On the Far Side of Darkness (2 page)

Without thought I pull out a pen and small pad I carry. I scribble my phone number on it.

“How can you see that?” Diane asks as I do.

With a little concern I note how dark it is. As a creature of the night I can see quite well in light that would be impossible for a human to see anything in. “I’ve written this number so many times I don’t need to see it.” I turn a little to let the illumination of a nearby street lamp fall on my writing. I pull the pad closer to my face and squint a little as if trying to make out what is on it.

“I’ve got it right,” I tell her, rip off the sheet and hand it to her. “If you wish, we can do this again.”

She doesn’t reply at once, and a tiny shiver of fear wafts through me.

“I’ll think about it,” she replies then.

“Of course.” I take her hand and pull her fingers to my lips to lightly brush a kiss across her knuckles. There’s a moment’s resistance from Diane, but she’s smiling when I lift my gaze back to her face.

“
Bon nuit,
then. I do hope I’ll see you again.”

“Good night.”

I watch until she enters her building and then head down the street. I’ll confess to some anticipation.

She didn’t say, “No.”

* * * *

An hour later I’m on the other side of town, outside the university environs. The houses in this suburban area are small, old and well kept. Most everyone here works at the school in one capacity or another. It’s a good place to hunt now that all the restaurants and bars are closed.

I still have a warm smile on my face. Diane seems to be caught in my thoughts and her presence fills me. For a moment I grow concerned. I shouldn’t care about a human, but I do. I shrug it off. I’ve had human friends on occasion and when it was time to leave, I left and didn’t look back.

I make a quick scan of my surroundings. There is no one to observe me. I make doubly sure I can’t be seen by drawing the night in around me. A cloak of shadows surrounds me and to an outside observer I’m no more than a mist barely distinguishable from the darkness.

When I’ve finished hiding myself I drift down a driveway, making no sound as I go. My steps take me along the backs of the houses and I check each room for potential prey. My focus is sharp, all my senses tuned. I’m on the hunt and I will feed tonight.

There’s no need to worry about any watchdogs alerting the inhabitants. Any animal save a human can sense something like me and they run or cower. They know a monster is nearby, a monster they can’t stand against.

For several houses I find nothing save children. I don’t even consider those. A child will grow into adulthood soon enough and lose their innocence. I won’t be the one to expose them to the horrors of the world.

Finally I find a woman, somewhere between middle-aged and young. She’s asleep, alone, and her bedroom shows no sign of a man.

I take a moment to consider how to take her. Breaking in is a bad idea. It leaves too much evidence. I need a way to draw her out.

That’s when I notice the smell of cat. It’s recent and strong. As I move towards the back door of the house it grows stronger.

Perfect.

I step on the back stoop, stand to one side and bring my plan into action. My fingers scratch across the screen door. I do that for several seconds, pause and then continue.

After my third scratch I can hear, “Damn it, Jeffery. Mommy needs to sleep. Why can’t you pick a better time to want in?” Footsteps sound and the inner door opens.

The next instant I move. The woman starts a gasp that stops as I meet her eyes. She’s mine now, under my control, blank as a sheet of new paper. I step inside, push her back a couple of steps and then I gather in my arms. My fangs sink into her neck and I draw her delicious blood into me.

Mon Dieu!
Feeding is orgasmic for a vampire. For us there is far more than blood in the taste. There are all the components that make up a human being. My prey’s emotions, her loves, her joys, her
life
passes into me to energize my dead body and black soul.

My prey groans. A sound that contains as much ecstasy as pain and fear. A vampire’s bite triggers those parts of the human body and psyche connected to physical pleasure. It guarantees they won’t run, and that they are bewildered when I’m done with them. Between that and my mesmeric ability I can bend her mind so that no memory of being victimized remains.

The woman shivers in my arms, groans again and I can smell that she is becoming aroused. Her taste changes, loses the complex texture it had contained. Instead the predominant feature becomes raw lust. The sudden intense change makes me suck harder at her vein. My emotions grow to become nearly as overwhelming as hers.

I could do this forever.

But I don’t. A small, rational piece of me keeps watch and makes me pull away long before my meal is in danger. Partly because bodies are likely to raise questions. No vampire wants humans to know we exist. The chief reason is because I don’t like hurting anyone. I may be a monster but that doesn’t make me selfish or cruel. A quick lick of the wounds on her throat heals them as if they never existed.

“You only had a dream,” I tell her as I gaze into her eyes once again. “A very pleasant one involving a person you’ve often fantasized about.” With that, I leave her house, closing the screen door quietly. I’m three steps away when I hear her gasp as my hold on her mind breaks. She mumbles in confusion and then giggles. The inner door closes as I vault over her back fence.

Once back on the street I turn in the direction of my small rented cottage. I’ve got a lesson plan to work on.

And a smile grows on my face as I think about Diane Patterson.

* * * *

“The gap between the Second and Third Estates during this point of the Revolution was wide and almost uncrossable. They might as well have been in separate countries. This inability to communicate other than by shouting exacerbated the crisis.”

I remember too well that horrible time both as human and vampire. Memories return and they still frighten. A revolution is a horrible thing.

I’ll never tell that to my students though. They think I’m merely imparting what I learned when I wrote my books.

“That isn’t true!” The interruption comes from an unexpected source; Mandy Richardson. She hasn’t been participating much. It’s almost as though she believes she’ll pass despite her lack of effort.

“
Pardon, Mademoiselle
Richardson?”

“There were members of the nobility who sided with the bourgeoisie. The
Chevalier de Vaudemont
worked with them. He helped the two sides communicate.”

