My Guest Arrives

Ah, the sound of carriage wheels against cobbles, finally my guest arrives. Putting down my first edition volume of “Wake Not The Dead” by Johann Ludwig Tieck, I rise from my chair and cross to the window. Far below me in the courtyard I see a young man alight from my ancestral coach.  As I eye him up the way an eagle stares at its prey from atop its mountain perch, I am not surprised to find that every muscle in my powerful body is tensed like a coiled spring. How easy it would be for me to drop the two hundred or so feet to the cobbles and have his throat ripped out before he even has the time to blink. To feel the hot, sweet, velvet taste of his life’s blood as it passes between my tingling lips and down my eager throat.

Calm yourself Blutsauger! Mentally I reprimand myself, as I cannot think that way, long gone are the days when my kind could quite happily eat their guests without fear of reproach. Sighing softly and cutting short my reminiscing over the old days, I check my attire. I will tell you now, just because I have walked this earth for the best part of eight hundred years and I hanker for the old days, doesn’t mean I am trapped in the past. I am very well up on the current affairs of the world and, more often than not, I am quite at home in t-shirt, jeans and sneakers, but my guest I fear, is looking for something more. . .traditional.

However, dressed in all my finery, a red Chinese silk open necked shirt, finest Italian leather pants and patent leather shoes from Knightsbridge in London, I’ve been told that I look like a modern day rock star. Fabulous. I make my way down the hall, ready to make my entrance on the main staircase. It’s a pity I have no reflection, for I’m sure I cut a devilishly dashing figure.

I watch from the shadows as Clove, my manservant come butler, shows our guest into the cavernous and ornate hall below. My guest looks nervously about him and I can tell by the sound of his breathing and the way that his heart beats that he is both impressed and nervous. From my vantage point, I can even see the slight flare of his nostrils and the dilation of the pupils in his hazel eyes. I lick my lips softly as each major vein and artery in his pale neck seems to stand out. My belly growls and I actually make the motion to leap, to attack, until I mentally reprimand myself again. Were I not already dead and so have no need to inflate my defunct lungs, I would take a deep, steady breath, to calm myself. Instead, I hitch an easy, carefree smile upon my handsomely rugged, clean cut features and lope with a graceful gait, down the staircase. He turns and spots me as I am half way down.

“Ah, Herr Stone, good of you to have come. An easy journey I hope?” I reach the bottom of the stairs and offer him a perfectly, manicured hand. He takes it and I can tell he is impressed by my slender but strong fingers and the paleness of my alabaster flesh. His skin is warm and slightly sweaty as he taps his heels together and bows courteously.

“It’s good of you to see me Your Highness,” he replies in perfect German.

“Ah, I see you are well versed in royal protocol as well as fluent in my native tongue,” I say and his cheeks flush a little.

“I spent a year in Fussen a couple of years back, researching an assignment I was on at the time.”

“And this is where you learned German?”

“No Highness. I actually learned the language while studying A-Levels at Sixth Form College.”

“And the royal protocol?” I ask him.

“Ah. . .” he answers, and he blushes again. “I…er… I did a little homework before I flew out Highness. I wanted to know how to address a personage of the German Royal Family so that I didn’t offend you or embarrass myself.” My guest explains and I can’t help but warm to him.

“Well, let me tell you Herr Stone that your lessons have not been in vain and you have conducted yourself before me, admirably.” I incline my head slightly as I finish talking and he copies the gesture. “Now, for the official welcome of my homeland.” I pull myself up to my full and considerable height, knowing how impressive I look. “Welcome to my home Herr Stone. Enter of your own free will and please, when you go, leave behind some of the happiness you have brought with you.”

“It is a great honour to be here Your Highness.” He bows again and I warm even more to his impeccable manners.

“Well, perhaps you would like to freshen up before dinner?”

“It was quite a tiring journey,” he replies. I clap my hands and Clove appears.

“Show Herr Stone to his room so that he may freshen up before dinner.” Clove bows and takes my guest’s suitcase and hand luggage.

“This way sir.” Clove moves to the foot of the stairs and I watch my guest follow.

“I’ll see you in an hour in the dining room. We shall talk then,” I tell him.

“Thank you Highness,” he replies.

“Please, let us dispense with formalities Herr Stone. You may address me simply as Blutsauger.” He nods and smiles and follows Clove up the stairs.

Being dead, I have no need, nor desire for food anymore, but I do enjoy watching others eat and Herr Stone seemed to enjoy his dinner of roast suckling pig and all the trimmings. He particularly seemed to enjoy the part where he washed it down with the finest claret from my cellar. I regard him closely over my clasped hands.

“Tell me Herr Stone, why exactly was I contacted by Vamplit Publishing?”

“Gaynor, my editor, is interested in producing a monthly column in our e-mag. As you probably know, our website is dedicated to vampires and she thought it would be great if we could interview a real life vampire as it were. Please forgive the pun.”

“And what made her come to me?” I ask.

“Well to be honest High…sorry, Blutsauger, there are vampires and there are vampires and then, there is Prince Blutsauger. Forgive me sir, but your name is legend. I have travelled extensively and I have yet to go to a country in Europe where your name is not known and where your hospitality is not renowned.” He blushes again but I revel in his compliments. “To be perfectly honest, we didn’t know whether you’d grant our interview but Gaynor said, ‘Nothing ventured, nothing gained.’ It happens to be her favourite saying and when Gaynor wants, Gaynor usually gets.”

