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?”
“Yes, and the older the vampire, the more powerful this ability,” DeChevue said with a slight grimace.
“Perhaps you’ll grow into it,” Edwin said.
“But I am over 300 years old. There is no way that one such as you could resist.”
“Fine, I will not resist. What assistance can I offer you?”
“Are you mocking me?” DeChevue asked.
“Please,” Edwin said. “This is not good for either of us. Let us return to the negotiation.”
DeChevue reached out and grabbed Edwin’s throat. Fangs protruding, he snarled. “What if I rip out your throat for this impudence and bathe in your blood?”
Edwin remained calm. He considered the hideous, vain creature in front of him. Again, he wondered, was this man simply delusional, or was he real? Could he have truly have been alive for 300 years and learned so little about himself?
“You will not harm me,” Edwin said, his voice husky from the claws at his throat.
“You seek to control me with your voice? Ha! Your powers are no match for me!”
“I have no powers. You will not harm me because that won’t get you what you want.” The fingers at Edwin’s throat loosened their grip. DeChevue stepped back, a little embarrassed. As DeChevue sank back into his chair, Edwin ignored him.
It was time to force his prospective client into a decision. Edwin produced a pen and a small white card from the inside of his suit jacket. Then he made a note on the card and placed it on the coffee table. “I’ve written down an amount and a bank account number. Wire that amount to the bank account, and I will know you are serious. Then we will establish a retainer agreement and begin.”
DeChevue looked at the card. “The amount is no problem. But I do not have a bank account.”
“You have no bank account?” Edwin asked, fearing that this meant DeChevue was the worst kind of impostor – the penniless kind.
“M’sieur, when one has lived as long as I have, one develops a profound distrust for banks and paper money.”
This sent a chill down Edwin’s spine. This, this was exactly the kind of thing that someone who had lived for hundreds of years might come to believe. How many failed currencies would have passed through this man’s hands? Had he seen the ruinous inflation of King Louis XIV or the subjects of Otto von Bismarck carrying wheelbarrows full of paper through the streets just to buy a loaf of bread? Had he watched the pound sterling and the upstart dollar lose nearly all of their value in the last 125 years? For the first time since the whole strange affair began, Edwin seriously entertained the thought that vampires could be real.
“Then, where do you keep your money?”
“Gold, buried in my cellar. For what place could be safer than the lair of Nosferatu!” DeChevue exclaimed with an explosion of melodrama.
Edwin couldn’t tell if this behavior was genius or madness. He said, “Very well. I will take payment in gold.”
Agnes and Madeleine looked at Topper with equal amounts of contempt and wondered what he was carrying.
Topper looked at Madeleine with moony eyes and said, “I brought you a gift.”
“Flowers?” Madeleine asked, her voice dripping with contempt.
“No,” Topper said self-consciously. “They’re BLOOD oranges.” He looked back and forth between the two obviously unimpressed women. “Get it? I was gonna hit a wino over the head with a brick and give ’em to ya. You know, buy ya a nice dinner, but I couldn’t figure out how to drag him into my car. That, and there is all the DNA evidence to worry about. So we can...”
“You think I am incapable of hunting for myself?” Madeleine asked, with deadly melodrama.
“Well, sure. I mean, no. I mean. Look, it’s like this. I like you. And in the ancient ways of my tribe, I show my love by killing something and bringing it to you as a trophy.”
“Oh, Good Lord,” Agnes said, confident that God would condone the use of blasphemy as a defense against barbarism.
“So, we’ll go out, and the world will be your lobster tank. You just point out who you want for dinner and Ol’ Topper will take care of the rest.”
“Oh, ma petite amuse-bouche...”
“I love it when she calls me that,” Topper mock-whispered to Agnes.
“It is not a compliment,” Agnes said.
“You are very sweet,” Madeleine said.
“Oh yeah, baby. Have a little nibble. I am sweeter than Sweet Tarts dissolved in root beer,” Topper said.
“But you are too, too, too.” Topper hung on her every delicate syllable as she searched for the right word in English. “Oh, I cannot.”
“Oh, c’mon, hot French undead broad. Think about how beautiful it could be. We ravish somebody and then have a late-night snack with nobody having to cook! For all eternity!” He looked at the beautiful French vampire pleadingly as if he were trying to persuade a jury.
Madeleine laughed. To Topper, it sounded like the most delightful, musical, enchanting sound he had ever heard.
“Oh, mon petit hors-d’œuvre. You are–” And here she twisted the spike. “I could never be with you. You are too small to be a main course.”
Topper’s face fell. In all the time that Agnes had known the little man, she had never seen him lose his confidence. His loud, low-to-the-ground brand of swagger had seemed as much a part of him as his skin. But now, it was as if his skin had slipped free and pooled around his ankles. The effect was horrifying. Topper’s spine, usually a tiny barbell of unbendable pride, melted and sagged. His personality retreated from the room, and for the first time, the loud, brash dwarf seemed diminished.
Madeleine’s laughter rang harshly in the strange, underground lobby. “Oh, ho, ho, it is sooooo sad. Mon petit. You poor, poor creature, you cannot be a whole man. You are only a midget.” She made the word sound sexy and French, breathing the end of it out: mi-ghey. The muscles in Topper’s scalp tensed, and his ears moved back an inch.
“What’d you say?” Topper asked.
“I am sorry, mon petit.”
“That means ‘little,’ right? That’s just code for ‘midget,’ right?” Topper tried to summon a head of steam. That real, first-rate anger which turned him into the tiny self- (and other-) destructive tornado that he relied upon in dangerous, difficult, or even hilarious situations. But this time, his power would not come.
He thought of throwing himself at her like a man hell-ben
t on destroying love itself. But that would not get him what he wanted. What he needed as a man in the desert needs water. So, Topper turned to other resources within himself. How could he persuade her she was wrong? A thousand arguments and passionate summaries raced through him. At that moment, he felt he could have convinced any jury anywhere of anything. But even that power was to no avail.
Topper knew that women’s hearts do not admit the logic of the courtroom. They are persuaded by more primal magic than eloquence and the law. For in the court of love, logic holds no sway. There is no measure of justice amid the cruel and often random rain of Cupid’s arrows. There is only the expectation of pain and confusion, offset somewhere, however briefly, by the momentary triumph of Eros. For Madeleine, even after all of her years and experience, it came down to a matter of power, money, and height. Topper, while amusing, knew he had scored too low on all three. And although he tried valiantly, there was really no arguing with that.
Violence and argument denied to him, he dropped his sack of oranges on the floor, hung his head, and left. Agnes was surprised to find that she felt sorry for him.
The door to Edwin’s underground consulting sphere opened. DeChevue emerged, followed by Edwin, who had to duck a little to make it through the standard-sized door.
As Madeleine looked at Edwin, her eyes traveled upward and upward. What stature, she thought. What a cold air he had about him. Not petty cruelty, but true, ruthless indifference. The attraction was instant. Like the female praying mantis, she wanted to climb him and consume him from the head down.
“You drive an especially hard bargain,” DeChevue said, looking more than a little defeated by their exchange. Madeleine was shocked to see her master, her creator, the strongest man or vampire she had ever known, somehow overcome by a mortal. How could this be? Her attraction to Edwin grew stronger.
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