INDIFFERENCE, CONCLUSION
Ok, vamps, here it is. The final chapter. I appreciate your hanging in with me and I really want to thank Heather and Sandi and Arness for the beautiful images! In this post, Heather did the icon, Arness the washington scene and Sandi the bedroom scene. Thanks thanks thanks ladies. Thanks to you all. I am not disappearing, just recharging some creative juices, I hope. I have some ideas! I so appreciate your friendship and encouragement, please stay in touch and let me know how things are. Happy father's day, while I am at it. Have a wonderful summer, and thanks again, Brian
THIS ENTRY IS INTENDED FOR ADULTS OVER THE AGE OF 21. IF YOU ARE NOT 21 OR OLDER, DO NOT OPEN THIS ENTRY, MAY CONTAIN SCENES OF GRAPHIC VIOLENCE OR EXPLICIT SEX.
******
Four years later.
It was a quiet meeting, away from all the hoopla attendant to a presidential inauguration. Not easy to do when all eyes are on him, the newly elected president, the first African American president, the man who would be sworn in tomorrow on what promises to be a clear, cold day in January.
He isn’t in the White House, yet, not tonight. Rather he is a guest at Blair House, where dignitaries often stay, as the current head of state enjoys his last night in residence. That didn’t make it any easier for me from a security standpoint. I am, after all, a suspicious type. But they found a way for me to enter Blair House without being seen by the ever-present press.
I felt like a secret mistress being spirited to a private rendezvous, and that comparison makes me smile. This is hardly a romantic fling that awaits me. But it might well be my last time to meet with him face to face before the flanks close around him.
His newly appointed Chief of Staff, and former campaign manager, meets me in the ornate parlor where I was told to wait. There is something utterly ghoulish about this little man, although no ghoul possesses his body. He is just a ghoul by nature, and one of those little men who acts very big in order to make up for deficiencies.
Now that his candidate had been elected, in no small part due to his efforts, his already enormous ego must be zeppelin in size. When his man was running, he was my best friend, constantly calling me with his hand out, which I generously filled and refilled, working through fundraisers when my legal donation limit was quickly reached. I suspect a very different reaction now.
I received my obligatory invitation to the ceremonies, but I didn’t fail to notice my seat was in a place where I was unlikely to receive much attention from the press. Not near the candidate himself, or other large contributors. Not surprised by that, really. After all, I am a vampire.
His minion shakes my hand as he struts into the room. I don’t like his handshake. His hand is small and he squeezes too hard as if to show what a man he is. I suspect he doesn’t like the cool texture of my flesh either, since he quickly withdraws. His smile is miles from the reptilian expression in his eyes.
“Bryant, how nice to see you. Sorry for the late hour.”
It is almost two a.m. I’m surprised the president-elect is taking visitors this late. “Early for me,” I say with my best vampirian smile. I see a glimmer of discomfort in his look before he recaptures his cockiness.
“Well, the president has a big day tomorrow, so…”
“Yes I’ve heard,” I drip sarcasm at him. “I won’t be long.”
“I’ll stay in the room, if you don’t mind.”
What does he think? I want a presidential snack before I go? And if I did, does he suppose he can stop me? “That’s entirely up to the president.”
Just then the president-to-be enters the room, looking a little tired but otherwise beaming with joy over his big events. He wears no suit coat or tie, and his crisp white shirt is a little wilted. Otherwise he looks very fresh and youthful. “Bryant,” he gives me a firm handshake. “Welcome!”
“Good to see you, Mr. President.”
He laughs. “Not yet. Not yet. Have a seat. You can go,” he tosses to his chief who frowns. “Please,” he adds firmly but politely and the man reluctantly withdraws. We sit side by side on the couch, in different corners as he says, “Thank you again for all your support, Bryant. Your contributions and the support of your supporters was critical in the tight states.”
“Yes,” I agree. “It was.” Otherwise, I never would have been granted this audience. “Will, I hope you don’t forget your promises to me in the blush of all this power.”
“I wouldn’t call it ‘promises’, exactly,” he becomes cagey. “I do note that we agree on many social issues, including the status of your…kindred…in society.”
“I wouldn’t label it social issues,” I push back. “For us, it is nothing short of survival.”
“Yes, yes of course,” he dismisses. “You would see it that way, of course.”
“Is there another way to see it?”
