Consultation with a Vampire - 01 (6 page)

“I’m not sure I can do anything about that.”

“The cameras. Can you help us with the cameras? We can no longer feed freely, as lords of the night should.”

“You need blood?”

“Yes, we need blood. But even more, we need the thrill of the chase. We need the sweet fear of the weak. We need the Night in all its glories.”

“So, blood then. I am correct in my understanding that you survive on blood?” It pained Edwin to give voice to such lunacy. While he was certain that DeChevue believed he was a vampire, he had far too much experience with men who overestimated their capabilities to take him too seriously.
 

“Well, yes,” DeChevue said. “If you want to be crude about it.”

“I want to be precise about it. You are the one with an unimaginative cuisine.”

DeChevue jerked upright in his seat and, for the first time in the discussion, looked directly into Edwin’s eyes. “Did you suggest?”

Edwin finished the question for DeChevue, “That a man who dines on only one food for his entire life might suffer from a lack of culinary imagination? Yes, I did. Come now, you must have thought of this. Monsieur, are you not French?” Edwin could see from the look on DeChevue’s face that he hadn’t given the matter any thought, and, even afloat in the sea of his crushed velvet attire, he was embarrassed by this.
 

Edwin pressed DeChevue. “The way I see it, your problem is that the rest of the world has evolved, but you have remained the same.”

“How dare you speak to me in such a way!”

“Please, I do not mean to insult you. I merely state a fact. An important and germane fact.”

“You dare! You, you, you,” he sputtered, hair flailing about, “are as beneath me as the plankton is beneath the eagle. We clearly are the superior species.”

“You hunt and catch your own food. Am I correct?”

“We are fierce predators of the night,” DeChevue said proudly.
 

Edwin tried again, “You hunt and gather your own food?”

DeChevue still didn’t get it. “Yes, M’sieur. We hunt, proudly.”

“You know, there is a special name for people who have to catch and kill everything they eat.”

“And that name has been the terror of the night from the dawn of man. Which name would you like? I can supply many. Nosferatu? Das Vampire?”

“Peasant,” Edwin said. “A person who has to provide all his own food is a peasant. How is it that you have lived all this time and are still ignorant of the division of labor?”

DeChevue's mouth opened and closed several times. Each time he seemed on the verge of saying something, yet each time words failed him.
 

In the underground lobby, things were going no better. As a general rule, Agnes tried to avoid making conversations with dead things and crazy people. Logically, Madeleine had to fall into one category or the other. So, Agnes turned her attention to an ancient book titled “Whist: American Leads and Their History.” She quickly fell into the analysis of the cutting edge of 1895 whist strategy, the Three-Trump echo. Ridiculous, Agnes thought. No finesse, no respect for tradition. Her general distaste for America was not being improved by an introduction to its thinking on whist.
 

Madeleine, on the other hand, chewed gum. She smacked noisily, forming small bubbles inside her mouth and then crunching them with her molars. It generated an impressive racket.
 

Agnes worked hard to ignore this behavior. But the clenching of her jaw and the stiffening of her neck gave all her feelings away. Madeleine knew she was getting to her. With the mouth goo properly warmed up, she blew a bubble. Then she blew it bigger. Then a little bigger. The spectacle of a bright pink balloon larger than her head was cartoon-like in its absurdity. After all, Madeleine was dressed as some kind of bizarre cross between a Gothic princess and a French prostitute. In the wild, such a creature would have no truck with chewing gum. There should have been no way Agnes could tear her eyes away from such a spectacle.
 

But Agnes had great experience in dealing with absurdity. Why, just the other week, a pleasant-enough-looking young man had come to see Edwin for his help with transplanting his brain into a metal body of his own construction. A gum-chewing vampire? In the bizarre card game that was Edwin Windsor’s business life, that simply wasn’t strong enough to qualify as an opening bid.
 

Madeleine flicked her tongue out and poked holes in a bubble. As it slowly deflated, she chewed it up into her mouth. Then she spit it out on the floor grating.
 

Without looking up, Agnes said, “In my day, we had a word for young people like you. Impudent.”

