"I want to know where a certain person with one green eye and one brown eye lives in this town. Do you know him?" I whispered in his ears, preventing him from turning around to see my face.
I was lucky as he started to nod with energy.
"Now, I'll let you talk, but if you scream or do something stupid I will kill you, okay?”
"He lives... just beyond there, over the butcher's shop, that would be him. Wilhelm is the only one with eyes of two different colors. But... who are you? What are you planning to do?"
"None of your business, my friend. Did you play together as children?"
"No, why? I moved here just a few years ago. Please, don't hurt me..."
The smell of his blood tickled my thirst, but since he didn't see me my face and he was drunk, I spared him and set him free with a shove, not before advising him to run without looking back. He had no need to be told twice.
Finally, the person who ruined my childhood with his wanton cruelty had a name. No wonder he had chosen a job as bleak as that of a butcher. Shortly, he'd die like the poor animals he slaughtered every day. I was in a really bad mood for the way the visit to my mother had ended and I couldn't wait to let off some steam. I soon found the shop; looking up towards the upper windows, I saw the glow of the candles still burning behind glasses. I could hear muffled voices coming from one of the opened windows, possibly of two adults, a man and a woman, arguing in a low voice.
In an instant, clutching the banner of the shop, I propelled myself through an opening. The room, a bedroom, was empty. The voices were coming from the room next to it and were growing more agitated. The man's tone reached peaks of strenuous restrained fury, very threatening. I realized I was stuck in the middle of the room with all my muscles tense, from my shoulders up to my ears and clenched fists. That voice with that way of growling the words instead of pronouncing them reminded me of my father after Lars' death and the terror that it aroused in me and my mother.
No one ever will ever make me feel so helpless and powerless again.
When I walked into the kitchen where their fight was going on, I looked at the man in his face and recognized him at once, as twenty years and a whole life hadn’t passed but rather only a few hours. The malevolent eyes were the same, just like his expression. He was taller and much fatter. Neither he nor the woman saw me coming as they were so busy throwing insults at each other across the table covered with moneybags.
Their lavish appearance and opulent furniture were a sign of a life lived in affluence.
I jumped on the table between them, making them both scream and retreat back. The woman, eager to run, stumbled over a chair and fell heavily on her big bottom while my friend Wilhelm pressed himself with his back against the cupboard behind him. Meanwhile, I just sat on the table with my legs crossed and fingertips joined waiting for them to recover from the surprise.
"Good evening, friends, sorry to disturb you, but I'm here to tie up a loose end."
"End? What end? How the hell did you get in?"
I rested my forehead against my fingers, both head and eyes lowered; he still wasn’t able to figure out who I was yet or what I wanted from him. You know, I like to reveal myself gradually.
Slowly I raised my head, smiled, and enjoyed their reaction. It’s my favorite part: eyes opening wide blood flowing from their faces leaving them pale and haggard; the awareness of their imminent death taking hold crawling in their stomach like a snake...
Things went according to the predestined script: the woman screamed and tried to escape from the room; the man cursed and a pile of plates on the cupboard almost fell to the ground as he tried to open a drawer in order to take possession of a weapon. In an instant, I had driven Mrs. Two-colored eyes back in the kitchen and stopped her partner’s attempt to arm himself. I locked the door, put the key in my pocket, and took back my comfortable position on the table, sweeping away most of the money which fell on the floor landing in every direction. Even in that extremely tense moment, I noticed that the butcher's eyes followed with infuriation the scatter of money around the room. That made me despise him even more.
"I hope we'll be able to have our little chat now. What about it, Wilhelm?"
"I... I don't have anything to say to you, freak, I don't even know who you are! What do you want from me?"
He was trying to be a bully like he used to be, but his voice was trembling just as much as his hands. His face had turned red and his strange eyes were darting in every direction desperately looking for an escape. His wife, or partner, was hiding behind him and sobbing in fear, reciting prayers between one moan and another.
"It’s not kind of you to call me freak, I could take offense. And if I get offended, I could do something you wouldn't like... like this!"
I dashed, grabbed the woman by her arm, and pulled her towards me sinking my fangs in her throat, sucking and supporting her until her legs gave way and she collapsed on the ground, still shaken by spasms. All this took no more than thirty seconds, perhaps forty. The man screamed, paralyzed with his hand on his face which he left a small slit so I could see his eyes staring.
"Ahhh, the good taste of Dutch food. I haven't had it for a long time, you know, Wilhelm?"
I wiped my mouth with a handkerchief which I took from my pocket and smiled at him, my teeth reddened with blood.
"What... what do you want from me? Tell me! You must be angry at me for some reason, but I don't know why... Tell me what I've done to you!"