“I’m afraid not. The
Chevalier
was a spy. He was reporting to his colleagues what the Third Estate was up to so the nobility could counter or neutralize them. He spread disinformation so that the bourgeoisie were ineffective. He disappeared not long after The Terror started. It was assumed the Jacobins killed him.”

Mandy’s face starts to turn red. “How do you know that?”

Because I was the Chevalier. The vampire that turned me knew I sympathized and forced me to be his spy.

“The records of the
de Vaudemont
family have his letters to his siblings. He bragged about his actions and they, having republican leanings, cut him off.”

That was me removing any ties I had to my humanity. They could never know.

“Furthermore,” I go on, “The
Archives Nationale
s hold a number of records confirming this.” I tell her exactly where those records can be found.

Ms. Richardson’s reaction is a surprise. She slams her notebook closed, snatches up her book bag and storms out of the classroom. The Court follows in her wake. Christy, her sub, looks frightened. I feel sorry for her. She shouldn’t suffer on my behalf.

I can’t help but wonder at Ms. Richardson’s behavior.
As the people here in America say, “What is her problem?”

* * * *

Even though all I see is movement in my peripheral vision I know at once it is Diane. Her scan of the restaurant meets my turning towards her in perfect synchronicity. She speaks to the maitre d’ and he leads her towards the table I’ve reserved for us.

I rise to greet her, then pull out her chair. Once she’s seated I return to my own chair.

“Thanks for the invitation, Georges,” my redheaded dinner companion tells me with a warm smile. “I’d been hoping I’d hear from you again. I really enjoyed that night.”

“
Moi aussi
. It was a most enjoyable evening. I wanted to repeat it.”

Diane looks around. “I didn’t expect this place. It looks like you’ve got money a visiting instructor usually doesn’t have.”

“My books do well. So I can indulge a beautiful woman once in a while.”

That garners me another warm smile, so warm that I feel it all the way through my body. It’s a strange sensation. Since I am dead usually I feel cold. This is a very pleasant change.

The sommelier approaches and hands each of us a wine list. “You pick something you like, Diane.” I pause, worried about what I’ll say next. I can’t eat any human food. It sits in my stomach until it rots. But I’d thought ahead and have an excuse ready. “I won’t be able to partake I’m afraid.”

She looks at me with a puzzled frown. “You were drinking last week.”

“Courtesy. I hadn’t actually drank any of it. But it wouldn’t be polite not to buy a drink in an establishment such as that.”

She ponders that for a moment. “May I ask why you can’t?”

“Of course. It’s not a big secret. I’ve a very rare genetic disorder. Among the various effects is a gastrointestinal problem, reflux. Anything I eat or drink will force acid into my throat. It’s most painful. There is very little I can eat and I have to cook it myself. I’ve found restaurants have difficulty preparing the food I can consume. Even a bit of contamination and I get to spend some uncomfortable days.”

Diane spends another moment pondering. “Okay,” she says. “I’ll remember that. If you’re ever over to my place for dinner I’ll ask for tips on how to cook for you.”

She blinks then, and blushes a little. “That didn’t mean what it sounded like.”

I chuckle. “I don’t know what it sounded like except good.”

The lovely lady across from me smiles at that and buries her head in the wine list. She orders a small carafe of the house wine finally and decides on filet mignon for dinner. “You’re buying after all.”

Our meal together is a reprise of our night at the pub. Our conversation wanders from subject to subject. We have differing views but neither takes that as a personal insult. At one point she makes an observation that causes me to chuckle, and my hand goes across the table to squeeze hers.

There’s an odd moment, when time freezes. Both of us look at our hands clasped together. Her eyes rise at the same instant mine do and we smile the same smile.

That sudden frisson ends and I pull my hand back. “
Pardonez moi, cher.
I didn’t mean to be so forward.”

“I liked it, Georges. I’m not offended.”

That smile shows on both our faces again.

Our meal goes on. It strikes me, how strange this is. This isn’t a hunt for I have not the slightest intention of feeding upon Diane. In fact, I don’t even feel like a vampire. For the first time in over century I simply feel like a man.

We linger over coffee and brandy, at my suggestion. Diane hasn’t ever had the pleasure of the two together after dinner. She finds it a wonderful complement to her meal. Our conversation continues its meandering course and it’s a surprise to us when the waiter asks us to pay our bill for the restaurant will close soon.

Once done that I rise and help Diane from her chair. Then I hold her jacket for her. I crook my elbow and she puts her hand in it. Together we leave the restaurant.

“May I escort you home,
cheri?
”

“You may.” She dimples at me. “I like that you are so formally courteous, Georges, and what does
chérie
mean?”

“It’s the way I was raised,
cher
. My family is very minor nobility in Alsace. We keep to the old ways a lot.” That’s true, if two centuries out of date. “
Cheri
means ‘sweet’ or ‘dear.’ Although correctly I should be saying
‘mon cheri’
which means ‘my sweet.’ I like the simpler sound though.”

“So do I,” she replies as she lightly squeezes my forearm.

So we start strolling in the direction of her apartment. The night is cool, on the edge of cold, and clear. At this hour the streets are nearly empty and the silence is a type of music. It’s the type of night I’ve always loved. The lovely woman on my arm adds to that feeling.

As we go I ask about her family. Diane is an only child, born and raised on a farm in Mississippi. “I loved the place,” she tells me, “but I also had to leave. Can’t say why. I just felt I was meant to be somewhere else.” She went to university in New York getting a B.A. in history and an M.A. in library science. She’d taken the job at the university here a decade ago and had stayed in it. “It’s not the place I’m looking for, but I feel it might be a step towards it. I can’t explain the reason for it though.”