“Bryant, I was scrupulous in my campaign, as I have been in all my campaigns, to never sell my soul in return for votes. I make no promises, and do not consider myself beholding to any man.” He looks at me as if he might further amend his description of me, and then smiles. “I’m sure you understand. Anything less would be business as usual, and I am all about no business as usual in Washington.”
“Fair enough,” I think we each made our point, albeit obliquely. I hand him a small box wrapped in white paper with a red ribbon. It looked better before his security opened it. Their powers of reassembly were limited. “To celebrate your victory.”
He opens it to reveal a red leather presentation box trimmed in gold scrolls. Inside is a paperweight. Frozen within the crystal orb is a small, finely carved figure of Darth Vader, the Star Wars villain who gave him a disguise when first we met. He laughs.
“Very fitting.”
“Yes. Perhaps not for the desk of the President, but you can find a home for it.”
“And I will. Thank you.”
Engraved on the base is the catch phrase, “May the force be with you.”
I stand and so does he. “Never forget those who supported you from the first,” I tell him and then we say goodbye. To others it may appear that very little was said. To us, we know where we stand. But it isn’t over yet, not by far. As he will find out tomorrow.
My partner, my slayer and I are sharing a house I recently purchased in Georgetown, to be nearer the source of power. When the limo stops in front of the elegant brick townhouse, I see a strange vision. Not one, but three of my young slayers hovering nearby, all wearing the hooded sweaters, shock of blond hair and silvery eyes that make Justinian so identifiable. The real Justinian, who is in the car with me, curses at the sight of these imposters.
They are human. They have adopted his look, and even had special contact lenses crafted to give their eyes that unearthly slayer glow. Some have earrings of the scythe that my lover wears on occasion. Humans don’t know the lore of the slayer, or even that they are called slayers. They think of Justinian as my bodyguard. But they like his look and attitude enough to mimic it.
Other youths near the stoop wear the dark D and G suits and white shirts and narrow ties that mark the Followers of the Shadow Society. All brush their exposed skin with pale powder to take away their color and wear dark glasses during the daylight hours.
Even the women in my little human clan have adopted the suit or the hooded slayer look, gender roles abolished.
“I’ll get rid of them,” he says.
I grab his arm to stop him. “Let them be. They know the rules.”
They never approach me or my vampires, not without a direct invitation. They never ask for anything or speak unless spoken to. They never follow us, even from afar. And they know we know if they try. They never take anything that belongs to any of us. They never try to pass themselves off as blooded vampires. We can tell, of course, but they don’t do it even with other humans. They never speak about us to the media or on blogs, other than those messages sanctioned by the Shadow Society to recruit new members.
Anyone who violates any of these rules knows the consequences. They may be as light as a warning. Or they may simply disappear. Or so they believe. When we leave the car, they part ranks so we can easily pass. “Time to go home,” I tell them. “We don’t want a call from a nervous neighbor. Remember, we have work tomorrow.”
They silently disperse as Justinian and I enter the house. He goes about checking the security of the building and I go upstairs to my bedroom where Slade is propped up on pillows, scrolling through the television channels. “And so?” He asks, propping up on one side to watch me undress.
“As predicted.”
“And tomorrow?”
“As scheduled.”
He nods, looking past me as Justinian enters the room. The slayer looks from me to my lover and announces, “All is secure.”
“Thank you, town crier,” Slade says, then grabs the younger man and throws him down on the bed, covering him with his naked body. “Anythin’ else you reckon we need to know?”
I watch the slayer reach up and pull Slade’s face down to his, hissing, “More than your poor brain can hold!”
before he plasters his mouth to Slade’s. I smile as I watch Slade peel off the ubiquitous sweatshirt the kid wears and I join them, slipping a hand between them so I can feel the flesh of both slayers at once. Soon we are a jumble of his, mine and ours and no one really cares who puts what where so long as its hot and hard.
I guess you could say our relationship has evolved over the last four years. While Slade still controls my heart and there is no competition between us, the boy slayer is a welcome addition to our lust on occasion, and it just makes sense with the three of us living under one roof. There is only one rule.
We both have to be present before Justinian can join in, otherwise it takes on the pallor of infidelity. For me, it is a perfect arrangement. I have my love, Slade, my protector, Justinian, and I can be penetrated and penetrate both at once. Who could ask for more?
