Two
DARREN
A n ornate ceiling meets my dazed eyes, the morning light exacerbating the ache in my temples. My throat feels like sandpaper, making swallowing difficult. The room seems to sway before me, even if I haven't moved a muscle.
Every atom in my body is ablaze.
Fighting against my fatigue and the thick fog that clouds my dexterity, I untangle myself from my sheets and blankets.
After staggering up to shower in my ensuite bathroom, I finally pull on clothes and try to steady myself before opening the door to my new bedroom and heading out into the dimly-lit hallway.
Clair de Lune , the manor where I’m staying, has an ancient charm. The property is so immense that I almost got lost the first few days of my transition. Now, I just barely know my way around.
Scratching at my wet hair, I meander down the corridor, trying to ignore the irresistible pull that’s making me feel heavy and uncoordinated, as if I am learning how to walk all over again. Thankfully, someone calls my name and interrupts the awful sensation that has been plaguing me for the past four months.
“G’day, kid!” Terry Whetherton greets me, slapping my left shoulder lightly with something he is carrying. It looks like he’s on his way to read out on the terrace: he has a thick book in his hand. Upon closer inspection, I see it’s Animal Farm by George Orwell.
“Good morning, Terry,” I respond, offering him a small smile.
In the past few months, since Lenore brought me here, I’ve grown quite fond of Terry. He got turned when he was an older gentleman by the last Reine. Due to the fact that he was her partner, he’s offered some authority from the current Queen and still lives in the manor. I think he’s been a Vampyr for a few decades now, but I’m not sure of the exact number of years he’s been, well, undead .
It’s still so mind-boggling for me to think these thoughts, say these things, that were just parts of movies, books, and TV shows. Inconsequential. Fictitious. Not my reality, not my life. Until now.
Undead.
Turned.
Vampyr.
“How’re you going?” Terry inquires, running his fingers over the thick spine of his book. The way he’s asking–it’s not an unfeeling or rhetorical query. He truly cares about the answer.
I clear my throat, debating which explanation would be most appropriate. Unfortunately, I can’t think of anything logical or even coherent to say. “Uh… Alright.”
Terry’s blue eyes look me over quizzically, proving my response wasn’t very convincing. “Did you–did you feed last night?” he asks, but it looks like he already knows the answer.
I shake my head ‘no.’ How can I just go out into the world–a much more frightening world than I ever imagined–and kill an innocent person? Or worse, traumatize them by feeding on them and unsuccessfully erasing their memory? Terry has tried to teach me, but like other Vampyric skills I’m expected to have honed by now, I just can’t get the knack of it.
The crux of the matter is, feeding off an innocent person, potentially draining them of their blood, and taking away their free will, are all deplorable acts. None of those options sit well with me, though they seem to be acceptable behaviour to the rest of the faction. Of course, Vampyrs are expected to be discreet in an attempt to keep the monsters’ existence hidden from the humans–and I think that ‘sport’ is one some of them enjoy playing.
Based on my educational background, I’d usually jump at the chance to analyze a new social structure, but this one defies explanation, order, and sanity. It’s almost impossible for me to wrap my mind around everything Terry has told me surrounding Vampyrs and their social interactions with one another and society at large.
Terry huffs but gives me a small smile in consolation. “If you don’t practice, you’ll never get over this hump, kid,” he reminds me. “But you got time, still. Besides–” He holds out his left hand to me.
My stomach drops but also surges with an uncontrollable hunger when I see the blood bag in his hand.
“This stuff right here will go down better. Here you go.” He holds it out to me, and despite the nausea at the thought of drinking someone else’s blood, my shaking fingers take the bag from him almost immediately. I know what he means by the blood potentially ‘going down better.’ He knows I have moral quandaries about ‘drinking it warm,’ as others in the manor like to say.
Terry smiles at me as I turn the blood bag over in my hands. I’m so light-headed that I may pass out–which was never something I did pre-transformation–but I’m also so hungry, I can’t think straight.
“Did yah speak to Lenore yet?” he inquires.
I swallow back an uneasy lump in my throat. Lenore Crané is my so-called saviour . She was vacationing in Saguenay when she found me dumped in an alley, turning me to save me from certain death.
