On the Far Side of Darkness

by R. C. Graham

  On The Far Side of Darkness

  R. C. Graham

  Published by Twisted Rose Publishing

  Kindle Edition

  Copyright 2013 R. C. Graham

  Kindle Edition, License Notes

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  Table of Contents

  For two hundred years Georges Belleveau has walked the night feeding from the living.

  In that time he has seen much. The 19th and 20th Centuries with all their wonders and horrors have marched past him. Monsieur Belleveau has watched all of it, and continued past them.

  As a result he’s discovered he does well writing and teaching history. It’s not something pulled from dull pages to be monotonously recounted to bored students.

  This career has brought him to a small midwestern university to teach a few night classes about his favorite subject. When it’s done, he’ll move on, as he always does.

  Georges couldn’t be more wrong.

  While hunting for a meal one evening he meets Diane Patterson, a woman of rare beauty and intelligence. In spite of himself he is drawn to her, and she to him.

  But Georges is a vampire and Diane is human, mortal. One thing that every night dweller learns is that humans can never discover the undead exist. It could mean the extinction of their kind.

  This secrecy is a barrier that cannot be crossed, and if it is, will Georges and Diane’s love survive On The Far Side of Darkness?

  Foreword

  I grew up on Weird Tales.

  Well, the magazine was a little before my time, but my high school library had a whole pile of horror/fantasy collections and the majority of the good stories in them were from Weird Tales.

  I devoured the tales of H.P. Lovecraft. Robert E. Howard’s heroes lead me on swashbuckling adventures in lands lost in time against things from elsewhere. Seabury Quinn’s occult detective Professeur Jules de Grandin accompanied me through mysteries where the solutions turned on ghosts, nearly forgotten gods and monsters both human and supernatural.

  It left a huge impression on me. You see, none of the stuff I read was novels. It was all short stories and what would now be classified as novellas.

  I hadn’t realized this until I started writing the stories of Georges Belleveau and his lady love, Diane Patterson. Every time I dreamed up a story involving one or both of them it was short, or no more than novella length. It just seems to be the way my brain works. I’m far more comfortable with the shorter forms of fiction.

  The result is this book, On The Far Side of Darkness. It’s not a novel. It’s a collection of short stories and novellas. However like Robert E. Howard’s stories, there is an arc to them. The first story, Abyss, I ended at a good point for that story but it hardly ended the story of Georges and Diane. So I wrote another because my mind just wouldn’t stop wondering What happens next?

  That was followed by another, and another, and still another. Plus I have more percolating in my head.

  So you’ll find, as I did with the stuff I read when younger, that you’ll just have to read more of Georges and Diane.

  Enjoy.

  Abyss

  It’s a good thing that the sun goes down so early in winter time. Otherwise the night classes I teach would be held very late. That could lead to suspicion, which is something an undead blood drinker like myself likes to avoid.

  I take a moment to make sure my face is in place, literally. My natural features show what I am, a thing of nightmares. But one of my kind’s talents is the ability to camouflage ourselves. So I appear quite human, if a little pale. It means we can approach our prey without panicking them, or teach them the history of the French Revolution in my case.

  A few quick paces brings me to the stairs. I head up them and walk along the hall checking classroom numbers. At Room 223 I open the door and step into the class. I’m almost exactly on time. “Bonsoir,” I greet my new students.

  The thirty odd seats here are about two third’s full, which is a pleasant surprise. Although my books are well known inside the history profession they can hardly be said to be best sellers. It seems the medium sized mid-western university I’m teaching guest classes for has a large number of history students. For I enjoy teaching history, I’ve seen so much of it.

  I start into my introductory speech, identifying myself and outlining what I intend to impart to my students in this course. I’ve just finished it up when the door opens and a number of people enter my classroom.

  The first thing that strikes me is familiarity. I’d seen such groups when I lurked in Versailles just before the French Revolution.

  The person in the lead is female with sandy blonde hair cut short, almost mannishly. Her face isn’t exactly pretty but not plain either. There’s a set to her jaw and an arrogance in her eyes that marks her as the leader of this group. Her garb is severe; black sweater, jeans and motorcycle boots. The young woman strides to an empty desk and slumps heavily into its seat.

  The person immediately behind her is also female but as opposite to her lady as possible. This girl’s hair is bright blonde and extends to the small of her back. Her features are far more than pretty and her clothes are exquisitely soft and feminine. Her robin’s egg blue eyes stay focused downwards in a unmistakeable submissive posture. She takes the seat next to the leader of this coterie.

  The rest of the people range themselves behind these two, some sitting, some standing. Their position is centered on the feminine girl. None gets too close to the leader.