“And quite right too, my friend. She seems to be a woman after my own heart. But tell me, what is it you actually wish of me?” He puts down his glass and studies me. His confidence in my presence seems to be growing, though I expect the wine has helped a little.

“We want to put the vampire’s side on record. Vampires, as I’m sure you are aware, have had a bad press over the years and we wish to put the record straight. We feel our readers and authors would love to read it from the vampires’ point of view. What it’s like to live between the living and the dead. What drives you, apart from blood and do you consider your state a gift or a curse.” I nod and mull this over.

“Perhaps my friend, before I tell you about myself, it might be, shall we say, helpful, to tell you about some of my kith and kin throughout history. I am well read and I have come across some atrocious and abysmal writings purporting to be factual about my species. Were we human, I dare say we could have sued for slander a thousand times over. So, in order to understand me, I think you must first understand my kith and kin.”

“That would be even better than Gaynor and I envisaged,” he tells me excitedly. He reaches into his pocket and brings out a small electronic gadget.  “Would you mind if I used this?” he asks, showing me what I recognise as a small recording device.

“By all means, use it.” I tell him. “But it will be of little use to you.”

“Oh?” he replies, his eyebrows arching.

“Just as a vampire casts no shadow or reflection in a mirror, neither can our image be captured by camera or our voices on recordings.”

“I never thought of that.” He looks a little sheepish as he responds, like a school boy who has just been caught in the midst of some misdemeanour.

“Please, feel free to write down what I tell you. You do know shorthand I take it?”

“Well, it’s been a while, but I’m sure it will come back to me.” I wait while he goes to fetch the necessary tools from his room.

When he returns, I am waiting for him in the Great Hall holding a heavy candelabra. He stands before me, a little uneasily, for I am scrutinising him closely, forgetting for the moment how intense my vampire stare is.

“Forgive Randall, I did not mean to stare, but is so rare that we have guests these days.”

“Not at all Highness,” he responds. His manners really are impeccable.

“I thought I would take you on a brief tour of these hallowed halls. Every wall, every stone, every corridor, has a tale to tell. Take this hall for instance. It was here in 1241 that a great ancestor of mine, Duke Francis Bonner, cut the throat of his wife, the Lady Eleanor Bonner, before sending what was left of her carcass down to the kitchens to be served at supper.” He blanches and I can’t help but let a cruel smile play along my lips. I can feel his discomfort as he imagines the scene. I can almost see the pictures as they play in his head.

“Here,” I point to the double doors, shadowed by the curve and sweep of my elegant staircase. “This is the…well, perhaps it is better if I show you.” He follows close behind me and his footfalls echo, bouncing off before becoming ensconced within the stones forever. I say his footfalls, for there is no sound from mine. As we cast no reflection and, as our voices cannot be recorded, neither can our footfalls be heard. It makes hunting so much easier. I push open the doors and bid him wait as I go around and light the candles in the wall brackets. Glancing back, I see his eyes grow wide in wonder. At last, I face him and I can feel the excitement radiating from him, just as I can feel the heat that comes from a flame. His mind is noisy and crowded with the myriad questions he has for me.

“May I present…The Grand Ballroom.” He bows in a gesture of homage as he steps into the room.

“This is a Mansart,” he utters, almost breathlessly. I, in turn raise my eyebrows in surprise.

“Why yes, it was Jules Hardouin Mansart himself who designed it back in 1680. You are an expert in historical architecture?” I ask him, extremely intrigued by his knowledge. He shakes his head casually as he spins on the spot, taking in every detail.

“Not really,” he replies. “We had a trip from college to the Palace of Versailles and it is extremely similar to the Hall of Mirrors that Louis XIV had built.”

“Ah, poor Louis,” I intone softly.

“You knew him?” he asks me in surprise.

“Oh yes, I knew him,” I tell him with a sardonic twist of the lips. “He was a particular favourite of mine.” I run a hand over one of the thirty two golden cherubim that supported the crystal candelabras around the room. “I remember when this room used to vibrate with life and merriment. Ah, the parties we used to have then.” He notices the faraway look in my eyes, the sadness in my tone and I feel the need to explain.

“When I was first endowed with the…gift, I am afraid that I let the thirst get the better of me and I rather indulged myself amongst family and friends. Oh, we still held masquerade balls, but I’m afraid these beautiful mirrors were too much of a reminder for some, of a different, long forgotten life. Interests waned and the parties dropped off.” I look wistfully at the mirrors, seeing only Randall’s reflection, the rest of the room and the crystal chandeliers coated with over two centuries of filth and grime. Even the frescoes so full of colour and vitality are now dulled with a film of dust. “You know, it was in here, during one of our grand balls in 1611, before the masterpiece you now see, when we received word that my cousin, Erzebet Bathori of Hungary was under arrest for murder.”

“Really?” he asks, clearly impressed.

“Hm,” I respond, dreamily. “Well, if you would care to follow me Randall, I shall show you what you really want to see, the history and folklore of my race.” With that, I lead him back into the Grand Hall.