I didn’t really have a choice in this new life she decided to give to me: when I woke up, I was across the country and living in a strange city, my murder already being broadcast in the media. Another mysterious homicide involving a Master’s student attending the Université de la Montagnard swept the news, devastating my family and friends. Lenore has been very tight-lipped about my demise, telling me she doesn’t want to upset me by giving details while, in fact, it causes the opposite to occur.
No going back.
“No. Not yet,” I respond softly.
Terry wags his now-free finger at me, tsking quietly. “The Queen won’t like that,” he cautions.
I know he is right. I need to meet with Lenore to talk to her about, well, a number of things–one of which being my new role as Vampyr Prince. She more or less let me get used to things the first few months–but last night, she told me in no uncertain terms that ‘I need to start acting the part.’
I guess that also means calling her Maman and not Lenore.
“I just can’t–” I begin.
“Darren! There you are, buddy!”
Zander Johnson-turned-Crané, just nineteen years old but the ‘third oldest’ in the Vampyr Prince hierarchy, approaches me jovially and hugs me from the side. He’s tall, muscular, and very intelligent. He loves expanding his mind and is kind to everyone. However, the other Princes–or, our brothers , as everyone else calls us–don’t have much to do with him.
Zander is different from the other two Princes. He is friendly, welcoming, and, dare I say it, more human than I would have expected from a Vampyr.
“Missed you at breakfast,” Zander adds, which points to another difference: he actually likes me.
I give him a small smile. “Sorry,” I murmur.
“This bloke here is still avoiding warm bodies , if you catch my meaning,” Terry teases, nudging me with his book again.
My stomach turns at that, but I know Terry is making light to try and get me used to this new way of life. But something tells me I’ll never get used to it.
Zander grins at me easily, his brown eyes crinkling around the sides. “Why don’t I take you out for a stroll–once you eat?” he asks, his eyes landing on the blood bag that I’m holding. I’m sure he could have smelled it a mile away, but maybe he’s looking at it for emphasis.
His proposal is a double-edged sword. He’s asking me to come outside with him after I’ve eaten. So I won’t accidentally kill or drain the blood out of a pedestrian. Terry told me that I’d always remember my first kill–that a Vampyr will always kill, accidentally or otherwise.
I never want to go through that.
Still, I consider the question. I’ve spent almost all of my post-transition time indoors, trying to get used to my new life. My entire body aches when out in the sun–or it did , until Lenore gave me a spelled golden bracelet that enabled me to be outdoors without getting any of the Vampyr side effects . Apparently, these spelled objects are bonuses to being in the Vampyr Nobility: there are dozens, if not hundreds, of other Vampyrs in Vancouver that don’t have such a perk. I don’t know how la Reine got her hands on such trinkets–but it’s not as though she has been in a very explanatory mood over the past few months. My questions have been forced to burn inside of me like a swelling ember in a dry thicket.
I try to suppress the throbbing in my temples. I need to feed. I know I do. I just can’t bring myself to do it more than a couple of times a day (apparently, some Vampyrs have voracious appetites and can feed several times daily). The self-loathing and disgust poke at me like angry wasps whenever I do.
Maybe a promenade with Zander will take my mind off things.
I realize I haven’t responded to Zander’s proposition yet and give him a quick nod. “Sure,” I agree.
As soon as I take him up on his suggestion, Zander grins excitedly, his white teeth shining against his dark skin. “Great!” he exclaims. “I’ll show you all the hot spots–the best library, the well-known coffee joints. Even the fancy-smancy indoor pool.”
“That sounds… Wonderful,” I fumble. Had I not been suffering from this new lifestyle that was forced upon me, I would have loved to venture out into the city and explore the libraries and cafés (minus the pool, as I sink like a brick in the water).
Zander gives me a teasing frown as if he knows that I’m feigning enthusiasm.
Terry clears his throat, causing us to look at him. “La Reine?” he points out.
My stomach churns again with further unease. How could I forget?
“Didn’t you hear?” Zander tells us both. “She’s in a secret meeting. She’ll be gone all day.”
Air surges back into my lungs, filling me with relief–but fear eclipses my calm in the form of sweat beading my brow. On the one hand, I’m relieved that Lenore won’t be around for a lecture about Vampyr Prince duties (as if any kind of prolonging can delay the inevitable). But on the other, there’s so much about this new life I don’t understand. This secret meeting is further proof that I’m in way over my head.
