The Vampire's Angel

by

Damian Serbu

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher. Parts of this work are fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, or events is entirely coincidental.

ISBN 978-1-935053-93-4 (eBook)

eBook Conversion July 2011

Cover design by Donna Pawlowski

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Paris, France 19 April 1805

My dearest Xavier,

I already miss you, though you scarcely left a few days ago. Please know that I love you as much as I ever did, that you mean more to me than anything on this earth. I know that you want me to restrain my doting, but that will never end! An elder sister has eternal obligations to her youngest brother.

I write to thank you for reviewing everything with me once again. I realize that you and I return to the memories of the last few years too often, but in some strange way it helps soothe my heart to speak of it. Time has deadened the wounds and dulled some of the excitement, but the pain will never pass entirely. Nor can I ever forget the mortality—and immortality—which confronted us. I especially appreciate that you told me the complete story this time. Your perspective answered so many mysteries for me!

I have never felt better in my life or been so excited. I really did put our past to rest when you left. I think that I came to terms with it. I do not mean to make my situation sound remarkable, because this is probably the path that so many of us followed after the Revolution. It took time and Napoleon’s firm control to wash away the chaos and bring peace.

I hesitate to mention this, but I think that I will enclose the whole thing for your viewing, so you cannot hide! After you left, I wrote down the entire saga, everything that I could remember, from my perspective and yours. I suppose that this allowed me to accept it. I tried to see it from afar, as if I had not participated in the drama. Reading it with this detachment makes the unexplained and often unbelievable forces that came into our lives all the more remarkable.

Which leads to my next point. Now that I have finished this beast of a manuscript, I have no idea what to do with it. I certainly can’t publish it because of the embarrassingly personal content. I decided, therefore, to send it to you. I wonder if it will help you to read it? Do you want to add to it? It can become our private family diary.

I know it sounds strange, but I wrote in third person. I can see you smirking already, analyzing me in a thousand ways and mocking me as well. I sought detachment, some objective view of each episode. If you contribute to this, will you please follow this format? (Yes, I still like to control what you do.)

One last thing: I found it surprising when I finished that so much focused on you, that the story revolved around you. It concerned me at first, but it did make sense. From the day you were born, Xavier, you were the heart of the Saint-Laurents. We all loved you dearly and worked first and foremost to protect you. In the end, what other perspective could serve the purpose of seeing all of this? So I hope you do not mind being my main character.

Let me know your thoughts when you have finished, and don’t forget to visit your aging sister frequently as you sail around the globe. With all of my love and affection, Catherine

New Orleans, Louisiana 29 May 1805

Darling Catherine,

You absolutely astound me! Only you would commit all of this to paper, but I must admit that I enjoyed reading it. I found it exhilaratingly and excruciatingly accurate as I relived the passion of every moment. I wept again, and I laughed with joy. I started anew each time those events otherwise relegated to folklore burst into our lives. As you stated, time did deaden the pain but I think a morsel will always remain with me.

I see no need to thank me incessantly for visiting because I cherish our time together as much as you. And, like you, this last time meant more than usual. I am more at peace with the past than ever before.

As you requested, I added to the manuscript where my experiences and memory filled in portions unknown or forgotten by you. I hope that this helps, and of course I obeyed and wrote in third person as if I had nothing to do with the whole affair. I enlisted Thomas’s aid as well, though it was difficult to keep him inside and focused on writing. He of course knew much more about immortality than either of us.

I will come for another dose of doting before you know it. With the greatest of devotion, I remain your ever loving brother, Xavier

15 May 1789 Early evening

THE NIGHT AT last darkened as Thomas wandered the streets. The city fascinated him, and he felt unrest as he watched and listened to the people he passed. Though many Parisians shunned the wealthy, Thomas came in and out of any crowd that he chose with little resistance, commanding people with his presence. And, when his personality failed to assuage someone, his American citizenship placated them. They wanted democracy, so they revered him for coming from a land that had already tossed out a king. Then, too, he could walk among the wealthy and powerful because he had all the money he needed.

