The first time I saw her, I couldn't believe my eyes. One
of my…friends…was having a dinner party in his pent house. A very classy affair
it was, he’d remodeled just for this occasion. I was planning on bringing in an
old debt with him shortly, and thought it best to familiarize myself with the
layout of his dwelling. I was just sipping on a glass of champagne when my
friend (Alright, fine. He wasn't my friend, he was a man I fully intended to
drain and mutilate in the wee hours of the night) entered the room, leading the
most beautiful creature I had ever seen.
She was tall, for a woman, and her sandals added a
handful of centimeters to her already formidable height. That placed her head
just a little above David’s (Pro-Tip: Yes…David was his name. Or was it Darrel?
I suppose it doesn't matter now…). Her golden sheets of hair tumbled down to
the small of her back, and gravity seemed to have no hold over it because it
seemed almost to move of its own accord. She was draped in what looked like a
green dress at first glance, but was more of a fashioned toga, leaving one
shoulder enticingly bare. A black, slim belt completed her devastating attire,
defining her figure quite fetchingly.
Darrel called me over (or was it Dave?) to introduce me
to his date. “This is Sarah.” He said proudly. The fool clearly didn't realize
that their relationship was in no way due to his wooing prowess (Pro-Tip: A
beautiful woman with a plain man is clearly attempting to extort something out
of him. Money, usually, but occasionally they have other motives).
“It’s an honor to meet you.” I said, smiling.
“No sir, I assure you the pleasure is mine.” She replied,
a faint smile dancing in the depths of her gray eyes. After a moment of
hesitation, she extended a hand for me to kiss. Excellent! A kiss would work perfectly
to get a little saliva onto the epidermal layer, thus beginning the
hypnotization process. However, as I reached for her hand, several facts
presented themselves to me in quick succession, painting an increasingly
alarming picture in my mind.
First: her nail-polish was a deep shade of red that
matched her lipstick, a ploy often used by women attempting to ensnare a man. A
technique that they picked up from French vampiresses on the hunt (Pro-Tip: The
French vampiresses used mixed their own colors using left-over blood as dye. I
suspect that most modern women do not emulate that particular aspect, but you
never know). Second: she was a good deal paler than I had originally believed,
not detracting from her beauty but adding to the collection of details that
were rapidly becoming a dangerous situation. But, so what? Did it matter that
I’d happened across another vampire on the hunt? It was then that I glanced
above her hand to her wrist. Shit.
On her wrist there was a very distinctive bite-mark
pattern. I’d already accepted that she was a vampire, but this was different.
Only one clan bites its victims on the wrist like that (Pro-Tip: The wrist,
while an excellent source of veins, is often looked at during autopsies, and is
distinctly difficult to explain away as coincidence). They call themselves The Widows, and I suggest you stay away
from them. They've been active for centuries, and were mistaken by the ancient
Greeks as Amazonian Women. They are an exclusively female clan, and are all the
more ruthless for it. They are generally regarded to be the most blood-thirsty
group of women ever to disturb the nightmares of man. You see, as a primarily
nomadic clan, they often offer themselves to other clans as bounty hunters of
sorts. Thus, this woman’s appearance could only spell disaster for me.
If I kissed that hand, she would without a doubt
recognize me for a vampire, and probably do me a serious disservice (Pro-Tip:
Vampiric Regeneration only goes so far. Lungs, heart, no problem. Toes and
fingers, absolutely. Reproductive organs, unlikely). Accordingly, I immediately
took evasive action.
“I’m terribly sorry,” I said, withdrawing my hand as
swiftly as I could, “but I've got a bit of a cold and wouldn't want to spread
it to one so lovely.” She laughed at that, good. Laughter might cover my
escape.
“Cold or no, I’m afraid I must insist on a dance.” She
said, her laughter subsiding.
“Then I’m afraid I must insist otherwise.” I replied,
mind racing, looking for an escape.
“You will lose, if you get between me and something I
want. Ask Daniel.” She wasn't giving up (Was it Daniel?).
“It’s true, my friend,” Darrel said (Yes, it had to have
been Darrel. That was what he called himself. Case closed) “Looks like you’ll
have to oblige the lady.”
