“So this is what an empty nest feels like,” she thought.
Sam stared at her daughter’s room – it had never been so tidy.
Years of threats, pleas, and bribes hadn’t worked. But now, looking at the neatly
made bed, she thought she had never felt so devastated.
“I knew it was coming, but expectations and experiences are
two entirely different things, aren’t they?”
She had done what had she needed to. Jack was in Seattle, and doing quite well for himself, though God only knew what he did. He had pitched in for Mary’s fees at university.
She had raised good kids.
John and Mary. How much Mike had hated those names. He
wanted to name their eldest Ethan. “He’s going to get mocked for the rest of
his life. A bathroom? A hooker’s client? Think of what you’re doing, Sam!” he’d
said.
“My dude, our name is Cox. If he gets shit for anything, it
will be because of that, won't it, Mike Cox?”
That had shut him up.
Still, she had considered the name Frederick. Fred was a
good name, she thought. Fred Rogers. Fred Astaire. Right Said Fred? Umm. No.
There were good Freds and bad Freds. Good-Fred-Bad-Fred. She wondered if it was
a tongue twister, like Good-Blood-Bad-Blood.
It had been the same with Mary. Mike had wanted to call her
Abigail. She had exploded. “Do you want to call her a lady’s maid? Look it up.
That’s what it means.”
She wondered if the battle over baby names had contributed
to the divorce. Mary was five, Jack was ten. It was the day after Jack's
birthday that Mike told her that he was leaving.
They had been married for eleven years.
She sighed. It had been a hard time, but it had been worth
it. Mike had been generous with the child support, though neither of her kids
were close to him, they still talked.
As she made to leave Mary’s room, she glanced in the mirror.
She stopped, shocked.
The woman looking back at her was old. Tired. “Saggy and
shapeless. Anonymous”, she sighed. “Is this what I’ve become?”
Outside, the sun was setting, and clouds were gathering. The
house was oppressive in its emptiness.
“I can’t stay in here. I need to clear my head,” she
thought.
There was a cool
breeze, and that smell of impending rain.
She walked swiftly. The streets were deserted and she was in
Walsh Park when the rain started.
“Yep. That’s all I need,” she said, as she hurried to shelter
in a small summer house.
She stood there shivering as the rain poured down.
“You…are a lucky woman.”
The voice was deep and rich, the auditory equivalent of hot
chocolate during a snowstorm. It had a slight English accent.
She turned, startled, and a little scared.
There was a man in the summerhouse as well. He was tall,
slightly pale and very good looking. His black hair was combed neatly
back, with a streak of grey at each temple. He had a neatly trimmed moustache
and a goatee – something she normally abhorred, but it made him look distinguished. Even in the half light, she could see that he
was expensively and formally, dressed – his clothing wouldn’t have looked out
of place a hundred years ago – that overcoat – greatcoat, really, looked
expensive but well worn.
He didn’t look like a serial killer, but then who could
tell.
Still, she couldn’t resist a snort.
“Hah. And why is that, may I ask?”
He smiled. “Well, you are here alone with a vampire, a sated
and contented one, but a vampire nevertheless”.
She couldn’t help it. She threw her head back and laughed.
“My dude! Is there a cosplay convention going on?”
He seemed puzzled, then his face cleared. “Ah, costume play.
No, I just like to dress appropriately,” he said.
“So there’s no danger of you putting the bite one me?
Leaving me drained of all my blood?”
He seemed a little irritated.
“Don’t people learn basic physiology these days? The human
body contains five litres of blood. Do you know what would happen to you if you
drank five litres of water in one sitting? You would die. It’s the same for us.
A good drink would probably be half a litre – what you could safely donate to a
blood bank. If I wanted to kill someone, I would just rip their throats out.”
He paused and smiled again. This time she noticed his teeth
where white and very sharp.
“And no, you’re in no danger. I’ve just fed, and I think I’ve
fed off someone who was extremely…lapidated? So at the moment, I’m feeling unexpectedly
serene.”
“Lapidated?”