“My dear, sweet woman,” Madeleine said in a way that negated the entire tradition of sweetness in the Western world, “I am over 150 years old.”

“Really? I would have thought you might have attained some manner of grace and wisdom by now."

“You are right,” Madeleine sighed. "I should have. But you see, the modern world, it drives me mad. I remember when things were slower, simpler.”

“A time when people knew their place,” Agnes said.

“Oh, yes. When the living knew that they should be prey,” Madeleine replied, baring her fangs once again. This gesture was robbed of some of its terror by a piece of chewing gum that clung to one of her incisors.
 

“That’s hardly what I mean,” Agnes said with a sigh of disappointment. There were so few people who were familiar with the things that made life worth living. Agnes had hoped, but — ah — what use was hope at this late hour on the sinking ship of culture? Most people went for the lifeboats, but the only sensible thing to do was to rush to the stringed instruments. The body, Agnes thought; why save the body? It was the spirit that was the important thing.
 

Disconcerted by Agnes’s obvious lack of terror, Madeleine asked, “Are you not afraid of me?”

“Me? I, oh heavens. Where are my manners? Yes, I am, of course, terrified by your ominous and sinister presence,” Agnes said, not quite pulling it off.

“You are not. You don't fear death,” Madeleine said with some surprise.
 

“My dear, at my age, one sees death as something more like an old whist partner, or a valet of a sort. He has ushered so many of my friends into his dark carriage that by now I rather look forward to seeing him. Like the mailman, really. And when he comes for me, I will ply him for tales of my departed friends and family. See how they acquitted themselves on the crossing.”

“This is quite curious to me,” Madeleine said, her practiced contempt slipping a little bit.

“Oh, dearie. Don’t feel bad about it. I am, after all, frightfully old. Withered, really, nigh on shriveled. You simply wouldn’t want to suck my blood. There's not enough of it to be worth your trouble. Why, on my last vacation to the tropics, I even overheard a mosquito telling his associates, ‘Don’t bother with her, lads; she's all bones and gristle and sawdust.’” Agnes’s refined accent changed at the end to create a decidedly Cockney mosquito.

“You are mocking me. Me! How dare you!” Madeleine exclaimed as she rose to her feet.

“Not at all. I am mocking myself. I have too much pity to mock you.”

"Pity? You pity me?” Madeleine asked, truly shocked. “But you are the weaker creature.”

“And what of it?” Agnes countered. “Are we locked in a deadly contest of weightlifting?” She punctuated her question with a raised eyebrow that did not invite a response. “We are all weak and imperfect creatures. But you are the most imperfect of all. Your life means nothing.”

“I have transcended the limits of your petty mortality," Madeleine said haughtily with a toss of her hair.
 

"You have exchanged quantity for quality, my bloodless friend, and you have been shortchanged in the bargain. There is no opportunity for you to choose between the lifeboats or the instruments, and so you are dissipated. You have spent your life chasing fleeting pleasures, sentiment, and sensation. They bring no satisfaction, and you find yourself incapable of resolution."

Madeleine thought about killing the old woman. Of flensing the rose-water-scented, parchment-like skin from her bones. Of ripping her head off and laughing as her blood sprayed around the room. But she knew it wouldn't help. It wouldn't erase what Agnes had said from Madeleine's mind. And worst of all, it wouldn't stop Agnes from being right.
 

Madeleine hoped being staked through the heart didn't hurt as much as this. She didn't see how it could possibly hurt more. For the first time since she had become a vampire, she felt not the fear of death but something far, far worse: the fear of eternity.
 

An endless procession of hollow exchanges in empty rooms. All the melodramatic, candle-lit yesterdays lighting the way to meaningless tomorrow. The ennui of it all threatened to crush her to the floor.
 

There was a pounding on the outer door. Agnes said, “Oh my heavens. Don’t tell me there are more of you!”

Madeleine shrugged.
 

The pounding came again, this time more insistent. “C’mon, it’s me! Open up already.” Topper’s voice travelled remarkably well through the carbon-fiber doorway.

“Ah,” Agnes said. “Something worse than a vampire, an attorney.”

