Few people realize that much of what was thought to be vampirism for the last several hundred years was in fact consumption. Oh, you can blame a host of other diseases as well, but consumption fits the classic model best. The initial victim seems to sicken for no reason. One day the person is normal and healthy, the next (we'll say she just to make it interesting shall we?) she is pale and coughs all the time. The victim faints frequently, loses her appetite and grows thin and weak. It can be months, it can be years, with periods of seeming recovery, but then at last she succumbs and dies. Then, often, shortly after she dies, if she has a husband or lover he will begin to grow weak as well. He will tend to bruise easily and there are often bloodstains on his clothing or bed linens from coughing. It fits the classic scenario and I have seen others of my kind who are completely innocent of feeding on the victims executed unjustly for those carried off by disease. I've made it my business to stay well clear of outbreaks of the disease for the obvious reason of self-preservation.
It now appeared that if God did not have a sense of humor, he at least understood irony.
I could not move nor make a sound. The spots on the handkerchief turned black and sucked me down into their darkness. In that place I saw Christian slowly withering away, his boyish face becoming gaunt and ugly. There would be no marriage to a quiet girl who would heal his soul, no more plays to spark the imagination of a jaded audience, and there would be no children to carry on the family name. My sister's ten-times-over grandson would die and I would fail in my greatest task.
And I had made it worse. If I didn't realize that already, Christian promptly pointed it out to me.
"I-I know you had plans for me Uncle, big plans. I had dreams too, but they all died with her. At least now we won't be apart much longer, and I won't have to bring about my own demise for it to happen." At last I was able to lift my eyes from the handkerchief and look him in the eye. He was calm and relaxed, at peace even.
"You are not going to die Christian, not yet, I won't have it. We will take you out of this hole, go somewhere warm and dry and give your lungs a chance to heal, then we will visit a doctor friend of mine-"
"It won't do any good, I'm too far gone to heal." He smiled serenely and I wanted to slap him silly.
"You don't know what you are talking about! There are many medicines we can try and many doctors we can go to, you can't just give up-" I was pacing back and forth, desperately trying not to listen to his labored breathing, or smell the odor that was signaling the angel of death.
"She's been to visit me."
My head whipped around and I stared at him.
He nodded and continued, "She's been waiting for me to finish the story. All that's left now is to publish the thing and my task is done. She'll come for me, just like Aunt Mattie said."
"You don't know what you are talking about lad…just what did Matilda say to you?"
"Surely you know this Uncle? When you are visited by the ghost of your lover for seven nights in a row it means death is coming for you." The only way I could describe the tone of his voice was relieved.
"That's superstitious nonsense! And when has Satine visited you? It must have been a dream."
His calm was undisturbed. "She comes every night and sits watch over me Uncle. I go to sleep and if I awaken in the night, there she is, sitting on the bed or the chair, just watching me."
I didn't doubt it for an instant. In fact I had watched her do it from another building across the street. Still, I was willing to bet most of my considerable fortune that she didn't know the vigil she was keeping was a deathwatch. Her motive was the same as mine – care for Christian until he finished the book. Turning from his face, the face I now saw had grown so like hers near the end, I looked down at the final page of the story. It sat alone in the typewriter and contained only four lines:
Days turned into weeks, weeks turned into months, and then, one not so very special day, I went to my typewriter, I sat down, and I wrote our story - a story about a time, a story about a place, a story about the people, but most of all, a story about love - a love that will live forever.
The End.
He meant of course that because he had written it down the story would live forever. I looked up at him from my place by the desk, and found we were no longer alone. We had left the door to the flat open and I could see out into the hallway from where I stood. Standing framed in the door was Satine. She narrowed her eyes in fury at me and her voice echoed in my mind, irritated with me that I was still with Christian. Her extraordinary beauty was disguised to the average man by men's clothes and a heavy cloak with a deep hood, the shadow of which kept her features hidden. But not to me of course, I could see into that darkness to perceive the anger snapping from her brilliant eyes.
I smiled gently and said aloud, "There's no need for caution anymore my dear; he's seen you many times." She took a step back putting a hand to her chest in alarm, but Christian had seen me stiffen at her appearance and now he sprang up from the bed to confront her.
"Satine…" He whispered, his voice that of a man who has seen his god spring to life before his eyes. They stared at each other for what felt like hours and then he reached out and carefully took her hand. I could see he expected his fingers to pass right through her flesh as though she were made of smoke. When his hand met solid flesh he jerked it back and then grabbed both her hands hard in his. "You…you're alive? How? I-I d-don't understand…" And because I had suddenly become a cosmic joke he turned to me for an explanation.
"Yes Leonard, tell Christian how it is I came to be here." She lifted her chin and raised one of her brows, challenging me to explain to my nephew the unexplainable.
The one piece of advice I remember my father giving me came to mind and I sighed and seated myself in the chair once again. 'When in doubt lad, tell the truth.' It had been good advice then, it was good now, but just springing it on him in one sentence seemed cruel. "Christian, how old am I?" He looked completely confused, but found his voice after a moment of hard thinking.
"I'm not sure what that has to do with Satine, but you must be past forty, you said mother was your niece too, but you don't look it, you barely look older than me." His brow was furrowed in deep confusion and I could see the sweat popping out on his forehead again.
"Sit down lad, this could be a long story."