by Declan Finn
He sighed, looked at her, and gave her a sad smile. “You didn't, but I have been hearing that on and off for, well, a very long time. I might as well be a local vampire.”
“I thought that they were all the rage nowadays.”
Marco scoffed. “Mainly because no one ever thinks about it.”
“About what?”
“Vampires.”
“That would be odd, considering that there seems to be a hundred variations on the theme.”
“Yes, but nothing coherent,” he objected. “Forget the mythologies; at least they have a lot of commonalities, but the modern stuff…feh.”
Amanda stopped and sat on a bench at the edge of the great lawn, staying just in the shade. Marco took two steps past her before he noticed. She motioned to the seat next to her. “So, tell me your thoughts.”
“Why? It's just vampires.”
She patted the bench. “I want to see how your mind works.”
“Slowly, and with WD-40.” He chuckled, and sat. “Well, vampires…on the one end, you have the original mythology. Even in the Middle East, with the Ghul–their name for a vampire, singular–they were a type of undead, possibly demon spawn. They survived by drinking blood, and had the ability to shape-shift. They also hung out in cemeteries. Sounds familiar, doesn't it? When you get to the European version, they could be repelled by crosses and sunlight and stakes, that sort of thing. Those stories, at least partially, take into account the existence of Free Will.”
“Free will?”
He leaned back against the bench, his arms spreading out along the back. “Think about it. Almost every traditional vampire in fiction is evil, automatically and with little in the way of reservation. Turn a good human being into a vampire, and they're automatically not much better than your average rabid dog. In the original novel, aside from Dracula and his three girlfriends in the basement, there was only one other vampire. That was Lucy, girlfriend of Mina Harker. As a new vampire, she could have been easily controlled, or feral, or what have you. Now, the original Vlad the Impaler, who inspired the fictional Dracula, was not a nice fellow. Take that how you want.
“When you get into more recent novels, everything becomes a mishmash, usually with bad metaphysics. Laurell K. Hamilton is one of the worst offenders—practically everything she does is conditional. You know, vampires are dead during the day, unless it's a powerful vampire, which depends on a whole bunch of factors I'm not even totally certain of.” He paused, then smiled. “Sorry, I over think sometimes. Hence the freak portion.”
“I still do not agree,” Amanda said, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “You are intense, but not freakish.”
“I'm a freak who reads too many books. I don't sleep with everything that has a skirt, especially since I go to school near Greenwich Village. I live in Brooklyn and don't sound like Tony Danza. I can go on forever.”
She patted his shoulder. “Don’t worry. Those things do not make you freakish.”
Marco looked at her hand on his shoulder for a long moment. For a long moment, Amanda wondered if she had done something culturally objectionable, and then he rolled his eyes. “And don't worry, I'll be happy to be your friend.”
“What?”
“I find you attractive.” He reached up and gave her hand a squeeze, gently lifting it from his shoulder. “I perceive signs of flirting, but I screw that up so often, it means you just want to be friends. That works for me.”
Amanda said nothing for a moment. She realized she was staring at Marco again, more than she had at any other person before. He was also the first man in a very long time to get close to her and not try to get into her pants. Most women in her position almost seemed inclined to take that lack of interest as a challenge. As though, if he didn't want her, she must make him want her.
In many ways, she was glad she wasn't most women. In the long run, his attitude was probably for the best anyway.
“I'll take it,” she said. She leaned over, kissed him on the cheek, and looked out over the sky. There was little sun left. “Sundown. Do we have to get you home before you turn into a pumpkin?”
“No, my parents trust me, the poor fools,” he said cheerfully. “Why do you ask?”
“I wanted to know how much time you have.”
Marco smiled, leaned in, and said, in a conspiratorial whisper, “I have all the time in the world.”
Chapter Two: Always Date Inside Your Species
October 15th, Manhattan
Amanda opened the door to her apartment, and Marco watched her walk inside. He didn’t immediately follow. She stopped a little past the threshold and looked back over her shoulder.
“Not coming?”
He frowned in thought, as though being invited into a woman's apartment was the first warning sign of some sort of trap.
“You may come in. Don't worry, I don’t bite.” She flashed him a smile. “Much.”
Marco stepped forward, more at ease now with the invitation. “Yes, but you don't know if I do.”
“I doubt it,” she answered. “Besides, I think I can handle you if I need to.”
“Okay.” He stepped further inside and took the room in with one glance. It was borderline spartan, with a couch and an armchair, the coffee table, a television and a computer. The whole living room was probably the length of a short yellow bus. “Nice place. Rather small for a family, isn't it? ”
“There’s just me.” Her eyes flickered to the floor. “Only me. For a long time. I am a little older than I look.”
“Ah, understood,” he said casually. “I'm guessing you don't have many parties.”
“Nor friends.”
Marco blinked, then looked her over one more time before moving to examine a Van Gogh reproduction on the wall. It looked like it was from A Night on Bald Mountain, but with the Milky Way galaxy in the background. “Not bloody likely.”