This evening was calm, with no one shouting or rioting. Thomas would venture to the saloons a little later to find some companionship, but for now he watched the common people. Searching for the right person for tonight’s entertainment, he headed from his flat along the Seine toward the Bastille. He sought the poor this evening, not the stuffy rich who bored him even in their nastiness. The Parisian destitute, on the edge of starvation, offered new excitement. As he sauntered along, avoiding the puddles and dirt, he noticed that people he passed stared at him and he smiled, because he knew that he cut a dashing figure. Tonight he wore his favorite color, all black, which one person recently told him attracted people because it shunned contemporary fashion, which encouraged bright tones on men. And he knew that his chiseled body also brought the glances. Many a woman and man had commented on his physique and complexion, which sported a constant tan. His long, black hair gave him, in the words of his dearest friend Anthony, a hair presence.

He turned onto Rue St. Louis and headed north. The houses here were dingier, the streets narrower, and the people dirtier. He traveled well into a residential area and found a secluded corner, the perfect place to watch for tonight’s prey.

A few workers stumbled by, already drunk and searching for their homes. Then some children frolicked by with a group of women. Still nothing tempted him. Then a soldier sauntered through the streets and stared at him, a dark figure in a corner. This was more to Thomas’s liking, but he saw goodness in the soldier’s face. He would not tempt fate with this one. The young man brushed a lock of blond hair out of his eye and passed slowly. Thomas watched and marveled at his beautiful backside as he faded into the night.

And then Thomas nearly lost his breath when he turned and looked the other way.

Had God sent an angel?

This man had short brown hair, piercing hazel eyes, and soft skin. He had defined musculature—but not too defined, just slightly toned— that Thomas loved.

The gentleman passed and Thomas fell in behind, studying him further. The stranger remained oblivious to his follower.

A priest. Thomas shook his head. How on earth did this godlike creature end up serving that vile Catholic Church? He disdained Christianity and all of its judgments, particularly despising missionaries, whom he had encountered all too often in America.

Yet he followed anyway, hiding among the buildings and trailing so quietly that the curé never suspected that a man behind him was studying the angles of his body beneath the black robe.

As they passed a narrow street, the priest suddenly turned and peered toward the cramped passage, then dashed down it.

Thomas rushed to the corner and stuck his head around. He was close enough to hear the abbé’s divine voice.

“Can I help you?” the priest asked. “What is it?” He knelt before a young girl, perhaps no more than four, and placed his hand on her shoulder. She sobbed and slumped against the priest, who wrapped his arms around her. “Talk to me. You’re safe. What can I do?”

Her breathing finally slowed. “I’m lost.”

“What’s your name, dear?”

“Delphine,” she whispered.

“Well, Delphine, we’ll find your home. Can you provide a few clues?”

Thomas listened as the priest softly quizzed her. She relaxed as the conversation continued and giggled as the curé joked with her, moving down the long alley with her, talking to her the entire way, until he stooped and picked her up as they continued chatting.

“Do you think we’re close?” he asked.

“I think so.” She looked around, clinging to him.

“Ah! Delphine!” A woman ran toward them and the priest put the girl on the ground, who ran and collapsed into the woman’s arms. “Mama,” she said. “I’ve looked everywhere for you,” her mother replied. “What did I tell you about wandering away? We have just moved, after all. You’ll get lost in this big city.” Then she crossed herself. “Abbé, God intervened yet again to save my daughter.”

“Merely one of his servants, Madame.” The sound of his resonant voice sent waves of passion through Thomas.

“How can I repay you?” she asked.

“You don’t owe anyone anything,” the priest said as he turned to Delphine. “And you, little one, you must be careful in Paris. You can get lost easily, so stay close to your mother.”

She giggled as he tickled her stomach. “I will, abbé.”

Then they left and, abruptly, the priest turned and his eyes widened when he saw Thomas. He paused.

“Monsieur, pardon me, I didn’t see you.”

“And I didn’t mean to startle you, Father. Good evening.” They gazed at each other for more than a moment.

“No harm. Good evening, sir.” The priest nodded politely and walked away.

Too good to be true. Thomas stalked the priest as he turned the corner and entered the gate of a small church. There Thomas leaned against a building, breathing heavily. This entire episode aroused a passion in him that he had to satisfy. He wanted to stand outside the church and wait for the priest, or even knock on the door and talk to him again, but he was too unsettled. He remembered an establishment nearby that would serve this purpose well. He raced to it, slammed through the doors, and sat down before he fell, where instantly a young man of about eighteen years approached him.

“Monsieur, you look unwell. Can I assist you?”

This one wasted little time. And though he desperately needed a bath, he was otherwise attractive enough.

“What are you offering?” Thomas asked with a slight smirk.