by R. C. Graham
Ms. Coburn gasps and turns a little white. But the way she looks at me shows it’s not herself she frightened for. It’s me.
For several long moments Mandy and I stare at each other. Finally she sits back and grunts, “Fine!” She waves her hand imperiously and her courtiers file out of the room.
As they do Ms. Richardson shows me an expectant smile. The predatory gleam in her eyes makes me wonder what she is going to do next.
* * * *
“Bonsoir, cher,” I say into the receiver of the phone when Diane picks up.
“Bonsoir, chére,” she replies. “It’s nice to hear from you. Thanks again for such a lovely dinner. I’ve been thinking about it a lot.”
“As have I.” I pause for a second, and draw a deep breath. It’s been a very long time indeed since I asked the question I’m about to pose to the lovely woman speaking to me. “Would you like to accompany me to a university function?”
There’s silence from the other end. It can’t be long but it seems like forever. Strange, since at over two centuries of age I have different perspective of ‘a long time.’ But I’m…anxious…for Diane’s answer.
“Yeah, I would,” she says just as I’m about to apologize for being forward. “What did you have in mind?”
I let out the breath I’ve been holding, another strange thing for me as I don’t breathe. “I’ve been invited to a faculty party. These things are usually very dull and I know you would help alleviate that boredom.”
“So that’s the only reason I’m invited? To amuse you?” The words are light and followed with a tinkling laugh.
I chuckle back. “That’s one of the reasons, but not the most important one.”
“Oh,” she whispers. There’s another moment of silence that again seems long. “I’d love to, Georges.”
“Merci, Diane. I’ll pick you up about nine this Saturday.”
“How formal is this?” she asks.
“Not very. Wear what you like.”
“I’ll see you then.”
“Until then.”
* * * *
I see Diane waiting outside of her building. An odd feeling twists in my stomach at the sight of her. She’s made some effort to look good, and she’s succeeded. Her slacks and blouse just nudge the edge between comfortable and formal. She looks very beautiful.
I guide the car I’ve rented towards her, and hear a ‘crump’ as I bounce the front wheel off the curb.
Diane enters the car, laughing. “I get the impression you don’t drive much, do you, Georges?”
“It’s a skill I learned late in life.” In the 1920’s when I was over one hundred and thirty years old. “I don’t drive often enough to keep it sharp.”
“Why did you rent it? We don’t have far to go and we could walk.”
“We’ll be standing for several hours at least. I believe we’ll be glad of the car when we return.”
She smiles. “That’s good thinking.” A stern frown appears on her face, but the light in her eyes tells me she’s being anything but serious. “But I’m driving. I’d like to get there and back.”
I chuckle as I undo my seatbelt. “Merci, cher. I have no objections.”
Once we’ve changed places it’s ten minutes drive to Draught Hall, or Drafty Hall as it’s known around campus, the pseudo-Georgian building meant for the gatherings like the one we’re attending. There are faculty offices on the second and third floors but mostly it is a public space. Although there is plenty of parking outside of it, Diane has to drive a bit before we find a spot. We must be just about the last ones here.
Once parked we join arms and head for the front door. Then it's a short walk down a hall and we enter the main room. We can hear the susurration of many people talking well before we enter.
We are indeed pretty much the last guests to arrive. The room is already crowded and hot. I look at the lovely woman accompanying me and we have the same look. This might not be a good idea.
"On the other hand," I say to her, "you never know what will happen."
"True," Diane replies. "So let's look around."
We pick up a couple of glasses of wine from a passing server and start to circulate. The department head who hired me flags us down and we converse for few minutes. Then we encounter Diane's senior. I'm pigeonholed by a couple of the History faculty who ask me how I find such obscure references to historical events. I use my standard excuse of my noble family's archives. The truth is that I saved those newspapers, magazines or university papers centuries ago. But they can't know that. We start discussing events of the 19th Century and to my absolute lack of surprise Diane has much to add to our conversation. I find I have a somewhat befuddled smile on my face as I listen to her. The most marvelous warmth fills my chest as I listen to her. More and more it seems I've found a piece of myself I hadn't known was missing from my existence.