"I want to tell you a story, butcher - I said after I sat back on the table - It's the story of a lonely child who lived in a big white house with his family. He was a wealthy child, but he had never bragged about this to anyone. He didn't care, actually. What he really wanted, for which he'd have traded all his wealth, were some friends to play with. In this boy's garden stood a big tree, a beautiful oak, his only friend. It allowed him to climb, welcomed him among its branches, and listened to his secrets. The child, from the top its branches, saw the farmers’ children from the nearby village playing cheerfully in the fields and he'd have liked to join them to take part in those games he had just read about in books. The oak, then, one day, helped him to climb over the wall that separated him from the rest of the world, setting him free. Free to run through the fields to those children whom he imagined to be happy and carefree, as glad as he was to make a new friend. He walked confidently, full of expectations, towards them, introduced himself, and asked them if he could play with them. He didn't care about the filthy clothes they wore or their dirty faces. He knew to go beyond the aesthetics. They, unfortunately, couldn't. Not their leader anyway, a boy with eyes of two different colors who envied the lonely boy’s fine clothes, his clean and smiling face with no trace of hunger and deprivation. This leader, then, decided that he had to inflict some pain to this rich newcomer.
Let's play fox and hounds. We are the hounds, he thought. “Continue the story, Wilhelm. Do you remember, now?"
On his face, memory had replaced confusion and fear grew exponentially. He opened his mouth to utter something, but no sound came out. He had to clear his throat and swallow as tears began to run down his cheeks.
"…The boys ran after the newcomer and when they caught him they beat him and stole his clothes..."
"Leaving him lying in the middle of the field, bleeding and unconscious. What was the child's name, Wilhelm? That child who had to go back home half naked, humiliated and had as his only friend his dog?"
"Van Hoeck. Raistan Van Hoeck, Lars' brother, the one who was killed by robbers. But for God's sake, 20 years have passed, we were only children..."
"You were the monsters. You really were. Now I'm going to kill you, you know that, don't you?"
"No, please, forgive me! Look at all this money, you can take them all, but let me live!"
"Vampires don't steal money. Almost never, anyway. We steal lives and now I want yours."
I didn't even grant him the privilege of my speed. I got off the table and walked over t
o him at a human pace, letting him see me coming so he noticed my sharp fangs, and allowed him to move backwards until he cornered himself with no way out. A dark spot spread across the front of his pants. I noticed it, he didn't. He was already screaming when it happened. I grabbed him by his throat with one hand and lifted him up until his feet were raised from the ground, enjoying his terror thoroughly as his desperate attempts to escape became weaker and weaker. Those odd unusual eyes which had haunted me so many times in my dreams suddenly became vacant and clouded while his movements were reduced to a few uncoordinated jolts and, then, completely stopped. When I was sure that he was truly dead, I threw his corpse on the opposite side of the room and left without even looking back. I didn’t want the blood of that thing in my mouth, I could throw up at the thought.
That's how my journey to the Netherlands ended. I would return many years later when everything had changed and there was no longer a trace of my home.
The return trip to Paris doesn't deserve to be mentioned: it was wet, sad, uncomfortable, and bleak in terms of nutrition. When the skyline of my adoptive town silhouetted on the horizon, I could have jumped for joy. As I entered my home, I indulged in a long hot bath in Shibeen's wonderful tub, then I laid down in my trunk which never seemed so warm and comfortable and slept for two days in a row.
11 - NEW ACQUAINTANCES
The period from my return to about 1745 includes some events worthy of mentioning; I almost died and I also got to know people, humans and vampires, who in one way or another have meant a lot to me and my life. I will try to tell you about them, hoping that not too many details have been lost in the dusty archives that is my mind.
I know I had moved, buying the house in Montmartre which I had seen before leaving for my infamous trip back to the Netherlands; I moved there a few months after my return. In the beginning, the furnishings were poor: I possessed my trunk, a bed, a wardrobe, a table with two chairs plus miscellaneous items needed for my daily survival. The apartment was composed of three rooms only, but from its windows I could enjoy a wonderful view of the city and that was enough for me. I had to use an intermediary who was recommended by Shibeen in order to complete the purchase; there was no other person who had wanted to deal with a member of my race. The apartment was the fourth in a little cottage with two floors. Over the years, I met only rarely my neighbors even though their voices reached me clear through the walls, allowing me to know much more information about them than they knew about me. In turn, I think I was a pleasant neighbor as no sound came from my apartment during the daytime and my nighttime activities were very quiet. More than anything, I read or painted, a hobby that I had discovered by chance and that relaxed me a lot, especially when I painted landscapes: nocturnal sceneries obviously. Memories from my human life were disappearing and with them the colors associated with the light of day.
Someone asked me once whether I look back with regret no longer seeing the sun or the daylight. That could be true at that time when the lighting in homes was limited to just candles or oil lamps. Since the invention of electricity, people can have comfortable lit homes or admire photographs and watch movies or TV programs, nostalgia is less strong. I, myself, hardly notice that my life takes place in the dark hours of the night. You just have to press a switch and the darkness is chased away.