Edwin felt utterly drained. It was as if this consultation had been a ship caught in a typhoon and he, the captain, had lashed himself to the wheel in a heroic attempt to keep it from foundering.
 

So far, he had weathered the rocks of fashion:

“We are feared, hated because we are stronger, more elegant, more stylish...” DeChevue said.

“People hate you for your clothes?” Edwin said, considering the garish combination of lace, leather, and velvet in DeChevue’s ensemble.
 

“Yes, for our panache, of course.”

He had navigated the whirlpool of philosophy:

“All creatures feed upon other creatures; it is natural,” DeChevue said with a wave of his hand. “Does the depth of my time-worn philosophy cause you unease?”

“Yes,” Edwin said, because it was both true and ironic.

And he had trimmed his sails in response to the rising winds of absurdity:
 

“They have sent me as an emissary because, among my kind, I am considered one of the most diplomatic.”

“Kidnapping is seldom observed in diplomatic protocols.”
 

“Come now, Mr. Windsor. Even with your limited knowledge and frame of reference, you must recognize that diplomacy is merely a cover for the most savage acts of mankind.”

Edwin had valiantly tacked back and forth against the typhoon of nonsense that had issued forth from DeChevue’s mouth. At long last, Edwin had sighted land and with it the promise of safe harbor. “If I understand, you have come here for help with integration into the modern world, which is first and foremost a question of food supply.”

“You cannot reduce eternity to questions of intake and secretion. There is the passion, the thrill of the chase, the magic of the night.”

“Yes, of course,” Edwin said, having no idea what DeChevue could mean by this. “But you have a procurement problem.”

“Yesssss,” DeChevue admitted grudgingly.

“You have something you need, and it must be acquired.”
 

“A vampire takes what he wants from the weaker and warmer kind.”

“There are many, many ways to take.”

For the first time in the conversation, DeChevue paused and thought. He said, “Oh, oh, oh, oh. This is very good. Yes, this is why I have come to you.”
 

Drop anchor and get off this boat as quickly as possible, Edwin thought. “Now, the only question is: What you are going to pay me for my services?”

“Oh, ho, ho, ho, ho, ho,” DeChevue said with great relish. “I offer you the greatest payment of all: Life Eternal.”

Edwin’s expression did not change in the slightest. It was a hard-earned skill that he had worked at for many years. Beneath this mask he thought, Life Interminable? In the company of such creatures, that’s certainly what it would be. Fallacies and petty vanities multiplied a thousand-fold by the extension of time. The more time you gave a man with a disorganized mind to think, the greater would be his error.
 

Edwin decided to meet absurdity with absurdity. “I am not interested.”

“What? You cannot mean it.”

“No, thank you.”
 

“Do you know what a gift it is that I offer you? To rule the night; indeed, to rule over eternity as a god. To see Death himself as an equal.”

“Death is not my equal,” Edwin said matter of factly.

“You are insane! You are
mortal
, facing pain and disease, knowing that the thread of your life will be cut short after the torments of old age. How can you say – ”

Edwin smiled. “I assure you, Death is not my equal. I have a lower handicap than Death.”

“What? I do not understand.”

“I am a better golfer than the Grim Reaper.”

DeChevue stared at Edwin with his mouth open.

“If I can no longer endure the sunlight, how am I to play golf?”

“You cannot be serious. Are you toying with me?”

“Perhaps, but toying or not,” Edwin said, “this is the moment where it is customary for you to make a counter-offer.”

“Offer something better than eternal life? What could that be?”

“Money. A lot of money.”

“Monsieur, this is a silly negotiation.”

“I could not agree more,” Edwin said, but DeChevue, in love with the sound of his own voice, continued on, oblivious to the taller man’s comments.
 

“For it is but a moment’s effort for me to impose my will upon you.” DeChevue came forward and looked deep into Edwin’s eyes. Edwin found it hard not to blink. He found it even harder not to yawn.
 

“What are you doing?” Edwin asked, sensing that this would be a barren form of amusement.
 

“It is a well-known ability of vampires to impose their wills on weaker minds.”

“Weaker?”