Ursula and Vlad are from a different, longer story that will not work, so instead this is going to appear in bits and pieces. Much happier than anything else I’ve written recently!

-

“Yo,” said Ursula.

Vlad looked up. “Since when have you been into this newfangled colloquialism rage?”

“Since I found it useful to attract the attention of those who would otherwise be lost to their misery,” she said. “I’m allowed to lower myself to the country’s standards once in a while, aren’t I?”

“Maybe, but it seems rather plebeian of you, o mighty queen.”

“Shut up, Vlad.” She sat down beside him. “So, what’s got you so broody?”

“And here I thought it was in the description.”

He could feel her eyes raking him up and down. “Sorry, mister,” she said. “I don’t see a lick of satin or brocade on you. And, may I add, your hair,” and, oh the indignity, she ruffled it, “is much too short.”

“I meant the description of ‘teenager’, not ‘dark immortal creature of the night’, you idiot. Besides, I’ve got the teeth, what more do you want?”

“My, aren’t we the snarky one, then?”

Vlad snorted. “My, aren’t we the condescending one, then?”

“Point taken, my lord.”

He groaned. “Not you, too, Urs.”

“Huh?”

“Very eloquent.”

“Answer! And take your head out of your hands. You’re depressing even my ever-buoyant spirits.”

“And here I thought that was impossible.”

“That was a very bad and very ineffectual segue. Explain.”

“It’s just family. Crap. You know. Force of habit to complain.”

She winced. “Oh, man, I’m sorry. They hounding again?”

“That’s one way to put it. Less hounding and more . . . satanic hell-hounding, if you get my drift.”

“Ooh. That doesn’t sound pleasant.”

“Tell me about it.”

“Is it the usual accept-your-place-as-heir crap or something else? Or both?”

“Both. All rolled into one horrible dark ball. Relatives have been dropping in all day. The entire house smells like goddamn blood and hair gel.”

“Ouch.”

“Yes. Only no band-aids for this boo-boo.”

Ursula let out a startled laugh before she could stop herself. “Sorry, sorry,” she said at his scowl. “But you should have heard yourself. Like Superman for three-year-olds.”

“Superman?”

“Or something.”

“Thanks a million.”

“So, what are they yelling about now?”

He sighed. “It’s just--you know, the ‘you’re sixteen and should be readying yourself for a life of dark-dreary-underworld-spirit-tending--”

“I take it they didn’t put it quite in those terms?”

“No, not quite. The approximation is close enough, for goodness’ sake.”

“Badness’ sake, you mean?”

“Ursula, stop. It’s not funny. Plus I’m busy complaining.” She opened her mouth, no doubt to apologize, but he cut in. “So. Not only are they doing the usual schtick but also they’ve decided I need to choose--” his nose wrinkled in disgust-- “a mate.”

Ursula coughed. “A what?”

“My point exactly.”

“And they really call it that? I mean. Mate? Isn’t that a little, I don’t know, animalistic?”

“Ursula, you’re talking about a race of mostly undead creatures who attack people and eat their blood. I don’t know how much more animalistic you can get.”

“But what about the cravats? That doesn’t speak of a bestial nature.”

“Is everything about the cravats?”

“Of course. Even you,” and she put her arm around his neck so that her hand pinched the front of his shirt, “would look sexy in a cravat.”

“Not without it?”

“Tell me more about this mate business.”

“Well. Apparently I have to have one.”

“That wasn’t a very complete answer.”

“No, I suppose it wasn’t.”

Ursula, to Vlad’s unexpected disappointment, removed her arm from his neck and made little circular motions with her hands. “Well, go on, then. Don’t keep me dangling here in suspense.”

“It’s stupid,” he said, and hunched in further on himself. “It’s not fair to anyone. It doesn’t make any sense.”

“Can I help?”

“Probably not. Unless you want to be chained--”

“Chained?”

“Metaphorically, Urs, metaphorically. As I was saying, unless one wants to be virtually shackled to an immortal, vital-fluid-sucking, temporary caretaker of the dead and act as their personal refillable blood vial, it doesn’t sound like much fun. And, god, Urs, I don’t want to do that to someone! Or have it be done to me! I don’t know anyone with vampire strain in them.”

“You need a pedigree?”

“Something, I guess, to connect you with your vampire. That’s not the point.”

She shifted closer, uncharacteristically silent. “So,” she said, finally, “what is your point?”

Vlad put his head back in his hands. “I don’t know. I don’t know. I just . . . I don’t want this. I didn’t ask for this.”

“Hmm,” said Ursula. They sat for a while, basking in the sun--even the undead had heard of Darwin, after all; they’d thought it was a great idea, this evolving thing, and had done it surprisingly well--until she clapped him on the shoulder, said “I’m off, happy brooding,” and took off for her house at a brisk pace.

Vlad pulled in on himself a little more and sighed.

Alas, alack, and other terms of woe, he thought, and slumped further into his chair.