“Georges! I’m so glad you could make it!”
I turn to the familiar voice. Dr. Helen Metaxas is the Dean here. She’d welcomed me personally when I first arrived, and took it with good grace when I’d refused to use a guest house provided by the university. It was too large for me and I chose instead a small cottage on the outskirts of town.
“Bonsoir, Helen. Things seem to be going well.” We lean forward to kiss each other’s cheeks.
“These things always do,” she responds. “People from different departments get to know each other, and sometimes great things happen.”
“Indeed,” I reply. “Cross pollination has done great things in the past.”
“You explored that in your second book.” The Dean cocks her head. “You must have written that very young. I thought you were around forty and you wrote that thirty years ago.”
I sigh inside at that. I see I’m going to have to disappear soon and lie low for a while. “My people tend not to show their age. I’m far closer to fifty than I am to forty.” Which is true, just not the way she’ll take it.
A man emerges from the crowd around us, places his arms around Helen’s waist and kisses her neck. The contrast between them is remarkable. Dr. Metaxas is Amazonian in build and dressed like the powerful woman she is. Richard, her husband, looks like the tweedy intellectual he is, right down to the leather patches on the elbows of his jacket.
“Bonsoir, Richard.”
“Good evening, Georges.
“So, what do you think of our little school?” he goes on.
“I like it a great deal. It’s also brought me a rather pleasant surprise.” I place my hand over Diane’s, where it rests on my elbow, turn and smile at her.
“I see,” says Helen. There is a warm chuckle in her voice. “Would you mind introducing her?”
“Of course. Dean and Professor Metaxas, allow me to introduce Diane Patterson.”
“Oh yes. I thought I recognized you,” the Dean remarks. “The chief archivist has a lot of good things to say about your work.”
“Thank you, Dr. Metaxas,” my lovely lady replies. “He’s a good person to work for and very fair.”
Richard interrupts by kissing his wife’s cheek. “Excuse me, dear. I promised some time with a couple of my colleagues.”
Helen laughs. “You mean you want to start the poker game in that room on the third floor.”
“Something like that,” he grins back.
“Don’t lose too much money.” They share a quick, hot kiss and Richard heads off.
“He doesn’t care much for these sort of affairs,” the Dean tells me as watches him go. There is a fond smile on her face, very similar to the one I see on Diane’s features when she looks at me.
That gives me a moment’s mental pause for my own facial muscles start to echo her expression. I shouldn’t feel this way. Diane’s only human and she can’t get too close. I’m too dangerous to her.
“So, Georges,” Dr. Metaxas asks as she turns back to us, “do you have plans for any more…” Her sentence is cut off with a gasp. For a second her eyes light up and a shiver g
oes through her. Then some color leaves her face. Her mouth tightens into grim fear.
“Hey, Dean.” A familiar voice just behind me tells me what caused this reaction. I turn my head as Mandy and her chief follower step up next to me. Ms. Richardson’s sexuality couldn’t be more on display. Everything she wears from her leather jacket to her motorcycle boots is black. With her sandy blonde hair cut short it’s obvious who is the dominant in their relationship.
Christy as always is the opposite. Garbed in a clinging, high hemmed pink dress quite inappropriate for the weather she’s clearly the submissive. The way Mandy’s arm is draped over her shoulder makes it obvious the gold tressed woman is property.
“What are you do…” the Dean starts to blurt.
“I crashed,” Mandy cuts her off. “There’s so many people here that no one notices.”
“Bonsoir, Ms. Richardson, Coburn.” My voice is frosty. I’m finding Mandy is beginning to raise my ire.