“You're sweet, but it's true. Men are mostly interested in things other than friendship, and women are…”
“Jealous?” he said, not looking away from the painting, still smiling. Ah, poor Vincent. If only someone had better stitches and found your ear in time, or had better psychoactive drugs...
Amanda shrugged. “I suppose it is the easy answer, and the one best held onto.”
Marco nodded, glancing around the place once more. “I find it interesting that you manage to hold onto a place on the Upper East Side while going to college, with no other means of support.”
She gave a small, dismissive shrug. “As I said, I have money. I have a scholarship as well.”
“Ditto on the scholarship,” he said, moving away from Van Gogh's Starry Night to a print of a Hubble telescope capture. “Though in my case, they weren't certain which one to give me.”
“You are that smart?” she teased.
“I am multitalented. That's an advantage of having useless trivia stuck up here.” He turned to face her, tapping his skull. “However, I'm not sure what I'm doing here. I came because I like you. Also, you're one of the few people who will seem to tolerate my…”
“Intensity?”
“Bluntness.”
She nodded, then nervously combed her fingers through her hair, trying to find anything to look at except Marco. “You are here for much the same reason. You are the first person I’ve brought home in a long time.”
He gave a short, medieval little bow. “I'm honored. I assume that all this–bringing me here, taking me this much into your confidence, is because of my ‘let's be friends’ lecture?”
“More or less.”
“I must give that one more often. I've never had this reply before. Friends, then. Should be fun.”
She smiled. She was tempted, as she took his outstretched hand, to pull him to her, just to see how he would react. Honestly, in the long run, she could see herself with him as more than friends. Every time she tried something like that, however, it always ended badly. Though Marco was certainly something different. What kind of something was
the question.
“Yes,” she agreed, “it should.”
His eyes slipped to another part of the room, landing on a set of crossed swords over the television. “Are those cavalry sabers?”
Amanda glanced over her shoulder and could all but feel his eyes on her neck. “Yes, they are. They’re family heirlooms.”
“Ah, isn't that grand? Which war? They don't look like anything the United States Army would have had. With your accent, I can only assume that they're Cossack?”
She nodded. “Very good. They were taken from some Russian officers.”
“Taken, huh? Fun.” He wandered past her, looking over the rest of her collection, down behind the television. It was an odd place to put them, but without company to show them off to, they were, he guessed, colorful dust collectors.
Under the Russian sabers were several rifles. He blinked in surprise. “Why do you have a 1914 Enfield Rifle? The sabers, I get, but the rifle?”
“The British arrived in Arkangel shortly after the revolution,” she said, walking up behind him.
“I remember something about it. They left behind a few souvenirs, huh?” Marco glanced down the wall. “A Sten gun? I've only seen these in books and World War II films. So, your family had Veterans of the Great Patriotic War? I can only assume this piece went from Britain to Russia to this apartment.”
“Good.” She touched him lightly on the shoulder. “How do you know so much about weapons and history? I thought you were studying to become a Physician Assistant.”
Marco turned towards her and his smile seemed to Amanda old and sad, as though he'd seen things in his young life that he really shouldn't have.
“I read a lot. I can understand the Remington from the same period, and even the Thompson submachine gun.” He sidestepped out of the way, and pointed at the extra-long assault rifle on the bottom. “But that's a Vietnam era M-16, notorious for jamming, which really went over well in the jungles. I think the Russians were on the wrong side of that war. Your family are collectors?”
She nodded. “Definitely. You could say they had a habit they could not break. I’m still surprised you know so much. If I didn’t know better, I would have thought you lived all of those wars.”
“I'm just full of surprises.”
* * * *
November 4th, Hudson University Campus
“You have thought a lot about vampires,” Amanda Colt said as they walked along the campus.
The sky was dark again. That was nothing new. From what she could tell, he had never been in bright sunlight. It was odd, but nothing that stood out.
“I think a lot about a lot of things,” Marco said dismissively. “I received a classical education. Vampires are almost a running theme in the history of mythology. There are Greek, and Persian vampires. There's the Jewish myth of Lilith. Egypt's Sekmet drank blood. India's Kali had fangs. The Romans had the Lamia. The Middle East had their ghouls. The so-called 'Enlightenment' had an increase in people who believed in vampires. Come to think about it, that would make sense. If God was 'not reasonable' and the Church was 'evil,' then there aren't many crosses to fend them off, now are there?”
He shook his head, coming back to the here and now. “So, anyway, there are a lot of vampires. I'm reading, I pick up random facts here and there: discrepancies, inconsistencies, that sort of thing. I pick up on it naturally. My education included a lot of home schooling, so I knew more about Thomas Aquinas when I was ten than some philosophy majors do when they graduate.”
“I can tell.” She walked through the door Marco held for her, moving outside. “So, what are your inconsistencies?”
“Crosses, for one thing. Do they work or not? If all vampires are evil, it makes sense if they do. If vampires aren't inherently evil, then there's something wrong with crosses as a blanket defense against them—surely God could recognize His own. And let's face it, if they were changed into a vampire unwillingly, is God honestly going to punish them for something they didn't choose? How badly, and how fast, does the sun destroy them, if it does?”
