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I. Leo
Somewhere off into the midnight sky in a world fogged with mist and smoke from the high rising chimneys, a decrepit old man, deft in fingers played some tune lost to memory. A slight drizzle flecked off the tiled, wooden roofs of the houses and tickled the skin of whoever would be passing by outside. The music that hung in the air was a sad and melancholy tune about something lost that couldn’t be found; someone dying that wouldn’t be helped. It drifted in and out of the windows, danced on the verge of hearing; a ghost that hung over your shoulders. Shaded in the blue, dark shapes in the shadows floated here and there creeping out of the moonlight that waned in the off distance.
The year was 1901 and the place was Paris, France. It was dark and dreary, as the prostitutes lurked in the shadows, waiting, as he walked down the cobble-stoned streets. His lunar silver hair tied back in a long tail, which slung over his back. His swallowtail coat barely touched the ground as he walked the midnight streets of an old Creole country. Azure eyes roamed up and down the streets with extended vision in the night. Milky pale skin stretched over his face, like a statue in a fancy museum, glowed in the night. Leather boots made a clink, clink, cutting in the stale air; a white-gloved hand hiding behind his back, as if ready to reveal some wondrous present. As he silently made his way down the street on that foggy night, he felt something grab his shoulder and twisted him around; a slurred voice erupted in his ear, though the sad melancholy sound of that fleeting song still danced in the air:
“Hello, my sweet, what are you doing on this cold, cold night?”
“Mademoiselle, please remove your hand from my shoulder,” he spoke to the prostitute. She smiled revealing decaying, yellow teeth. Reaching out her hands she began stroking him on his arm, in a slow rhythmic matter. Her unnaturally pale, powdered face looked at him straight in the eyes. The prostitute’s skin was caked in talc, though ugly scars could still be seen in the weak opacity. Splattered across her already wretched face, were traces of red blush, making her appearance as that of a neglected china doll. Her back was still warm and flushed and her undergarments barely on; she spoke to him:
“Why, darling, would I do that?” she paused and laughed, then continued in a hushed voice, “Let me help you warm up in this cold, cold night.” Snaking her ripped, laced hands around his slim waist. Raising her head up to kiss him on the lips, but before she could, he stepped back. She looked at him and smiled, but her smile quickly faded away as her glazed brown eyes met the man’s. She drew in a gasp, releasing a mephitic odor into the already stale air.
His eyes, crystal blue eyes, smoldered and swirled, veiled in a dark sash of cellophane darkness, glittering under the haughty moonlight. He smiled revealing deathly sharp fangs, which glistened in the moonlight -- those that weren’t there before. Opening his arms as to welcome the trembling prostitute in a cold embrace, but she stepped back, and stumbled to the ground, in a heap of old rags that was once a magnificent ball gown. He bent down and grabbed her arm, whispering these words in her ear:
“Do that again, Mademoiselle, and you won’t live to tell about it.” His touch was icy cold and his breath had no scent, but was freezing nonetheless. He let go of her arm, with such force she fell back to the ground with a cry. He adjusted his suit and was off into the night, disappearing into the night like the fog, leaving behind a frightened soul.
The prostitute laid there on the ground long after he was gone, the fog and mist settling back after his wake. The drizzling rain settled upon her skin, smudging her makeup and dampening her dress. Her ripped, lacey gloves dug into the cobble-stone as she shook with fear. Hair lifting in the breeze, she suppressed a sob and began to crawl into the alley way; slithering away, the music of the night glaring in her head.
The man’s walk home was sullen and empty, his footsteps echoing across the sidewalk. He walked past many homes, all filtered by drapes that hinted the light that was behind. A tongue slowly crawled out of his mouth and licked his lips and he inhaled the cold air that wafted about. His walk seemed to be aimless, capricious to the eyes that peeked between the drapes that heard the oncoming clink, clink. Blue once again, his eyes roamed lazily from side to side taking in the never changing surroundings of the path home.
A cacophonous clang of something in a dark corner of the alley slung itself into his attention. Shadows severely draped whatever it was into anonymity, a black slate of darkness that was impassable by sight and sense. The man noted that it was a cat, catching its prey.
Turning a few corners and up a few hills and slopes, past some stores closed hours ago. Finally he stopped in front of a wrought iron gate. He inserted a small silver key into the keyhole and the gates swung inward, noiselessly. His shadow rippled across the stones and rocks on the ground as he walked up the path; an unnatural wind picked up and pushed the gates back into place, the clicking heard seconds later ensured no other passage through.