Zander is thrilled by this news, however. He slaps my arm, jostling the red liquid in the bag. My senses come alive with the movement, perhaps because it emulates what blood is like in a human being.
It makes my skin crawl.
“I suppose I’m free, then,” I proclaim, woozy from my elevated heart rate, the blood bag’s swimming contents dulling my cognition.
“Great!” Zander enthuses, further proving my point about his untethered enthusiasm. “Drink up, and then we can ship out.”
Terry gives me a tiny nod of encouragement as Zander walks away. “It’ll be good for you to get out. Get a taste of normal life, eh?” he prods, his Australian accent comforting and relieving some of my anxieties. I give him a subtle smile in return.
Terry has been a mentor to me ever since I woke up on that first dreary and hard-to-remember morning at the Clair de Lune Manor. I don’t know what I’d do without his gentle encouragement and friendship.
I know I need to get with the program–somewhat. I don’t have any choice in the matter. Like it or not, I’m a part of this. If I want to survive–if one can call this survival –I need to attempt to acclimate.
Nervousness floods my veins as Zander opens one of the double doors to the mansion, launching happily into the sunlight as if nothing sinister or supernatural had ever befallen him in the first place.
“Come on!” he calls as I try to keep up, finally falling into place beside him. “Séjour has the best coffee, bar-none. Thank God it’s in vamp territory.”
Zander’s coffee shop recommendation tugs at my memory, reminding me of the ongoing feud between the three supernatural races. I know from my ‘Vampyr tutoring’ that my new race has been in a centuries-old war with Magicena and Koramas–in essence, witches and warlocks, and werewolves. I truly do not understand the reason for this animosity, especially if all three factions are trying to go undetected amidst the human demographic.
Zander seems to agree with my pacifism, though he never says anything to support my theory regarding his stance on the matter. It appears that he has this ‘peace and happiness above all’ vibe, reminding me of my sixteen-year-old sister, Sierra. That could be why I enjoy his company so much.
“How are we going to get there?” I ask him as we walk through the elaborate sleeping gardens at the front of the property, hard snow crunching beneath our boots. There are gardens beyond the terrace on the other side of the manor too. Being surrounded by so much nature forces me to take a breath and relax more than before. The blood I consumed begins to fade into the recesses of my mind, but it remains etched on the fringes, tugging at my desire to calm myself.
“Walk, of course!” Zander tells me eagerly. “It’s only sixteen blocks.”
Sixteen blocks?
Zander is used to physical activity. He’s obsessed with polo, healthy eating (by human standards), and frequenting the gym.
Like Terry, Zander has been helping me adjust to my new ‘unlife.’ According to Zander, so long as Vampyrs keep a steady diet of blood, they can still eat and function in a–dare I say it–almost human way.
I don’t want to ruin his good mood so I don’t protest and instead give him a smile in acknowledgement as we exit the open wrought-iron gates of the Clair de Lune Manor.
“It’s a sunny day, for a change,” I remark as we cross the nearest intersection, heading onto the busy streets of the richer part of town.
Tourists and sightseers enjoy this section of Vancouver. I know I could never afford to vacation here when I was–
I can’t think about it. I can’t even fathom the term.
“Sure is!” Zander agrees as we pass a couple using their phones to take pictures of each other and likely the rambling and ornate estates just ahead of them. As they move away from us, my rigid posture loosens. It’s hard to get close to them knowing I could lose control at any moment. I feel marginally better with Zander at my side.
“A little cold, though,” Zander adds as he yanks up the collar of his jean jacket.
I can’t help but shiver as a harsh gust of wind tosses my wet hair and makes me wish I could have found my beanie to use as a shield against the Winter air. It’s February, so we’re smack-dab in the middle of rainy season and brisk temperatures.
“Yeah,” I concur. “Québec is definitely colder and snowier, but…”
I trail off, feeling out of my depth now that I am outdoors for the very first time in what feels like eons.
It seems like Zander understands my strange musings. I keep trying to tell myself that Zander, as well as the other Vampyr Princes and every other Vampyr in existence (how odd is that to say?) have been through the very same thing. Somehow, that doesn't seem to ease my pain–likely because I didn’t think Vampyrs were rooted in reality until Fall of last year.