Justinian keeps smart about it, not trying to intervene in our emotional relationship and keeping his own heart insulated from a love interest that will go nowhere. Whatever romantic folly he may pursue, he keeps out of the house. He is very young in the vampire world, and still has many experiences to gather before settling in on his first pairing partner. In my regime, slayers are no longer forbidden such pleasures.
When the passion subsides, finally, I find myself in the middle of the bed, flanked on either side by slayers, both asleep. I, however, lie awake. Tomorrow will be an important day in the history of this country, in more than one way. And equally important in the history of my people.
***
I get up, dress, slip quietly out of the room and down the stairs. I leave the house using my powers of fast and shadow movements to get past any determined stragglers who follow my philosophies. I want to be alone. I want to hunt. And I live by my agreement not to feed off my own.
Georgetown is still awake. There is a festive air, a sense of change and hope has returned to a cynical city. Young people have found an excuse to party, mostly out of towners here to celebrate. He captured the youth vote, and now the youths are here, blooming with their first taste of empowerment.
I walk among them, between them, and they let me by, some whispering “vampire”, with reverence, not fear. One little book, a cult of youths who idealize me, and everything is different. No longer can I move unnoticed in a crowd. It has made it more difficult to hunt without the cover of surprise. More difficult but not impossible.
I follow a pair of young men as they walk towards the Potomac. Lovers? Friends? It matters not to me. But I don’t want two unexplained deaths in close proximity so I won’t strike until they separate. I track their steps away from the glare of neon and crowds, as silent as a cat, invisible in the shadows. I’ve made sure no one is watching, no fans, no curious, no paparazzi.
When I strike, I want no witnesses because, after all, we vampires have sold the conceit that we live off synthetics now, not their good red blood. Never. The real thing is just too sweet.
The boys part ways with some heterosexual back slapping and shoulder bumping and “man” this and “bro” that. I don’t care which I take, after all, both are red blooded American males. I decide I will take the one who heads left. I begin to track him, staying concealed until I see that his friend has disappeared into the night.
The Potomac has a mild fishy, sewage scent that those without my advanced sense of smell would not detect. Underneath it all in that bottom of silt and sludge are old bones and rotted flesh from victims of crimes and suicides, never recovered. Humans never realize how surrounded by death they really are.
Hidden in garden holes, shoved down sealed wells, bricked into walls, weighted with stones beneath dark waters, we are not the only murderers among you. In fact we are greatly outnumbered by those of you who kill for thrill, or profit or out of anger or madness. So don’t be too judgmental as I swoop down on the young man, pulling him tight against my body. When my fangs sink into his taut flesh, he stops struggling immediately, the venom infiltrating his nervous system. I drink my fill and let him drop to the pavement of the path. I feel the energy of his blood course through me and then I leave as quickly as I appeared, and return to my sleeping house.
Only Slade is awake, smoking a cigarette in a chair in the dark parlor. His sliver eyes fix on me. “Sneaking out now, Bryant?”
“Just wanted a snack.”
He chuckles at that. “Never alone, lad.”
I walk over to him and kiss him, my blood-warmed lips against his cool mouth. I taste tobacco, he tastes the boy. “You know how it is, my love. Sometimes it has to be alone.” I straddle his lap and he snakes his hands under my jacket to rest on my flesh.
“It’s not safe. You could be watched, you could be photographed, blow the cover.”
“Yes, but I wasn’t.”
“You’re the one who wanted this bloody blending with their kind. This is part of the price. They look for us now. They want to see us slip. They want to prove ya wrong, show ya up as a killer.”
“But they won’t,” I move against the hardness of his lap and smile. “You’re not so mad at me.”
He shakes his head. “Ya need to rest, big day tomorrow. Right?”
“It’s already tomorrow,” I whisper against his ear as we lose what’s left of the darkness together.
Inauguration Day is bright and cold.
We bundle up, the three of us, in alpaca and cashmere and leather gloves lined with fur. Vampires and cold do not mix. We use sunscreen to try and repel the worst rays of the sun, and dark glasses and hats. Staying out in the sun will give us some misery later, but not enough to worry about.
Justinian made breakfast, the human kind, eggs, crisp bacon, wheat toast with mango preserves and coffee. He still clings to the ritual of these human things, and we eat it for the same reasons. It tastes good and it seems the normal way to start a day.
