Wednesday, July 25, 2012


Grigori liked this place. He enjoyed sitting out on the wide, slate terrace overlooking the surf. Mornings, or almost mornings excited him. There was just a bit of violet tinge down low in the south-eastern sky, but a powerful life-eater has no problem with that. Sometimes he plays a game. 'Touch the sun,' he calls it ---- step outside in the morning, just before the false dawn and stand there waiting for the stars to die. The air would quicken. It always does at sunrise. Birds began to sing. True a few sing even in darkness. But the grand avian overture heralds the light. Then he'd see the shadows fade away, feel the breeze and wait for the burn. The tender skin around the eyes goes first. Then the cheekbones. He loved it. He loved it all, for it recalled his humanity, though he was something different now and so he went inside. Once, long, long ago, he'd allowed hot, tiny, fire kisses to dance about his body.....Once, but not now....

She waited in the kitchen, a vast expanse of granite, stone and steel. Special shades sealed out the light. Ah, the luxuries of The Hamptons..... A vampire could get lost here and Grigori often did. She gave him a robe, thick, white and warm. He put it on, arranged himself within the arms of a commodious chair and waited for his 'night cap.' Every day the ritual was the same.... a glass of icy vodka..... some push-ups.... some pilates. Not that he needed them. His body never changed. But he savored the regimen just the same. And then they'd retire to the 'chamber.' He had many, strewn all about the world, snug, little berths lined with birch wood and carpeted with cloud-like mounds of Siberian Goose down. Now you know some vampires watch television from the crypt (Tomas hates that word), or tap out little messages on computers. But Usipov is a purist..... no candles.... no light... no distractions. Just him and a 'Natasha.' True, in the past he'd once had Bashias and I do not even recall all the other names. But his time in seclusion is spent in restoration. He loves and he sleeps and that's it. 

Guards, dressed as old Czarist Strelsky (akin to the French musketeers) kept watch before the twin, oaken doors (each painted in the fashion of imperial icons). Granted, he did have a bailalika resting in the corner, but he very rarely played it.

Grigori Usipov respects tradition. Contemporary society, the world over, apparently cares little for that.... but such things soon will change...


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O. G. Tomes said...

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Billy Kravitz said...

thank you, miss odessa! you are the best!