  “And you are?” I inquire of the dominant that’s just entered.

  “Mandy Richardson.” Her tone is as I expected, arrogant and uncaring of my opinion.

  That is indeed the name of one of my students. I memorized my class roster days ago.

  “You?” I ask, focusing my gaze on the lady in waiting.

  “Chris…Christy Coburn.” Her voice carries fear and uncertainty. It seems to me that she’s too often been punished for things, things for which she was not responsible.

  The rest of ‘The Court’, as I already tag them, I ignore. They are courtiers and so merely extensions of Ms. Richardson.

  “I’d appreciate it if you arrived on time in the future,” I tell the sandy blonde in the leather jacket.

  She looks at me with flat eyes, masking her emotions. “I’ll see what I can do.” A slight hardening of the mouth and the way she leans towards me ever so little makes it apparent she intends to ignore me.

  I react as any predator that has been challenged would, with body language that makes it clear I’m not backing down. We hold that tableau for a moment, then both of us relax. The gauntlet has been thrown and the contest has started.

  * * * *

  The university pub is not quite dim, by human standards, but there is plenty of light for me. Vampires hunt at night after all. There is just enough illumination to give the place with its dark wood and red satin walls an intimate air. From the booth off to one side of the entrance I can scan the establishment. I need a meal and a venue such as this is perfect for a hunt.

  There is a glass of red wine clutched loosely in my left hand. It’s a necessary camouflage. I can’t drink it. Indeed, I can’t consume any human food or drink. But someone not imbibing here would be suspicious and suspicion is something I wish to keep far away from me.

  My gaze runs over the patrons
here. That one? I think. No. She’s pretty enough but I can tell she won’t be that tasty. Bland and common.

  The brunette? Perhaps, if I find nothing else.

  That blonde? Ick! She’d taste as false as her breasts.

  My mind made up I start to slide out of the booth.

  The front door opens and another woman walks in. As I look at her something, something ineffable sweeps through me.

  I can’t seem to move anything save my eyes. They follow her as she stalks past. Everything about the sweet lady is impressed on my consciousness.

  She’s petite, slightly built, with rich auburn, shoulder length hair. Her cream skinned face is, sweet. There’s no other word to describe it. She has sea green eyes full of intelligence and zest for life. Her nose adds a touch of impudence to her beauty while her lips are coral and a little on the thin side. Her shoulders slump a touch, her face is grim, showing exhaustion and frustration.

  I lean back in the booth and watch as she takes a seat at the bar. The bartender slides a drink over without being asked. The lovely redhead takes a sip of the amber liquor and her back heaves with a sigh.

  That unknown feeling twitches in my chest, as if my heart still beat. I feel as if I want to walk over and wrap my arms around her in sympathy.

  Not possible, is my thought then. Something like myself can’t offer comfort. The best I can do is as little harm as possible.

  I smile then, a smile that reveals a little of what I am. She’ll be very tasty at least. I guess I’ve found my prey for tonight.

  But it takes a minute to work up my nerve. To my surprise a part of me, that part that lives in the night, is unnerved. The woman makes that vicious hunter apprehensive. It reacts to her as if she was a deadly trap, something to be avoided.

  I need not fear, I tell myself then. She’s only human.

  At that reassurance I stand, pick up my wine and saunter over to her. I approach with an easy stride. This hides the fact that I’m hunting. If I showed too much intention, or the wrong kind, I’d remain in the minds of the people here. Anonymity means safety.

  “Excuse me,” I say when I’m standing behind and a little to one side of my prey. I use the voice of what I’m pretending to be, the closest to what I would be if I were alive, a Frenchman with very good English. I’ve found many women think it fascinating, which helps in my hunting. It disarms their suspicion.

  She straightens and turns toward me. As she does I reach out with my power. It strokes lightly over her nerves; soothing, calming, enticing.

  But the beautiful woman’s expression is cross. “I’m really not…” she starts in a curt voice. Then her green eyes widen a bit and her mouth goes a little slack. A small “Oh!” escapes from her lips.

  I know I didn’t cause that, I didn’t hit her nearly hard enough.

  My reaction is the same as hers. This close the effect she had on me as she walked in is an order of magnitude higher. It warms me the way her blood would if I drank it.

  For a moment neither of us do a thing. She blinks several times and a slightly befuddled cast shows on her features. I feel a similar twisting on my own features. I want to say something but it needs to be the right thing. I don’t wish to make a bad impression.

  “I beg your pardon,” I finally manage to say. “I won’t intrude.” As I take a half step back I feel a little shock of surprise. I don’t want to intrude if it offends this lovely lady.