All three of us wear dark suits today, white shirts, navy on black ties. “Do you have the documentation?” Justinian asks, referring to the access passes provided by the Inaugural Committee.
“I do. In the pocket of my coat,” Slade responds.
The doorbell rings. Justinian answers it. Standing there is our limo driver, and he tells him we will be right out. He cleans up the clutter of feeding and then we wrap up in our warm clothes and leave the house. Some of our followers have returned, wearing dark suits, male or female, with white shirts, dark ties, dark glasses, so similar I have to smile. They are respectful as they carve a path for us to pass. No one reaches for us, no one speaks.
“Get to where you need to be,” I remind them, and they disperse as we enter the limo.
The city is difficult to navigate, even with the appropriate documentation. Crowds are thick, streets are blocked off, the trip is slow and tedious. Every corner has a camera crew. Among the cops and the citizens are many young people dressed in dark suits, white shirts, dark ties and glasses, our sympathizers are responding to our call and I couldn’t be happier about it.
We park in a protected lot for ticket holders and we still have a long way to walk. The swearing in will be on the alabaster loggia of one of the government buildings and the chosen few, world dignitaries, government elite, family of the new president, are seated around the podium.
I recall other inaugurations, less orchestrated, less pomp, less meaning to me. Other coronations, failed governments, toppled kings and queens, assassinated presidents. Despite all the failed dreams and wars and losses, your kind clings to hope and I think that is what enchants me about out future possibilities. Because for all our darkness, we too have enough hope to continue through the centuries.
But it will take work on both sides and while the new president never promised me anything, we have an understanding and I will hold him to it. My tickets entitle us to the roped off area on the ground in front of the loggia. We have chairs and a clear view, while behind us the millions gather on the mall to be part of something important.
Large screens have been assembled so they can see and hear what they are too far away to witness with any accuracy. I can hear them behind us, cheering his name, the sound of happiness. I don’t turn around, although I am certain my will is being followed. I know it.
I lean a shoulder into my lover and ask, “Can you see?”
He stands turns, and points to one of the CNN screens broadcasting the event. It shows from a high viewpoint what we can’t see from the ground. In the middle of the huge crowd, like a black arrowhead, my faithful have gone into the formation we requested. Fanning out from a point aimed at the podium is a huge swath of black clad youths, their identical black clothing forming the shape that is very clear from above.
The commentator is remarking about it and I have felt the cameras glance me. It may be difficult to know if the arrow is pointing at me or pointing at the new president. Does it matter? When he looks out at the crowd and makes his well toned and beautifully delivered speech, he will be unable to miss that black arrowhead pointed at the podium. He will be unable to avoid the knowledge that his constituency includes us, in a large and powerful way.
The black arrow is our federation between the magical and the mundane. The black arrow is the new way. The black arrow will become our lapel pin, our mark, our silent symbol. The black arrow will not go quietly into the night anymore. Cannot be shoved under a rug or trapped in fictional novels and B-movies.
We are vampires and werewolves and ghouls and faeries, and we exist among you and beside you. No longer will we sit quietly in the dark, waiting to strike. This world is ours as much as it is yours and we intend to claim our stake. We have abandoned shame. We have turned a deaf ear to your superstition and narrow mindedness. We will live with our lovers in the light and if you do not accept us, then you will be pushed aside and we will strive on.
The world cannot survive under your wastefulness and greed and prejudices. This is the only world we have and we will not deed it to you. Ten minutes before the ceremony is set to begin, I stand. I turn towards the crowd and glance at my watch. The time is now. My two slayers stand beside me and turn to the crowd, while all the dark suits check their watches as well.
“Coexistence,” I say firmly and then in a loud, clear voice of one, the many thousands in the crowd respond,
“Coexistence!”
It is a thundering sound and I smile. I like it. “COEXISTENCE!” the cheer ramps up the volume and the media is going crazy trying to debate what it means.
As soon as it started, it stopped, the minute I sat down. I am not here to embarrass the president. I am not here to steal his shine. It’s his show now. I made my point and the media will make it for me, again and again.
We will not be silenced.
We will not be ignored.
We will claim our rights and you will have to get accustomed to that fact.
Slade puts an arm over me and kisses my cheek and I nod. We will not hide our affection. We will not hide who and what we are. We are here. Coexistence.
“Predator and prey,” Justinian whispers to me with a slight grin and I shoot him a glare. He points out a fundamental flaw in such peaceful coexistence, and that is our lust for your blood.
