Page 62 of We Were Eternal Once

Paris is Alexandria is whatever came before. Would this be another chance for you to claim them? Would our home be filled with the raucousness of these strangers, defiled once more? Did I want to watch another group of weak-minded vampyrs follow you around, crying after your gifts?

I did not wish to be cast aside.

“Another?” Tomasz asks. If he’s been watching me, he’s only seen me alone. You and I have not hunted together in some time. I do not even know when you leave our home, or if you do at all. As I’ve aged, I’ve needed to hunt less and less, more of a habit than anything else at this point. Do you need to hunt at all?

“My maker.” It is the easiest way to speak of you.

“Your maker?” Tomasz’s eyes widen and he leans back in his chair. “This is a story that will regale them all. An ancient such as yourself, still in contact with their maker. I have so many questions to ask, but I wish to take this journey with them.” He stands and offers his hand, a polite gesture.

I do not take it, and stand alongside him. “You will show me the way to this salon?”

He grins and we are into the night. I wondered then if this salon would be the new cult or if I could keep it from you. Would you smell the other vampyrs on me? Would you even care, or would it be lost in your indifference?

I stopped thinking of you and instead followed this stranger blindly.

(“You could have been killed.”)

Yes, but instead I lived.

A large human male stands guard before an ancient building. His hands are clasped behind his back, his posture perfect, his eyes tracing every creature that walks before the venue. There is a lone sign—Le Sang Bleu—legible only when you’re directly below it and it’s illuminated by flickering lamplight.

Tomasz gives a nod and whispers something to the human, who steps aside without making eye contact.

Is he coerced? I try to stare into his gaze, to find the blank look of those who’ve been compelled, but he avoids me. Is this a human they’ve paid for silence, or do they know the gift?

I will not ask. I do not wish to travel that road again.

The heavy wooden door creaks and threatens to fall off the frame as Tomasz pushes it open and climbs the narrow stone steps. There is no foyer, there is no grand entrance, there are only stairs leading to a room.

And within that room is the salon.

The room would be pitch black for a human. Heavy blue curtains cover the windows, the fabric ceiling-to-floor. The carpet is a similar color, though there are many stains with no obvious attempts to clean them. The furniture is opulent and comfortable—chaise lounges, sofas, chairs, even a daybed. There is a bookcase against the far wall, and several smaller tables in between the seating.

And there are four vampyrs, all staring at me with open curiosity.

“You’ve found the stray,” says a woman with a thick French accent. She is thin, dressed in the fashion of the women mocked in the pamphlets. Her dark purple eyes sweep over me, cold and contemplative.

“Her name is Melinoë,” Tomasz says by way of introduction.

“A Greek,” says another, an older man with deep lines around his magenta eyes, which stand out brightly against his dark brown skin. His voice is quiet, kind even.

“Ah, another of a fallen empire,” says another woman with the same electric blue eyes as Tomasz. Her German accent punches the French words, but there is something older about the way she rounds her words. “I am of the Holy Roman,” she adds, by way of explanation.

“How old are you? Do you remember the time of the Greeks?” asks the last woman, her speech half in Italian, half in French. Her eyes gleam yellow like a cat in the dark, tracing my every step.

“It is unkind to ask after a lady’s age, Caterina,” says the French woman.

“It is unkind to speak without introduction,” Tomasz winces. “Eloise Fournier,” he says, nodding to the French woman with the dark purple eyes.

“Caterina Bellini,” he says of the Italian woman.

“Yusuf al-Kindi,” to the magenta-eyed man.

“Margarethe Weiss,” to the German with the same eyes as his. “And I—Tomasz Wójcik. Margarethe and I are siblings of a sort, though she predates me by a century.”

“And I predate you all,” Yusuf chimes in.

“Melinoë,” I say, as though I have not already been introduced.