  “Please, sit down,” she overlaps me. “Maybe company would be nice.” Her voice contains strong remnants of a Southern drawl. Mississippi, I think. As a vampire I have a facility for languages and accents. It offers concealment and lets us recognize our prey.

  The strangest mixture of relief and nervousness wafts through me at her invitation. This isn’t a hunt, and it’s been so long since I’ve interacted with a woman I wasn’t hunting I’m at rather an impasse. But I slide onto a stool next to her.

  “I noticed you were rather ragged around the edges as you came in,” I remark then. “I’d hoped I could help in some way.”

  “Thanks,” the lovely redhead replies. “It’s just the usual start of the semester overload. Every professor, T.A. and visiting lecturer has requests in for their classes. This book and that paper and this magazine and more and…” She stops abruptly and a guilty grimace shapes her mouth. “Sorry. I get cranky after three fifteen hour days.”

  “If I’m responsible for any of that, I apologize. I’m one of those visiting lecturers.”

  That statement garners me a raised eyebrow.

  “Georges Belleveau,” I tell her as I extend my hand.

  “Oh, the history writer from Paris!” She takes the offered palm. “Diane Patterson. I heard through the grapevine that the university was surprised you accepted their offer. We’re hardly the Sorbonne or Harvard.”

  “Pleased to meet you, Ms. Patterson. It’s been a while since I was in this section of your country.” Over a century ago, is what I keep inside. “I wanted to see it again.”

  “It certainly wasn’t the money.”

  “I’m wealthy enough that I don’t care about the pay. I didn’t even take their offer of a place to live. I rented my own on the outskirts of town.”

  Diane does a little scan. I’m a bit of a stereotype of a vampire, dressed entirely in black; t-shirt, jeans, hiking boots and leather jacket.

  “If it wasn’t for that jacket,” she tells me, “I’d never guess you were rich.”

  “I’ve never felt the need to show off.”

  Ms. Patterson gives me a small smile of appreciation. It seems she likes a certain level of humility.

  “I read one of your books,” she goes on. “It was a really good read. Your portraits of the people in Versailles were brilliant, so informative. Where’d you learn those things?”

  “Thank you,” I reply. Then I spin her a tale of my family library, and family contacts, and how I spent years reading obscure letters and papers to fill in some of the almost unknown people of The Enlightenment.

  In actuality, I spent years in the cities of Europe as a courtier, and later as one of the undead. But I can’t let any human know that.

  My companion asks more questions when I’m done. I answer them for I so rarely get to just, talk, about myself. Then I inquire of her and listen raptly when she speaks. I find being with Diane Patterson both relaxing and exciting, emotions that often seemed mutually exclusive in the past.

  Our talk leaves ourselves and travels to current events. We speak of our thoughts on a particular piece of news. My viewpoint is quite European; hers, American; but we listen rather than judge.

  That leads to history again, followed by philosophy then we segue into culture.

  We’re finally interrupted by the bartender. “Closing time, folks. It’s after one.”

  Diane and I blink at each other. We’d completely lost track of time.

  “Oh, great,” my companion sighs. “I’ve got another long day tomorrow.”

  “Then we should go.” Without thought I pass a credit card to our server telling him, “Put both tabs on that.”

  Diane smiles. “Normally, I’d insist on paying my own, but, thank you. Sometimes I like being treated.”

  “De rien. It’s my pleasure.”

  It’s just a couple of minutes before we’re standing outside. “May I escort you to your car?” I ask the beautiful lady with whom I’ve spent a wonderful evening.

  “I walk here,” Diane tells me. “It’s about twenty minutes.” She pauses, then looks at me with her focus not quite on my face. She swallows and says, “I’d like it if you were willing to walk me home.”

  In response I crook an elbow. That’s followed by a moment’s consternation. It’s something I haven’t done since, well, since the last woman I loved died. I find it surprising that I offered what I did without thought.

  The sweet woman slides her hand into position, lightly laying her fingers on my forearm. She blinks as she does and a befuddled look drifts across her featur
es. In a moment though, she looks up and smiles at me.

  Then we head on our way.

  The walk takes a bit longer than the promised twenty minutes but it is an enjoyable time. We switch between comfortable silence and comfortable conversation. For just a short while, I forget what I am.

  We stop in front of her apartment building. Stepping away from each other we smile. Diane’s mouth twists and she frowns a little. It seems she can’t make up her mind about something.

  So I do it for her. “Bon nuit, Ms. Patterson. I’ve had a lovely time. Go to bed and sleep well. I’ll try not to add to your work load tomorrow.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Belleveau. You’re a very interesting man and thank you for a lovely night.”

  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.