“The world can accommodate both the lamb and the wolf,” I remind him.
“But not next door to each other,” he teases and I put a hand on his arm to quiet him as the president appears on the loggia to the thrilling cheers of his supporters.
End
THIS ENTRY IS INTENDED FOR ADULTS OVER THE AGE OF 21. IF YOU ARE NOT 21 OR OLDER, DO NOT OPEN THIS ENTRY, MAY CONTAIN SCENES OF GRAPHIC VIOLENCE OR EXPLICIT SEX.
******
Four years later.
It was a quiet meeting, away from all the hoopla attendant to a presidential inauguration. Not easy to do when all eyes are on him, the newly elected president, the first African American president, the man who would be sworn in tomorrow on what promises to be a clear, cold day in January.
He isn’t in the White House, yet, not tonight. Rather he is a guest at Blair House, where dignitaries often stay, as the current head of state enjoys his last night in residence. That didn’t make it any easier for me from a security standpoint. I am, after all, a suspicious type. But they found a way for me to enter Blair House without being seen by the ever-present press.
I felt like a secret mistress being spirited to a private rendezvous, and that comparison makes me smile. This is hardly a romantic fling that awaits me. But it might well be my last time to meet with him face to face before the flanks close around him.
His newly appointed Chief of Staff, and former campaign manager, meets me in the ornate parlor where I was told to wait. There is something utterly ghoulish about this little man, although no ghoul possesses his body. He is just a ghoul by nature, and one of those little men who acts very big in order to make up for deficiencies.
Now that his candidate had been elected, in no small part due to his efforts, his already enormous ego must be zeppelin in size. When his man was running, he was my best friend, constantly calling me with his hand out, which I generously filled and refilled, working through fundraisers when my legal donation limit was quickly reached. I suspect a very different reaction now.
I received my obligatory invitation to the ceremonies, but I didn’t fail to notice my seat was in a place where I was unlikely to receive much attention from the press. Not near the candidate himself, or other large contributors. Not surprised by that, really. After all, I am a vampire.
His minion shakes my hand as he struts into the room. I don’t like his handshake. His hand is small and he squeezes too hard as if to show what a man he is. I suspect he doesn’t like the cool texture of my flesh either, since he quickly withdraws. His smile is miles from the reptilian expression in his eyes.
“Bryant, how nice to see you. Sorry for the late hour.”
It is almost two a.m. I’m surprised the president-elect is taking visitors this late. “Early for me,” I say with my best vampirian smile. I see a glimmer of discomfort in his look before he recaptures his cockiness.
“Well, the president has a big day tomorrow, so…”
“Yes I’ve heard,” I drip sarcasm at him. “I won’t be long.”
“I’ll stay in the room, if you don’t mind.”
What does he think? I want a presidential snack before I go? And if I did, does he suppose he can stop me? “That’s entirely up to the president.”
Just then the president-to-be enters the room, looking a little tired but otherwise beaming with joy over his big events. He wears no suit coat or tie, and his crisp white shirt is a little wilted. Otherwise he looks very fresh and youthful. “Bryant,” he gives me a firm handshake. “Welcome!”
“Good to see you, Mr. President.”
He laughs. “Not yet. Not yet. Have a seat. You can go,” he tosses to his chief who frowns. “Please,” he adds firmly but politely and the man reluctantly withdraws. We sit side by side on the couch, in different corners as he says, “Thank you again for all your support, Bryant. Your contributions and the support of your supporters was critical in the tight states.”
“Yes,” I agree. “It was.” Otherwise, I never would have been granted this audience. “Will, I hope you don’t forget your promises to me in the blush of all this power.”
“I wouldn’t call it ‘promises’, exactly,” he becomes cagey. “I do note that we agree on many social issues, including the status of your…kindred…in society.”
“I wouldn’t label it social issues,” I push back. “For us, it is nothing short of survival.”
“Yes, yes of course,” he dismisses. “You would see it that way, of course.”
“Is there another way to see it?”
“Bryant, I was scrupulous in my campaign, as I have been in all my campaigns, to never sell my soul in return for votes. I make no promises, and do not consider myself beholding to any man.” He looks at me as if he might further amend his description of me, and then smiles. “I’m sure you understand. Anything less would be business as usual, and I am all about no business as usual in Washington.”
