theirs, there will be other nights and why not, tomorrow morning, he will make her completely his. Tonight is for romance. He smiles and stops her questions under his lips.
His mornings are never easing, he always wakes up in the midst of a nightmare, he jerks and jumps from the bed; where is she? He is angry, angrier at the minute, only the sight of the dagger on the floor remind him, she might not be tricking him; H. has warned him, humans can betray their lovers, and he feels cheated, as she is not by his side when he opened his eyes. The door to the roof is ajar, she must have been watching the sun dawning. Women and their romantic ideas, he walks the stairs, this morning, she is going to be fully his and this last dawn is hers; he understands and respects her wish. He reaches the roof, pushes the door…
"What are you doing?"
It is a nightmare, he knows what she is doing, she is standing still looking at him, arms apart, like an angel ready to fly over a tower built in the Middle Ages and crash down below, way too below to survive such a fall.
"Come down, I swear, I will not feed, I will not"
She smiles a poor courageous smile.
" I love you too much to lose our souls"
As he jumps trying to grab her arm, her leg, he knows she is falling, too far from his reach. He watches as she falls, in the morning sun, as he looks at her, He swears she is saying something in French like Love is eternal and she crashes, He had heard the sickening sound of broken bones, he sees the blood flowing, he hears the voices: he has his clothes on, if he had not put them on, she would still be alive. He goes down the tower, he runs; he flies from his worst nightmare.
Herrick and Seth are in the garage, the chauffeur is laying on the floor, an empty corpse.
"We were waiting for you. Good to see you listened, in a few months you'll be ready to turn humans, it is too early yet"
He does not hear, he gets into the driver seat and the car engine purrs like a kitten.
They are driving south toward Spain, and then probably South America, he needs to be presented to the Family. The others are out of the car, relaxing in the wine yards of Bordeaux. For him, wine is wine, there is nothing in it, except the alcohol to drink, get drunk and forget. H. knows, feels something has happened. He is acting like the nurse of a seriously wounded man; he protects him from Seth attempts to humor.
Now, he is alone, he walks alone, he pulls a cigarette, and feels something extra in said pocket. An envelope with his name in her writing, inside 2 leafs, the first says
"Because I love you so much, I have to save you from yourself. Do not despair, God cannot separate us"
The second leaf is not written, it is a quick pencil sketch she must have done before he was turned. The young man is smiling to him, he knows the face, and the artist has dedicated the piece "to the man I love"
Bristol 2008
The letter is in the box, it has not been touched since, since a long time. I do not need to open the envelop, I know exactly what it contains, I know the words, I know who is the man, I still can smell some honeysuckle. That is why I feed, to the point I get drunk, to the point my own kin fears me; because I remember and I cannot live with those memories. Yet try to steal these memories and I will kill you. Memories are the only thing which is really mine, one day they will be the death of me; and I will welcome that day with a smile, because finally, she will be mine again forever. Meanwhile that eternal life, that immortality is Hell, forever young, forever dead, forever with nothing but my memory.