Going back to that time, I remember thinking at times that I was the only vampire in all of Paris. Logic would tell me that it wasn't possible since the city was the home of one of the most important Clans of our race, composed of dozens of members. It was equally evident, though, that we frequented different zones since, in many years, I didn't come across any of them, not even by accident.
Lycans seemed to be extinct too, curiously enough. I wished I had faced one of them now and then to enliven my nights, but I didn’t even smell them, at least not until I met Stefan whom I'll talk about soon.
My nights were very monotonous: if I needed to, I went hunting, but not every day and not always with a lethal outcome to my victims. My blood requirement decreased as I aged and it was not always necessary to drain people to death. This gave me some relief and made me feel a little less evil, something that still concerned me, although less and less each passing year. After feeding, I used to wander around the town for a while or go into some tavern or bistro to listen to customers' thoughts, a habit I managed to maintain despite what happened in London and that I still keep, as you know. I discouraged any attempt to socialize, something that was very easy for me. No one bothered me and I didn't bother anyone.
From time to time, though, when a different hunger seized me - some needs never die - I allowed some professionals to approach me. It was easy to find them in the right neighborhood and I used to spend some hours in their company. At that time, the brothel business thrived; I had found a decent one ran by a matronly woman from the East with a very picturesque name, Madame Lescaut, where the rooms were clean and the girls young and fresh. They always welcomed me warmly, perhaps due to the fear that I elicited.
I knew the maîtres had some suspicions about my true nature; I had read it in her mind the second time I showed up, but a sort of tacit agreement was created between us: I wouldn't kill any of her... employees and treat them well in exchange for her silence and for the girls I preferred. In this case, two of them, Monique and Isabelle, were my favorite. At that time, I hadn't refined my charismatic skills yet, I didn't need them; I preferred more authentic relationships and these two girls were among the few who didn't lose it when they found out what I was. Some of them screamed and fled the room, others were too vulgar and passive for my taste, not showing the slightest emotion or passion, either positive or negative.
The first, Monique, a 20-year-old brunette, petite and well-built, was a cheerful girl, always ready to laugh. It seemed like the squalor of her profession did not affect her; she was entirely focused on her future when she'd quit being a prostitute to open a bakery where pastries would be baked within the property. Because the opportunities for conversation for me were few, I used to stop by to have a little talk with them after sex, at least until the girls weren't needed for another appointment. It often happened that I paid for an hour or two extra just to have these post-sex conversations. Girls seemed to be happy about it too as they could relax and be sure to be also heard. I had always been better at listening rather than talking.
I remember the first time I chose Monique and went up with her in her room; despite my glacial appearance, I was nervous. I never knew what kind of reaction I would arouse from the girls and this gave me anxiety, so I used to wear my sunglasses so as not to traumatize them when they first see me. She came to me in a funny springy step, almost hopping, with a nice open smile and cheerful eyes. She looked like she was going to take a trip to the country rather than just having another sexual encounter with a stranger. I had liked her from the beginning because she was different. There was no 'femme fatale' attitude from her, no excessive make up or powdered wig; she wore her dark hair loose on her shoulders, curly and a little bit ruffled. Above all, there was no reluctance in her smile or in her voice when she greeted me. She came up to me, hopping, took me by my hand, and drew me to her bed. She wore a red dress and stockings of the same color, high heeled ankle boots that lifted her up to fifteen inches below my chin. The room decor mirrored that nuance too, including the bedspread in satin fabric that Monique turned down with an expert move before making me lie down.
"So, honey, what do you like?" she asked me as she freed me from my jacket, my waistcoat, and my shirt, without giving me time to feel nervous. The pounding thought that typically accompanies me during foreplay was "When will she notice it?" and especially "When will she start to scream?"
Now I was there in front of her, naked to the waist, handled by what seemed to have been a tornado and nothing embarrassing had happened yet. Did she maybe have some problems with her sight?
I hadn't uttered a single word yet, I didn’t even have the time. I just stared at her thr
ough the dark lenses with a faint smile on my face.
"What's wrong? Don't you like me?" she asked, misunderstanding my dumbfounded silence. That was the only time I saw her smile falter.
"I do. Please, continue. As for my preferences... I leave that to your discretion.”
"What's your name, honey?"
"My name's Raistan. And yours?"
"I'm Monique. Have you been a demon for a long time?"
Humans are a constant surprise.
"How do you know what I am?" I asked, intrigued by such frankness, taking off my sunglasses as they were useless at that point.
“Well, you are not the first of your kind that I have met. Sex with your kind is... exciting. I only ask that you don’t bite me. My other clients could be bothered by it, you know."
"And you? Would you mind if I did?"
Now that the ice was broken, I felt much more relaxed. I was lying on the bed, holding my head up with my hand, and enjoying the fact that I have been accepted so naturally even though the information that other vampires had known that brilliant girl's special treatments bothered me a bit. My vanity had wanted that I was the first of my kind to have had her.
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