“Fair enough,” I think we each made our point, albeit obliquely. I hand him a small box wrapped in white paper with a red ribbon. It looked better before his security opened it. Their powers of reassembly were limited. “To celebrate your victory.”
He opens it to reveal a red leather presentation box trimmed in gold scrolls. Inside is a paperweight. Frozen within the crystal orb is a small, finely carved figure of Darth Vader, the Star Wars villain who gave him a disguise when first we met. He laughs.
“Very fitting.”
“Yes. Perhaps not for the desk of the President, but you can find a home for it.”
“And I will. Thank you.”
Engraved on the base is the catch phrase, “May the force be with you.”
I stand and so does he. “Never forget those who supported you from the first,” I tell him and then we say goodbye. To others it may appear that very little was said. To us, we know where we stand. But it isn’t over yet, not by far. As he will find out tomorrow.
My partner, my slayer and I are sharing a house I recently purchased in Georgetown, to be nearer the source of power. When the limo stops in front of the elegant brick townhouse, I see a strange vision. Not one, but three of my young slayers hovering nearby, all wearing the hooded sweaters, shock of blond hair and silvery eyes that make Justinian so identifiable. The real Justinian, who is in the car with me, curses at the sight of these imposters.
They are human. They have adopted his look, and even had special contact lenses crafted to give their eyes that unearthly slayer glow. Some have earrings of the scythe that my lover wears on occasion. Humans don’t know the lore of the slayer, or even that they are called slayers. They think of Justinian as my bodyguard. But they like his look and attitude enough to mimic it.
Other youths near the stoop wear the dark D and G suits and white shirts and narrow ties that mark the Followers of the Shadow Society. All brush their exposed skin with pale powder to take away their color and wear dark glasses during the daylight hours.
Even the women in my little human clan have adopted the suit or the hooded slayer look, gender roles abolished.
“I’ll get rid of them,” he says.
I grab his arm to stop him. “Let them be. They know the rules.”
They never approach me or my vampires, not without a direct invitation. They never ask for anything or speak unless spoken to. They never follow us, even from afar. And they know we know if they try. They never take anything that belongs to any of us. They never try to pass themselves off as blooded vampires. We can tell, of course, but they don’t do it even with other humans. They never speak about us to the media or on blogs, other than those messages sanctioned by the Shadow Society to recruit new members.
Anyone who violates any of these rules knows the consequences. They may be as light as a warning. Or they may simply disappear. Or so they believe. When we leave the car, they part ranks so we can easily pass. “Time to go home,” I tell them. “We don’t want a call from a nervous neighbor. Remember, we have work tomorrow.”
They silently disperse as Justinian and I enter the house. He goes about checking the security of the building and I go upstairs to my bedroom where Slade is propped up on pillows, scrolling through the television channels. “And so?” He asks, propping up on one side to watch me undress.
“As predicted.”
“And tomorrow?”
“As scheduled.”
He nods, looking past me as Justinian enters the room. The slayer looks from me to my lover and announces, “All is secure.”
“Thank you, town crier,” Slade says, then grabs the younger man and throws him down on the bed, covering him with his naked body. “Anythin’ else you reckon we need to know?”
I watch the slayer reach up and pull Slade’s face down to his, hissing, “More than your poor brain can hold!”
before he plasters his mouth to Slade’s. I smile as I watch Slade peel off the ubiquitous sweatshirt the kid wears and I join them, slipping a hand between them so I can feel the flesh of both slayers at once. Soon we are a jumble of his, mine and ours and no one really cares who puts what where so long as its hot and hard.
I guess you could say our relationship has evolved over the last four years. While Slade still controls my heart and there is no competition between us, the boy slayer is a welcome addition to our lust on occasion, and it just makes sense with the three of us living under one roof. There is only one rule.
We both have to be present before Justinian can join in, otherwise it takes on the pallor of infidelity. For me, it is a perfect arrangement. I have my love, Slade, my protector, Justinian, and I can be penetrated and penetrate both at once. Who could ask for more?
Justinian keeps smart about it, not trying to intervene in our emotional relationship and keeping his own heart insulated from a love interest that will go nowhere. Whatever romantic folly he may pursue, he keeps out of the house. He is very young in the vampire world, and still has many experiences to gather before settling in on his first pairing partner. In my regime, slayers are no longer forbidden such pleasures.