“Hey, prof,” Mandy replies in a mocking tone. Her gaze slides past me. “Who’s this tasty piece?” she inquires. A lecherous smirk leers across her face.
“Not one you’ll ever taste,” snaps the beautiful woman on my arm.
“Feisty too.” The anger in Mandy’s eyes tells me she doesn’t like that character trait at all.
Without thought I place myself between Diane and my student.
Ms. Richardson looks startled for a second. Then her face hardens and she grits her teeth in anger. There is a long moment of aggressive tension.
Christy breaks that tableau by whispering in her owner’s ear.
“Oh, that’s right,” Mandy remarks. She looks at the Dean and cocks her head in my direction.
“Um, Georges?” I hardly recognize Dr. Metaxas’s voice. It’s so tremulous and soft. I’ve heard similar things in the past. She’s doing something she doesn’t want to do but has no choice in the matter.
After a moment of throat clearing Helen goes on. “The, the university has a policy about classes.” Her face is downcast and her eyes stare at the floor. “There’s no rule limit, limiting just students to classes. We encourage people to attend any class they want to.”
Her speech done her eyes come back up to Ms. Richardson. Her expression is both fearful and inquiring. It seems to me she’s checking if my student approves of her actions. Her relief when Mandy nods is palpable.
The sandy haired dyke looks at me and her face holds both triumph and contempt. She knew she would win our little conflict and loathes me for having the temerity to get in her way.
It doesn’t end here, Ms Richardson, and I would be extremely wary of pushing this too far. You don’t know what you are dealing with.
I nod at the Dean. “D’accord, Dr. Metaxas. It shall be as you say.” I find that my liking for the Dean has vanished and my tone is colored by that new lack.
Helen nods back. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ve other people I have to talk to.” The shine of tears in her eyes tells me that’s a lie. She turns and hurries away from us.
“I’ve got to go too,” Mandy smirks. “Nice dealing with you again, prof.” She drags her paramour away. Christy looks back for a moment with a silent apology, and fear. That fear is for what may happen to me if I continue to oppose her dominant.
I stare after them and rage boils inside me, pushing at the restraints I keep it under. My right fist is clenched and I can feel the tips of my claws dig into palm as my fingernails start to transform.
“Georges…” a voice cuts into my dark emotions “…you’re doing that scary thing again.”
Just like that, my mood evaporates. Relief replaces it as it strikes me how close I was to letting lose that which lurks within me. I turn my head and smile down at Diane. “Je suis désolé, cher. I’m afraid Mandy Richardson is starting to get under my skin.”
“De rien,” she replies with an answering smile. “I’m hoping that’s never directed at me.” Her smile weakens as a touch of unease wafts across her features.
“I’ll tear my own face off first,” I tell her without thought. For it’s true. I’ll hurt myself before I hurt my darling Diane.
In response her smile changes from amused to warm, and she reaches up to caress my cheek. I take her hand, holding it against me, marveling in the tenderness of her gesture.
“I think I’ve had enough of hobnobbing,” I tell her. “Let’s, as the saying goes, ‘Blow this pop stand.’”
Diane snorts. “Sometimes you speak so archaically, Georges.”
“It comes from learning English as a third language, and from books at that,” I tell her. The first part is true, although the second is not. Vampires can learn languages and dialects at ridiculous speeds. A week, two at most, of exposure to a new language and we can’t be distinguished from a native speaker. We are predators and predators need to be camouflaged.
“I see you’ve learned a little of my language,” I note as I lead us through the crowd.
“It seems fair,” Diane returns. “You use those charming French phrases so often, and they add such flavor to your speech, that I had to learn a little myself.”
“I’m flattered.”
“So am I, Georges. I’m just an obscure archivist. That some one like you would be interested in me is a little bewildering. You’re well known in your field and so well read.”
“S’il vous plaît, cher. Do not sell yourself short. You are more interesting and beautiful than any woman I have met in a very long time.” Since the middle of the 19th Century is what I don’t tell her.