Zander stops me, putting his left hand out. He points ahead. “This whole part of town–the Ritz, as I call it–is vamp territory,” he informs me. “I know Terry told you earlier, but it’s another thing to see it up close.”
“Yeah.” I nod, surveying the confines of what is–or should be –my sanctuary. Nowhere is safe from my harrowing thoughts.
“The Magicena have the older part of town. The Koramas control the national parks and the areas around them. Just remember not to wander into the park that borders our two territories,” he adds seriously, almost as if he has experience in that area.
I’m startled when Zander steps in front of me, firmness overtaking his usual happy-go-lucky persona. “Don’t ever cross the border,” he warns me, enunciating each word as if he’s hoping I take further note.
“What happens if I–”
Zander breaks my question by shaking his head firmly in disagreement. “If you do, there’s only one outcome.” He rips his right index finger across his neck, imitating a ‘death’ gesture. The meant-to-be funny sound he makes never reaches his eyes, which are still ominously serious.
I swallow unevenly.
From what I remember, Vampyrs are said to be immortal, but there are a few ways to kill them. Decapitation or ripping out one’s heart. A stake through the heart. Sunlight is very harmful, a dead giveaway that Vampyrs are different–but it won’t kill them.
A larger lump forms in my throat when I once again realize that them isn’t the appropriate term to use.
Us.
Our.
All those things could kill me .
Because I’m a Vampyr.
“Are the Koramas and Magicena really that–” I try again.
“Cut throat? Ruthless? Blood-thirsty?” Zander smiles slightly at his ironic statement. “Yeah. Kinda wish it wasn’t like this, but… We can’t fight it.” He shrugs dismissively, as if the centuries-long plight is just unavoidable, impossible to evade or escape.
I haven’t seen Magicena or Koramas before, but from what I can remember of horror movies, I really do not want to come across either supernatural entity. Who knows what was exaggerated or toned down in the media? Reality could be so much worse.
I want to take Zander’s word for it, but I still can’t understand why the three groups of people can’t coexist. It’s clear that the pointless killing of members of each faction has caused the cycle of violence to continue for centuries. And what about the fact that these people want to live undetected by humans? Murders and vendettas would presumably draw a lot of attention.
But I don’t bother saying any of this to Zander. Instead, I give him an understanding glance as pedestrians pass us by, trying not to watch them, trying to tune out their pulses drumming inside my ears. I swallow, concentrating on my feet and the icy sidewalk. Anything to stop myself from desiring blood.
When the urge finally dissipates, I suck in a breath and regard these people I’ve suddenly grown to envy. They all lead normal, albeit fragile, human lives. And I’m stuck being this atrocious monster that was barely able to get a few sips from a blood bag without vomiting some of it.
Zander steps back to his previous position beside me, and we continue along the sidewalk as if nothing transpired between us.
“So,” Zander begins quietly as we meander past a toy shop and children with their noses pressed to the glass, “have you checked on them yet?”
Zander knows I left behind a family–parents, a sister, friends, a school career. I’m assuming by ‘them,’ he means if I’ve gone back to Saguenay to ensure my family’s welfare.
“No,” I respond solemnly.
Usually I’d be more verbose, but ‘no’ is all I can muster.
Zander nudges me with his left arm. “Hey, I get it. I couldn’t bring myself to check in on Mom for a long time. Didn’t help that when I finally did, she’d sold the house and had a mental breakdown.”
I’m not sure how Zander knows about his mother’s mental health, but I don’t ask any questions. I just look at him. The rigid vulnerability of his dark face tells me he truly is a nineteen-year-old boy, even though he’s been a Vampyr for five years.
I place my hand on his shoulder. “I’m sorry, Zander,” I tell him softly.
“Hey, you too, man.” Zander nods at me. “Leaving your parents and sister… That’s rough.”
We walk in silence for a long while. I find myself enjoying watching the people who come and go beside and around us (as long as I try to ignore my bloodlust). It’s nice to get lost in the crowd–to feel like I’m one of them.
Who am I kidding? I’ll never be one of them , ever again.
Life as I knew it is over.
I’m no longer a twenty-six-year-old Master’s student living a normal life.
I’m a monster who preys on the very people with whom I used to identify.