When the passion subsides, finally, I find myself in the middle of the bed, flanked on either side by slayers, both asleep. I, however, lie awake. Tomorrow will be an important day in the history of this country, in more than one way. And equally important in the history of my people.
***
I get up, dress, slip quietly out of the room and down the stairs. I leave the house using my powers of fast and shadow movements to get past any determined stragglers who follow my philosophies. I want to be alone. I want to hunt. And I live by my agreement not to feed off my own.
Georgetown is still awake. There is a festive air, a sense of change and hope has returned to a cynical city. Young people have found an excuse to party, mostly out of towners here to celebrate. He captured the youth vote, and now the youths are here, blooming with their first taste of empowerment.
I walk among them, between them, and they let me by, some whispering “vampire”, with reverence, not fear. One little book, a cult of youths who idealize me, and everything is different. No longer can I move unnoticed in a crowd. It has made it more difficult to hunt without the cover of surprise. More difficult but not impossible.
I follow a pair of young men as they walk towards the Potomac. Lovers? Friends? It matters not to me. But I don’t want two unexplained deaths in close proximity so I won’t strike until they separate. I track their steps away from the glare of neon and crowds, as silent as a cat, invisible in the shadows. I’ve made sure no one is watching, no fans, no curious, no paparazzi.
When I strike, I want no witnesses because, after all, we vampires have sold the conceit that we live off synthetics now, not their good red blood. Never. The real thing is just too sweet.
The boys part ways with some heterosexual back slapping and shoulder bumping and “man” this and “bro” that. I don’t care which I take, after all, both are red blooded American males. I decide I will take the one who heads left. I begin to track him, staying concealed until I see that his friend has disappeared into the night.
The Potomac has a mild fishy, sewage scent that those without my advanced sense of smell would not detect. Underneath it all in that bottom of silt and sludge are old bones and rotted flesh from victims of crimes and suicides, never recovered. Humans never realize how surrounded by death they really are.
Hidden in garden holes, shoved down sealed wells, bricked into walls, weighted with stones beneath dark waters, we are not the only murderers among you. In fact we are greatly outnumbered by those of you who kill for thrill, or profit or out of anger or madness. So don’t be too judgmental as I swoop down on the young man, pulling him tight against my body. When my fangs sink into his taut flesh, he stops struggling immediately, the venom infiltrating his nervous system. I drink my fill and let him drop to the pavement of the path. I feel the energy of his blood course through me and then I leave as quickly as I appeared, and return to my sleeping house.
Only Slade is awake, smoking a cigarette in a chair in the dark parlor. His sliver eyes fix on me. “Sneaking out now, Bryant?”
“Just wanted a snack.”
He chuckles at that. “Never alone, lad.”
I walk over to him and kiss him, my blood-warmed lips against his cool mouth. I taste tobacco, he tastes the boy. “You know how it is, my love. Sometimes it has to be alone.” I straddle his lap and he snakes his hands under my jacket to rest on my flesh.
“It’s not safe. You could be watched, you could be photographed, blow the cover.”
“Yes, but I wasn’t.”
“You’re the one who wanted this bloody blending with their kind. This is part of the price. They look for us now. They want to see us slip. They want to prove ya wrong, show ya up as a killer.”
“But they won’t,” I move against the hardness of his lap and smile. “You’re not so mad at me.”
He shakes his head. “Ya need to rest, big day tomorrow. Right?”
“It’s already tomorrow,” I whisper against his ear as we lose what’s left of the darkness together.
Inauguration Day is bright and cold.
We bundle up, the three of us, in alpaca and cashmere and leather gloves lined with fur. Vampires and cold do not mix. We use sunscreen to try and repel the worst rays of the sun, and dark glasses and hats. Staying out in the sun will give us some misery later, but not enough to worry about.
Justinian made breakfast, the human kind, eggs, crisp bacon, wheat toast with mango preserves and coffee. He still clings to the ritual of these human things, and we eat it for the same reasons. It tastes good and it seems the normal way to start a day.
All three of us wear dark suits today, white shirts, navy on black ties. “Do you have the documentation?” Justinian asks, referring to the access passes provided by the Inaugural Committee.
“I do. In the pocket of my coat,” Slade responds.
