On the Far Side of Darkness

by R. C. Graham

  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 Nationales 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 frow
n. “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.”

  “Perhaps,” I note, “you’re waiting for some one rather than some place.”

  She glances up and her eyes are warm. “Could be.”

  Diane looks forward and mumbles, “Oh, shit.” Her voice is both resigned and annoyed.

  I follow her gaze to note another woman heading towards us. Taller than Diane but shorter than me she has a blocky build. Her hair is cut very close and she glowers at us. A smell of rum, cheap rum, precedes her.

  “We’re done, Wendy,” Diane announces when the sturdy woman is several steps away. “So get lost.”

  Wendy looks at me with a stare so venomous that if I weren’t already dead I’d leave the ranks of the living. “This is who you left me for? A man? And a skinny fuck at that?”

  The lady on my arm sighs. “I didn’t leave you for anybody. I just left you. I’m not property and you treated me like I was.”

  The mannish woman snarls. “You kept forcing me to put my foot down. If you’d done what you were told I wouldn’t have had to get forceful.”

  That statement slams into my mind and that dark part of me rises. You do not treat some one as sweet as Diane this way!

  “Pardonez moi,” I interject. “If Mademoiselle Patterson doesn’t wish to speak with you I would strongly suggest you cease talking with her.” My ire thickens the words so that they come close to a growl.

  “Piss off, Frog!” Wendy snarls. She makes a phlegmy sound and purses her mouth to spit at me.

  That glob of mucus never emerges. The short haired woman chokes on it. Her eyes go wide and she squeaks in terror. A broad stain appears on the front of her jeans. The next instant she is running as fast as she can away from me.

  A similar gurgle of fear sounds from the lady at my elbow. I turn to look at her and she is white as horror pushes all the blood from her face. She starts to back away from me.

  I realize I’ve let my mask slip. Diane sees exactly what I am. Of all the people in the world she is the last one I want to know the truth about me.

  So I look into her eyes and grab her will. Unusually, she struggles against me for a moment. Diane has a strong mind. I must be careful.

  “You only saw me very, very angry,” I tell her. “Angry enough to murder. But nothing else.” That should work. It’s mostly the truth.

  I let her go and she gasps. That’s followed by a couple of quick blinks then her head turns away from me as a touch and worry creases her forehead.

  “Milles pardon, Ms. Patterson. I’m so sorry I lost my temper. It doesn’t happen often but I’m afraid it’s very bad when it does.”

  Her perturbed look disappears, for the most part.

  “Come,” I tell her. “I promised to escort you home.” I try to smile but can’t quite do it. I turn back to the direction we were traveling. I don’t extend my elbow to her. I’m afraid she might not take it.

  Diane follows half a step behind me, not quite at my side.

  Before we’ve gone thirty paces though, I feel her step up and take my arm.

  The relief that washes through me is enormous. I turn my head to smile at Diane and she answers it.

  “Sorry, Georges. You’ve been such a calm person the short time I’ve known you seeing you that angry really threw me.”

  “I’m sorry I let that woman get to me. You’re quite capable of defending yourself and I should have kept my chivalry to myself.”

  She squeezes my arm and laughs. “I found it rather flattering. As a Southern girl I like a man that looks after his woman.”

  We both go blank at that, and look forward. It’s been a very long time since I had a woman.

  We’re silent for a while then. The only noise is our light footfalls and the whisper of wind in the trees that line the street.

  “Aren’t you going to ask about Wendy?” the redhead on my arm inquires.

  “It’s none of my business,” I reply. “I’ll listen when you want to talk though.”

  “You’re not disappointed?”

  I look at her and say with all seriousness, “I only wished to spend an evening with a lovely woman regardless of her sexuality. In that, I was not disappo
inted.”

  A touch of apprehension leaves Diane’s features and the smile she’s been showing me returns.

  In five more minutes we’re in front of her building. She lets me go and we face one another.

  “Bon nuit, cher. I had a wonderful time.” I take her hand, raise it and brush a kiss across her knuckles.

  “I did too, Georges.” She steps towards me, goes on tiptoes and kisses my cheek.

  For an instant she’s pressed against me, and a thrill shoots through my body. I stiffen at the experience of it. Diane goes just as rigid.

  The beautiful lady steps back and blinks at me. Surprise shows in her eyes.

  My eyes show the same befuddlement.

  Diane takes another step back. “Well, good night, Georges.” A shy smile creeps onto her mouth. “We’ll have to do it again.”

  “Yes, we will.” My smile is warm. I can tell for I’ve faked them so many times. This one however, is real.

  My dinner companion enters her building and waves at me through the glass of the door.

  I return it and head on my way.

  The warm expression I last showed her doesn’t leave my face.

  * * * *

  Ten minutes into the class and the door to the room opens. Mandy and her court troop into the room then take seats or stand according to the unspoken hierarchy.

  I have had enough of this.

  After a second of staring at them I announce, “If you are not on the class list, please leave. You are distracting the students who are here to learn. Since the only people on that list are Ms. Richardson and Ms. Coburn the rest of you can go somewhere else.”

  Every member of The Court blinks at me and then looks at Mandy. The focus of their attention glares at my action. “There’s no school rules about students attending a class they aren’t signed up for.”

  “A school rule? No. My own rules? Yes.” I have to struggle a little to keep my control from slipping. That part of me that lives in darkness can’t stand having someone intrude on its territory. But I believe driving my irritation home by ripping one of Ms. Richardson’s arms off would attract attention. “These, hangers on, of yours are hindering the rest of the class. I make my lessons as difficult as possible and distractions mean my pupils won’t be at their best. So any one not in this class leaves now.” The last sentence carries my displeasure at my vexing student’s actions.