“If?”
Marco arched a brow. “You prefer that they sparkle?”
Amanda's face went flat. “Do not even joke.”
“In any event, one cannot manage to get relatively coherent information about vampires. At least, not in modern fiction.”
She smiled at him and patted him on the shoulder. “You’re right. You are the only one who would think about such things. Most people just read them and move on.”
“Indeed. So, what's your next class, and what are you doing this weekend?”
* * * *
Marco's home was in the middle of Greenpoint, Brooklyn. It was decent enough, as neighborhoods went. He also had a fairly nice brownstone.
Marco walked into his room and closed the door as soon as he slipped in. His room was simple. He had few pieces of furniture: a bed, a desk, a dresser, and bookcases. The bookcases covered every free inch of wall space, and even the dresser was stacked high with books. There were books about myths and history. There were medical journals and textbooks. If someone were to divine his interests from his reading selection, Marco was one part feudal lord, one part medicine man, one part serial killer, and one part mythological creature.
Well, it's not all inaccurate.
Marco still smiled as he sat down at his computer. He couldn't believe his luck. He had an appointment to associate with Amanda Colt over the weekend. This was a good sign. For normal people.
However, in his case, would he really feel comfortable in the long run around her? He meant it when he said “let's be friends,” since he could hardly imagine inflicting himself and his problems on her.
Not to mention that she is very, very lovely. How the hell am I keeping my hands off of her? Answer: I know all of the things that can go wrong if I don't.
He sighed and turned on his computer. Well, there are worse things in life than being so medieval. One could be a predator like me.
Marco went to work. There would be plenty of time later, to reflect on the blood he had spilled in his life. Right now, he had a few things to write up. He couldn't afford to be distracted by memories of her intelligent eyes, her musical accent, her long red-gold hair…or her graceful, soft neck.
* * * *
Amanda gazed into the webcam that reflected her image back to her on her computer screen. She had been invited out. For a date? Had she been asked on a date? Was it a meeting between friends? Did he expect something from her? Did she expect something from him? Was she putting her trust into the wrong hands?
Take a breath, and try not to go insane, she thought. We are friends. We are staying friends. He said so himself. Just friends.
Her own digital reflection stared at her accusingly. I know what can happen. He doesn't know the half of it, but I do.
She shook her head clear. She had her secrets, but they were buried in her past. The more current secrets weren't a problem. They couldn't be. It was simply something she had to keep under wraps, and there wouldn't be any issues.
Of course there wouldn't be. Marco is smart. I like that about him, so why do I suppose he doesn't suspect something is amiss already? “I have money,” like that is a good reason. He should think that something is wrong with me somewhere. Thankfully, he won’t possibly imagine what.
* * * *
Marco even smiled to himself as he waited for a website to load. He knew there was something up with Amanda. He didn't care.
She had money. So what? Money took one only so far. She didn't flaunt it, except in her choice of residence, and there were flashier houses in different boroughs of the city. It was a nice, security-conscious building. Considering her looks, that was a good thing.
Yes, she's sexy as hell, and smart enough to know that it's not exactly an asset. I wonder if she carries any weapons on her person. Well, she better, for her own sake. She looks good enough to eat. He sighed to himself. Marco, if you even think of biting her, you know you're just going t
o bash your head against a wall every day for a week.
“Oh well,” he said aloud. He stood, walked to the closet, and opened it.
There, on the floor, was his personal sword.
Amanda isn't the only one who collects weapons. Though I doubt she has ever had occasion to use them, like I have.
He glanced back at the computer. It had fully loaded the website on red blood cells.
The coming weekend would be interesting.
Chapter Three: Journey into Brooklyn
November 4th
The day had gone well. Very well.
So well Amanda was starting to worry.
She met Marco at the Museum of Natural History, which he referred to rather snobbishly as “the Museum.” He waited for her in the underground entrance to the museum via the subway when she arrived, though he came by car earlier. Over the course of the day, they walked through each exhibit of the Museum. Together, they bounced back and forth over various and sundry areas of expertise. He apparently knew more about various types of weapons than anyone had a right to at his age, and she knew a little bit about everything else.
“Most knives,” he said, staring at one stone-age knife, “are easy to defend against. Relatively. They're more reliable, and harder to defend against than guns, but easy to deal with if you know what you're doing.”
Amanda smiled. He was almost cute with the way he was just so…blunt about this stuff. It wasn't boasting. It wasn't a brag. It was just how reality was for him.
“Where did you learn this?”
“Out on Long Island, believe it or not. You ever hear about Krav Maga?”
“Yes, I have. Created for Israelis, right?”
“The Israeli Defense Force, you mean?” He nodded. “It's supposed to be simple and quick, effective, but not at all complicated. It's easier for me than for most people.”
“Because of your three-dimensional chess?”
“Exactly. I use it in fencing, close combat, and sometimes conversations. It helps for when I want to talk people into doing things they don't want to do to start with. I can't threaten everybody, after all.”