The evening had gone horribly awry. Not only was Darrel
off the menu, it appeared that I was.
As Sarah and I took our places on the dance floor, I began examining my final
options. If I could not escape this woman, I would have to fight her. It was
clear to me that she was here to “bring me in,” but to whom and for what I had
no idea. She placed her hand on my shoulder and stretched out the other,
grasping my left hand. Oh well, another plan foiled (Pro-Tip: Had it been a
more modern dance, I might have had the chance to dance my way out the door.
I've done that twice before, once in Barcelona
and the other time…let’s not discuss it). The music began, slow and
predictable, no opportunities for sudden movements. The conversation was
strained, partly because it’s harder than you’d think to talk and dance at the
same time, and partly because I was trying to use code:
“Your accent sounds French. How did you end up here in New York?”
“Very astute of you monsieur. Yes, I was born in France, but I
have not lived there in a long time. I’m here in the city on business.”
“And yet, you still have time for frivolities such as
these?”
“Frivolities such as these are my work.”
“Planning them, or just participating?”
“Both, if I feel like it.”
Harmless small talk, you think? Wrong. I could clearly
see what her “business” was, and I wanted no part in it. I’d also confirmed my
hunch that she was French, her slight accent was from the 18th
century if I’m not mistaken. Of course, asking a woman’s age is just a big a
“no no” in Vampiric culture as in human culture, if not more. The next song
started, but before I could make excuses and run away, she moved right into my
space and said quietly, “just one more, please.” I probably would have ran away
regardless, except for that please (Pro-Tip: Like a drop of honey from an
angel’s lips it was. I don’t even know what the Hell that means).
Of course, it was a slow-dance. My luck was just that bad
that night. If I got out of it, I was going to flay the DJ alive (Two nights
later, Mr. Jack Sullivan was found dead in an alley, drained of blood, his back
in tatters. I always keep my promises).
“You can relax now.” She whispered, her breath tickling
my ear, “You’re not the one I’m here for.” I stiffened, and then relaxed a
little. She might be lying, after all, but we vampires are pretty good about
telling the truth to one another.
“Why would I be? I've done nothing wrong.” I whispered
back.
“Of course you haven’t darling.”
“Then your…business is with…”
“Yes, Clive and I have some serious matters to talk over
once his guests leave.” She pouted with veneered sadness (Clive! That was it! I
could have sworn it started with a “d…”), “I don’t think it will go well.”
“And your name, it’s not really Sarah is it?” She
snorted, clearly amused and indignant.
“No, that’s just what I told Clive. His mother was called
Sarah. Elsewhere, I am called Evangeline.” I’d heard that name before, and
never in a good light. Good thing I wasn’t her target, it would have ended
messily. The song ended, and we pulled away from one another. I inclined my
head towards her. “Farewell, then.”
She moved with lightening speed. I thrust my arms up to
protect my face, only to have them batted aside. Undeterred, I pulled my right
fist back, ready to drive it into her nose, but I was too late. She grasped my
head with both hands; I could feel her claws against my skull (Pro-Tip: many
vampires use this maneuver to snap the neck, thus rendering a vampire
temporarily useless).
Then, she lunged forward, and I did the only thing I
could. I intercepted her mouth before her fangs could make contact with
anything I’d later miss (eyes, throat, etc.). Well, I say ‘intercepted,’ what
it looked like was the best kiss you’ll never get. You never know, sometimes
women get distracted. Sadly, the ferocity in her eyes did not diminish, as a
matter of fact it increased. I looked up at her, my resources used up, my time
had run out. Then, the unexpected happened. She lunged down again, and I closed
my eyes (partly because I didn't want her to go for them: they’re my most
interesting feature), so I didn't get to see it.
Afterwards
(it could have been seconds or hours, it was hard to keep track) she pulled
away, and whispered into my ear: “You should relax. People are staring at you.”
Then, she was gone. It wasn't our last meeting, or even our most memorable. But
it still ranks number one in the list of best first dates.
To
this day, I don’t know if I’m dead or not. Maybe she killed me, and my life
since has just been an elaborate afterlife fantasy. I choose to believe that
she did not kill me. If I forget everything else in this world, I won’t forget
that kiss.