The doorbell rings. Justinian answers it. Standing there is our limo driver, and he tells him we will be right out. He cleans up the clutter of feeding and then we wrap up in our warm clothes and leave the house. Some of our followers have returned, wearing dark suits, male or female, with white shirts, dark ties, dark glasses, so similar I have to smile. They are respectful as they carve a path for us to pass. No one reaches for us, no one speaks.
“Get to where you need to be,” I remind them, and they disperse as we enter the limo.
The city is difficult to navigate, even with the appropriate documentation. Crowds are thick, streets are blocked off, the trip is slow and tedious. Every corner has a camera crew. Among the cops and the citizens are many young people dressed in dark suits, white shirts, dark ties and glasses, our sympathizers are responding to our call and I couldn’t be happier about it.
We park in a protected lot for ticket holders and we still have a long way to walk. The swearing in will be on the alabaster loggia of one of the government buildings and the chosen few, world dignitaries, government elite, family of the new president, are seated around the podium.
I recall other inaugurations, less orchestrated, less pomp, less meaning to me. Other coronations, failed governments, toppled kings and queens, assassinated presidents. Despite all the failed dreams and wars and losses, your kind clings to hope and I think that is what enchants me about out future possibilities. Because for all our darkness, we too have enough hope to continue through the centuries.
But it will take work on both sides and while the new president never promised me anything, we have an understanding and I will hold him to it. My tickets entitle us to the roped off area on the ground in front of the loggia. We have chairs and a clear view, while behind us the millions gather on the mall to be part of something important.
Large screens have been assembled so they can see and hear what they are too far away to witness with any accuracy. I can hear them behind us, cheering his name, the sound of happiness. I don’t turn around, although I am certain my will is being followed. I know it.
I lean a shoulder into my lover and ask, “Can you see?”
He stands turns, and points to one of the CNN screens broadcasting the event. It shows from a high viewpoint what we can’t see from the ground. In the middle of the huge crowd, like a black arrowhead, my faithful have gone into the formation we requested. Fanning out from a point aimed at the podium is a huge swath of black clad youths, their identical black clothing forming the shape that is very clear from above.
The commentator is remarking about it and I have felt the cameras glance me. It may be difficult to know if the arrow is pointing at me or pointing at the new president. Does it matter? When he looks out at the crowd and makes his well toned and beautifully delivered speech, he will be unable to miss that black arrowhead pointed at the podium. He will be unable to avoid the knowledge that his constituency includes us, in a large and powerful way.
The black arrow is our federation between the magical and the mundane. The black arrow is the new way. The black arrow will become our lapel pin, our mark, our silent symbol. The black arrow will not go quietly into the night anymore. Cannot be shoved under a rug or trapped in fictional novels and B-movies.
We are vampires and werewolves and ghouls and faeries, and we exist among you and beside you. No longer will we sit quietly in the dark, waiting to strike. This world is ours as much as it is yours and we intend to claim our stake. We have abandoned shame. We have turned a deaf ear to your superstition and narrow mindedness. We will live with our lovers in the light and if you do not accept us, then you will be pushed aside and we will strive on.
The world cannot survive under your wastefulness and greed and prejudices. This is the only world we have and we will not deed it to you. Ten minutes before the ceremony is set to begin, I stand. I turn towards the crowd and glance at my watch. The time is now. My two slayers stand beside me and turn to the crowd, while all the dark suits check their watches as well.
“Coexistence,” I say firmly and then in a loud, clear voice of one, the many thousands in the crowd respond,
“Coexistence!”
It is a thundering sound and I smile. I like it. “COEXISTENCE!” the cheer ramps up the volume and the media is going crazy trying to debate what it means.
As soon as it started, it stopped, the minute I sat down. I am not here to embarrass the president. I am not here to steal his shine. It’s his show now. I made my point and the media will make it for me, again and again.
We will not be silenced.
We will not be ignored.
We will claim our rights and you will have to get accustomed to that fact.
Slade puts an arm over me and kisses my cheek and I nod. We will not hide our affection. We will not hide who and what we are. We are here. Coexistence.
“Predator and prey,” Justinian whispers to me with a slight grin and I shoot him a glare. He points out a fundamental flaw in such peaceful coexistence, and that is our lust for your blood.
“The world can accommodate both the lamb and the wolf,” I remind him.
“But not next door to each other,” he teases and I put a hand on his arm to quiet him as the president appears on the loggia to the thrilling cheers of his supporters.
End