He paused, looking puzzled.
“Is that not the right word? I was under the impression it
was a slang word for cannabis intoxication”
“Wait, you’re telling me you fed off a stoner and now you’re
stoned?” she laughed.
He threw his head back and laughed as well.
“It’s really hard to keep up with slang, you know. And I was
taught to avoid it when I was a child, and old habits die hard.”
“And is all that stuff true? Holy water and crosses? Wooden
stakes and beheading? Garlic and silver?”
He laughed again.
“Tell me, how many creatures you know would survive a
beheading? Or a stake through the heart, wooden or otherwise? As for the crucifixes
and holy water? That’s all Stoker’s guilt. He loved Irving, and was ashamed of
it, and so he threw in the stuff about crucifixes and holy water.”
He went on.
“It’s all nonsense you know. A devout child of Israel can flash
his Star of David for all he’s worth. Won’t affect me in the least. Though one
of them drew blood with a menorah, once. Or imagine one of your – what are they
called these days? Hedge fund managers? waving his portfolio at me. Irritating,
but utterly harmless. And I must say I don’t particularly like the taste of them.”
“And as for the garlic,” he looked at her with an impish
grin that changed the character of his face, “That was my idea, I’m afraid. I
was having dinner with Stoker and Irving, and we had just finished a very fine
baked haddock with garlic and herbs, and Stoker was going on about vampire
folklore, so I made up that bit about vulnerability to garlic. Never thought
the man would actually put it into his book – or that the book would sell so
well. Still, it makes me chuckle.”
"So Stoker, I assume, is Bram Stoker? Who's Irving?"
"Was. Sir Henry Irving. Theatre impresario, Actor. Producer. A man of many talents, and Stoker's employer - and the love of his life."
Despite its weirdness, Sam found herself enjoying the
conversation.
“So, who did you drink from? Some young thing
at the Sapphire Lounge?”
“Is that the name of the local night club? No, it was just a
man I came across in this park earlier. He was dozing on the park bench and I
was thirsty. Though I realize that dozing may not have been the appropriate
verb now”
He smiled. He smiled a lot, Sam thought, and it didn’t look
fake ... or predatory. She found herself smiling too.
“But, its like solid food. Sometimes you want steak and
potatoes, sometimes you want to send out for Chinese. Sometimes you crave a
good penne primavera, with lots of Parmesan. People are like that.
Sometimes you want something young, tender. Sometimes you want something
seasoned, mature. Good blood and Bad blood doesn't depend on age.”
He looked at her, appraisingly.
Sam felt a shiver. She wasn’t sure if it was fear.
“Oh, don’t worry. I’m quite enjoying our conversation,
especially since its so one-sided. And I’m so full that you aren’t in any
danger even if you wanted to be.”
“You know, I’m not sure if I should feel relieved or
insulted by that!” she said. “Unfortunately, I’m not surprised.”
He looked at her strangely. “Humans are strange. They’re
both clay and the potter, the stone and the sculptor. And shaping yourself
makes your blood richer, you know, instead of letting it get shaped. The end
result is always better when you are the one doing the shaping.”
“Wait, are you giving me a motivational speech?”
He smiled. “I am, still, very … stoned?”
The rain had stopped.
“And this is where we must part. It was a pleasure meeting
you …”
“Sam. Samantha Cox,” she said.
“Alexander Trevelyan. As I said, a pleasure. And now I need
to find my coffin”
“Wait seriously, a coffin?”
“We are, after all, creatures of habit,” he said.
And then he was gone.
On her way back, Sam saw that the lights of the gym were on.
“Clay, eh?”
She went inside.
It had been such a long time. She had worked out until every
part of her body was sore. She was so tired that she almost fell asleep in the
shower.
When she woke up, the morning light was streaming through
the open window. She still ached all over, but she also felt curiously...content. There was a slight tingling in her neck. She felt two small
punctures near her throat.
Sam sat up bolt upright. A small ivory card fell on the
sheets.
On it, in neat copperplate writing were the words “Good
blood!”.