The mansion towered over his acres of land, dark windows that led to empty rooms, loomed above as he approached the doors. The doors arched above anyone’s height and met at the top, where two marble angels meet in a kiss it seemed, but no – a final goodbye. He unlocked the doors and entered the darkness.
He did not bother to light a candle. His stride was confidant, undaunted by the darkness of the waning moon. The wind fondled the rich drapes into the air, furling and curling, dancing and twisting, sounding like the fluttering wings of birds in a frantic fly. The man walked, his footsteps still click, clicked on the polished marble flooring. His fingers slowly ran across the keys of a grand piano as he walked past, breaking the silence like glass shattering into countless pieces. The confidant stride abruptly ended as he encountered a vast portrait of a beautiful lady.
It was dark and the paint glimmered in the moonlight which sliced the picture into many off portions. He did not need to see the painting to know what was there, who was portrayed. He remembered her features very well, for they were burned, ingrained upon his memory. Her blue eyes forever open, sorrowfully looking at him, her white gloved hand caressing the burgundy satin sheet draped across the chair in which she sat. He remembered her face, the tussle of her golden hair dusted with powder and something that glittered in the night, the stark crimson lips that were slightly parted. He remembered well, far too well; he closed his eyes and continued on.
Rather then going up the stairs to the vacant rooms, he took a path less traveled by humans, and went down into his forlorn cavernous cellars. Once again, emanating darkness shrouded everything, leaving no leeway for sight or sense; a darkness that suffocated sound and breath, air and feeling. As he reached the floor, from a long walk down the marbled stairs, he advanced to the farthest regions of the cellar. Seemingly hundreds of beautifully carved columns, fifteen feet apart, held up the ceiling that towered above his head, the result of the long trek down.
He walked slowly, seeming to be comforted in the blanket of darkness that hugged his body until he came upon a handsome wooden coffin. It was built of the finest oak and gilded in gold. The edges were crawling with ivy leaves that ran around the whole lid, carved so that when the lid was closed the leaves hung off the coffin like the real draping of the kind. At the center of the coffin there was a single emblem: a crescent moon, sharp at one end, but the other end slowly morphing in the shape of a howling wolf. A brightly burning candle stood next to the coffin, melted wax slithering down its length, a regal show of age.
Taking off his coat and hanging it on the coat stand at the foot of the casket, he lifted the lid off the coffin and settled into the velvet bedding, padded with rich, soft down. Crossing his slender hands across his chest and closing his eyes, he drifted away; not into sleep for the dead did not need it. His mind settled somewhere unconscious, between the border of life and death. He didn’t bother to close the lid for it was already too dark and it often got stuffy.
Somewhere, in the distance, past the old houses where the drizzling rain flickered off, past the many alleyways to where the hushed sound of a mournful song can be heard, a drunkard stumbled into a dark alleyway to urinate. His calloused hands clumsily pulled down his pants and as his urine fell; its sound was muffled, the urine not splashing loudly on the ground as it should on cobble-stone. The drunkard looked down and saw that he was urinating on a nameless girl’s slashed throat. The man stifled a yell and stepped back, continuing to urinate somewhere else.
It wasn’t until morning, while a delivery boy was making his early errands, did he stumble upon the corpse; the flash of white gloves caught the corner of his sight. The young boy crept closer still and soon he was retching with the smell of foul blood and urine. It was later still, when the police had come, did they see that her blood had been drained completely from her fragile body. Her ball gown glistened in the sunlight as her limp body was carried away; her eyes were still open, as if searching for something that she had lost. Of course, though, that was impossible because she was dead, killed several hours ago and when one lost one’s life, it was something the keenest search could not find again.
The silver haired vampire made sure that that girl was dead, before he made his way home, after leaving the ball with her; and then being encountered by some second rate whore -- he would have killed her too, but he was full and the blood of the fell were not so as sweet as a virgin’s. The girl’s blood was quite satisfying as it glided down his throat, warm and sticky -- the juices of life. The vampire drifted off into a dreamless state of nothingness, wondering what tomorrow would bring. If it would bring another nameless host to feed upon and wondering if he would find a love again. With that Leo slept in his coffin, in his mansion, on his hill, in Paris, France, in 1901.
To be continued.