Tuesday, July 31, 2012


He wandered 'round the compound. Who would stop him? And why should they? He looked the part..... fine, almost see-through, white, linen shirt..... 'bespoke' jeans, also white and driving slippers made from the rump skin of dead mermaids. He had a man in Bimini for those. Tan looked real good too. OK, so it was a 'spray-on.' Grigori is a vampire after all. 

They had books here, old ones, all done up in soft morocco leather. He lingered there, like Rhett Butler in that scene at Twelve Oaks. No one came in. The 'missus' never did and her hubby paid people to read books for him. Guess the decorator picked them out.  Even had a fire going on the last day of July... not gas either. Apple wood. You could smell it. You can do that with air conditioning. Vampires appreciated such modern conveniences..... They remember the old days. Although the Romans did have a series of small fountains positioned to splash water on interior marble walls. That worked, up to a point, if you didn't mind dying of some unnamed respiratory malady that turned out to be Legionnaires' Disease. True, not everybody died, but you had to take your chances. Apparently, not sweating was worth it.

Grigori had his orders. He let them use that term... the honorable servant of 'Czar' and country and all that. Oh, the pretender to the Romanovs was already in place. And true, he'd be more of a constitutional monarch (almost), but the romance would be there. Special coronation coaches were already being assembled in a venerable Flemish atelier in Brussels. Petition would be made to The World Court demanding the return of Russian-America. I believe you call it 'Alaska?' And rumor has it that allied reactionary elements, aided by their own loyal vampires, anticipated 'the return of the king' (or in this case kings <a few queens too>) in storied lands throughout the Eurasian world. Not just there. Some say a descendant of Monctazuma II waits to take the throne of Mexico.

Democracy? Civic morals? Bah... who needs them?

Just make sure you're well-born, or perhaps sleeping with one who is. Otherwise, better beef up them yoke-bearin' muscles.

The Russian will not kill anyone tonight, but that does not mean no one will die.... just not here..... just not now. You see, draining the blood from a body is only one way...... But there are others. 

A small dab of lethal microbes applied to the fangs. A friendly kiss.... a naughty nuzzle.... and there you have it. Three days later the compliant paramour (or would-be paramour) swells up and explodes, victim to an exotic, Third World plague. It takes that long for the microscopic creepy-crawlies to reach critical mass, so everyone else assembled for this 'dance macabre' is safe.

He enters the kitchen through an unseen service passage. The designer children eat their curds and whey. He smiles... playfully musses their hair. They giggle. Cook stares longingly. The governess addresses him by name. They know him here. It's all right. He fishes in his pocket and gives each child a rich, yellow, shiny, Russian ruble. Old ones... czarist ones... made of three times purified, twenty four carat gold. Gifts like that are common here. The children examine the huge, thick coins, thank him and return to their meal. 

Then he exits... crosses to a nearby powder room, goes in and locks the door. There he retrieves a small bottle of Bal a Versailles (yes, they still make it) form off the thick, quartz slab. He opens it, puts a drop or two on his finger and 'paints' the tips of his sharp, white fangs. Then he sniffs, seals it up and puts it back (a functionary will soon destroy the evidence) before venturing out to join the party.

The shrimp ain't the only thing rancid here tonight....


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