We traveled together, Tomas, Sarah, Baylah, Annie, Edith and I. Four vampires and two mortals. The others, the lesser night-folk backed out, intimidated by the arcane splendor of it all. They stayed home with the elferinos. I know not what Blackie and Minnie will do. We don't control them. They've always been independent.
Some friend or relation of the still missing Grigori Usipov put a plane at our disposal, a sleek, tailored, high gloss jet. We embarked at Atlantic City. Atlantic City International Airport,I mean, Philadelphia's second major aerodrome. Actually, not to far from where The Hindenburg came down. The Muscovite oligarch knew we, or most of us, were vampires and the plane was fitted out accordingly with opaque windows, sealed sleeping quarters and the like. Feeding occurred prior to take off, so that won't pose any problems. Doctor Franklin arranged for the culling of four deserving criminals, via his connections on the police force. Not the usual way these things are done. Not through 'the visions' and all, but time prevented that.
Now Marianne and Albion, the two most worldly elferinos, may cross over later. Yet that is not at all definite. The waif-like, juvenile night-folk are extremely fickle. They dance. They play. They cavort with cherubs and hob-nob with assorted sundry ghosties. She's French, or started out that way, you know. He is too. Different cultures... different norms.
You should have seen Tomas assembling his raiment. Fine, black, bootkins... three pair..... Handmade demin pants, dark as winter midnight... more than enough.... Deluxe, cotton, white, bespoke shirts... by the armful. Hose, doublet and jerkin, for the Grand Procession. The medieval look, you know, complete with codpiece. Yes, he thinks it a conceit, but he does go with the flow. Sarah, originally more conservative, assembled niceties of her own. gleaned from private, midnight showings in the best Rittenhouse Square district boutiques. Baylah, our Beyonce look-alike, always had the best. I'll tell you about the others later.
Some vampires are traveling the traditional way, in union with the whales. They've done so since ... forever. Wait on a moonlit beach. Listen for the song. Shed all clothing. Walk through the surf. Swim toward the depths and meet the leviathan host. The vampire makes contact... a chaste, small bite, locking on to the grand cetacean like a lamprey to a fish. Then an inky, gel-like substance seals them to the rubbery hide, blocking out the light. And away they go, tearing through the sea in the age-old symbiotic embrace. Tomas has done so. Sarah too, young as she is. But time was different (mortals in the mix, you know) so they made other plans.
And in his hidden 'castle', far away in the English Northlands, 'King' Rafe feels them approach. Not just our group, but each and every one. The air around him quickens. He slowly smiles, as he drifts through the heights, up amongst the huge, oaken beams of the old and vast Great Hall.
Then he mumbles things. Songs, or chants, I cannot tell. Edith, our mortal 'seer,' plants the visions in my mind with her powers. But they must be spells, for ever so slowly 'things' begin to condense out of the gloom. Tapestries grace the walls. And so many chairs, more like tall, straight thrones line the perimeter. The 'king' prepares for guests.
Vampire culture is so special...so rich...so rare... so enticing, even for a mortal guest, like me...
wilkravitz says good night, from his berth in a sleek, fast jet, high above the silvery waves of the cold Atlantic Sea...
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we'd very much appreciate it if you'd be willing to tweet the following--- I nominate @wilkravitz for a #blogger SHORTY AWARD based on his magical stories and narratives..... thank you and good night...
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