We smile at each other. There’s so much emotion communicated in our expressions and no more to be said.
Then we bump into the back of a man talking with several other people, since we hadn’t been watching where we were going. We apologize profusely. Diane laughs and I chuckle the rest of the way to the car.
Ten minutes later Diane stops the car in front of her building. We look at each other and I can see her fingers tighten on the wheel while uncertainty wafts over her sweet face. “Would you like to come in for a few minutes, Georges?”
I don’t hesitate. “I’d love to, cher.”
So she finds a spot in the lot next to her building and we go inside. A quick climb to the second floor and we’re at her door. Diane unlocks the door and asks me, “Won’t you please come in?” I do while thinking I’m glad that piece of mythology about vampires is untrue. We can go where we please.
Diane’s apartment is much like I expected. Indeed much like places I’ve lived. It’s just a touch above Spartan yet comfortable. There’s no ostentation but also no lack of beauty. As all I’ve discovered about this wonderful lady, it warms me.
She looks at me, and I can see she worries a little about my opinion of her residence. She needn’t be concerned. “It’s lovely,” I tell her and she turns away, pretending to be only pleased. The slight lift in her shoulders tells me she’s relieved.
The lovely redhead walks towards a small liquor cabinet. “Would you like…” she starts. Then she turns to me. “Sorry, Georges.” There’s a touch of chagrin on her features.
“De rien. I’m not offended.”
“Music?” is her inquiry then.
“Something classical.” I like some modern music, but I prefer that from when I was still alive.
To my surprise, Diane walks to the desk on which her computer sits. A click of the mouse wakes it up. A double click starts a program. She clicks once more, then again, and Bach wafts from the speakers set on the bookcase in the opposite wall.
“How fascinating,” I remark. “I hadn’t realized you could do such things with a computer.”
“I’ve got some streaming radio stations that I listen to. I never much cared for the speakers on my machine so I found out how to hook up good ones.” She frowns in puzzlement at me. “Surely you must use a computer, Georges, and the internet.”
“Not for anything like this, writing and e-mailing works to my publisher is the most I use them for.” Truth be told, I
had to struggle a little with these things. The concepts behind them seemed nearly magical to me.
A particular piece starts playing, one I loved the final year I spent in Versailles. It has been decades, literally, since I heard it last. It takes me back and without thought I bow as I did in the ballrooms of Paris centuries ago, deeply and with a care not let my wig fall off.
Diane, without hesitation, dips a curtsey. Like my bow, it suggests clothes long out of fashion; a gown with wide panniers and a neckline so low her back must be kept straight to keep from shocking the other attendees of the ball. She extends a hand and I lead her through the mincing steps of a minuet.
There’s really not enough space in her living room to do it properly, but we make due. Diane enchants me with her smooth grace, her sweet smile and her twinkling eyes. As I always feel around her, it seems like I am human again. I can almost see the parquet floors and high ceilings of the tanzsaal, the ballrooms I frequented as a man.
The music comes to an end and we finish our dance with another bow and curtsey. The speakers sound out the announcer speaking in a low voice, telling her listeners what piece she had just played and what will be next.
The lovely redhead whose hand I still hold trills a laugh. “You really are an historian. I’m not surprised you’d know how to do a minuet.”
I bow my head to acknowledge her praise. “It’s my family’s fault. They insisted I receive what they regarded as a proper education.” Proper for two and a half centuries ago.
“And you, cher? Where did you learn the minuet?”
“In university. For fun I joined a Georgian recreation society. You can’t pretend to be a late 18th Century lady without knowing the dances.”
My heart lifts as Strauss’s Vienna Waltz starts to play. Diane and I move into each other without hesitation. At once we’re stepping through the music, tripping through our small space as if we were in a tanzsaal in the city our dance is named after. Our eyes never lose the other’s gaze and our smiles are happy beyond words.