~ Vampire ~

~ Vampire ~

Stefan walked through the front doors of his hotel in downtown Bucharest. He bought it as an 11 story apartment building in the early sixties for kopecks on the ruble when his name was Don Diego Garcia. A favor from the powers that be in the KGB. His valuable assistance to Russia during the dog days of the cold war had prompted an early reinvention of his normally generational identity transformation. Built with its blunt, functional design and prefabricated concrete panels, it was typical of the apartment buildings constructed during the Soviet era. But even Brutalism, as it is often known, blended well with the rich and diverse array of design styles found in Romania. Byzantine, Late Renaissance, Art-Deco and even some modern Parisian styles with futuristic elements. After remodeling the top floor, he lived in his fortress in relative obscurity. Then the wall fell. Bucharest gradually became the go-to destination for thrifty minded tourists. Stefan was nothing if not adaptable. His lonely building became the Vanatoare Placuta hotel. Romanian for Happy Hunting. It was managed autonomously by his longtime servant and confidant Bayuda. Stefan called him Bayuda because that was where he found him while fulfilling a contract in Africa for the Russian FSB. Staked out in the barren desert to die by his own people. It was exceptionally rare for Stefan to meet what he considered a kindred spirit. It had happened only twice in his long life. But his connection to Bayuda was immediate and binding. He never asked Bayuda’s real name or why his people abandoned him to die horribly. In fact, he knew little of Bayuda’s previous life and that’s how he wanted it. Except for the novelty of being a black Hotelier in predominantly white Romania, Bayuda was unobtrusive and extraordinarily efficient. His short stature and lean body only added to his relative obscurity, hiding his cold-blooded nature and untapped intelligence. He obviously had issues. But as long as the hotel made a profit and didn’t attract attention, Stefan and the local police whom he paid handsomely, accepted that the occasional lone tourist may disappear mysteriously.

Normally Stefan entered and exited his penthouse retreat from the fire escape preferring to avoid people and their attentions. But today was different. Today he felt for the first time something foreign to him. Deep personal loss. His best and only friend in his epochally long life had just died. He remembered their first meeting in a slum area of what once was the capitol city of dynastic Egypt, Armana, in late 1213 B.C.

~~~~~~~~~~

Stefan was a wild and savage creature living on the streets. Hiding during the day and surviving night by night. Driven by a curse, an unhinged craving for blood. In the recesses of his mind was another time as a Hem-netjer, a priest of the Grand Temple of Karnak. But that life was like a fading dream. He had no recent memories, no name. Even in his feral state, Stefan understood that discretion was important for survival. That humans must be hunted in darkness and disposed of discreetly. But this magnificent man relieving himself behind the tavern in broad daylight was something different, special, strikingly handsome and transcendently begging to have his throat ripped out and his blood imbibed. Stefan quickly found out that this was no ordinary man.

Stefan awoke bound and impaled on a stalagmite in a cave dwelling. The ethereal man offered him fresh blood, a truce and information. All he asked in return from Stefan was restrained patience. Could he manage that? A short time later, Stefan lie peacefully on animal skins, sated with the blood of an innocent. The sublime man squatted next to Stefan, gently cleaning the gaping wound in his stomach. “It will heal quickly and leave no scar.”

“I barely feel any pain. Why am I alive?”

“I was intrigued by your combination of beauty and ferocity.”

“Finally, a stroke of luck.”

“There is no luck, no coincidence in this world. Everything happens for a reason. Always remember that.”

“I’m sorry I attacked you. It just…came over me.”

“You had no choice. It is our curse. The Blood Hunger we call it.”

“We?”

“Our kind. Vrykolakus the Greek scholars call us, Revenants to the Celtic tribes.”

A word from Stefan's past life came to mind. “Vampire.”

“Yes. Vampire. You sensed I was like you and hence you attacked.”

“Why?”

“You are what is known as a Neophyte. Some Elder Vampires can convert humans but it is an arduous and monumentally painful process. The Neophyte is born in agony, rage and consumed of the Blood Hunger. In such a state it is instinctual to attack others of our kind, which more often than not, results in bloodshed and the death of one or both.”

“Then why do it? Why generate Neophytes?”

“Why indeed. Life needs purpose. As a race, we have none. We exist on the blood and pain of others to no end. Over time this creates a void in the psyche. Procreating seems the way to fill that void. Gives one merit and value. But female Vampires are extremely rare. They seldom survive the transformation. And even then, they are innately infertile. After turning, the ovaries cease producing ovum. Hence the continued ritual failure of generating Neophytes.”

“You feel this way as well?”

“Unfortunately I do. I cannot help myself. The inability to reproduce, raise a child, have an heir, continue my line. It mocks my very existence.”

“Why not impregnate a human female?”

“It has been tried and always fails. You see, Vampire sperm does not fuse with the egg, it devours it.”

Knowledge from his previous life bubbled up in his mind. “Perhaps some intervention on the human eggs part could help it survive. Protective spells, drugs, or perhaps some combination of both?”

“Ahh! I have stumbled upon an intellectual. I had no idea. From now on I’ll refer to you as Imhotep in honor of Egypt’s foremost scholar. Consider it for your new name.”

“And what shall I call you?”

“For the last 200 years I have gone by the name of Ramses.”

Stefan’s eyes lit up with recognition that sprang from his human past. “You are Ramses the second. My Pharoah, I thought you were dead!” He struggled to rise.

Ramses soothed him back down. “Not dead. Just moving on. I began the 19th Dynasty as Ramses I. Then I ruled as his son Seti, then his grandson, Ramses II."

“My liege. You conquered, you built wonderous temples, you generated timeless art. Surely these accomplishments gave your life meaning?”

“I thought ambition, deeds and achievements could fill my deepening void. My need for progeneration. Alas, no. It was a time of interest but that chapter is over now. Our lifespan among the humans has it’s perks and it’s penalties. I was thinking of moving to Greece. How does the name Plato strike you?”

~~~~~~~~~~~

His memory of their first encounter almost brought him to tears. They fought, fed and laughed together for generations. They were sometimes lovers, sometimes companions, but always true friends. Occasionally they would drift apart for a time but always found each other again. Through all of the thousands of years of changes in name and persona, to each other they always remained Imhotep and Ramses. Stefan had not spent time with Ramses since his most recent incarnation in Great Britain, 3 decades earlier. Then came the telegram. Stefan met the stiff British lawyer in a public setting as he had requested, to discuss the last will and testament of Ramses, or Virgil Honeycutt as he was currently known. Mr. Burton Esq., Ramses equivalent of Bayuda no doubt, was openly apprehensive, aware of Stefan’s true identity. Ramses left everything he owned to Stefan. Landholdings, art, wealth.

Stefan inquired how he had died. “He took his own life using the only thing he thought would be permanent. Fire.”

Mr. Burton handed Stefan a sealed envelope. “Mr. Honeycutt instructed me to give this to you personally.” It was a hand written note that simply said,

Enough.

The Void has won.

With love, Ramses.

Tears flowing freely, Stefan left the restaurant clutching a folder of legal documents and the gut wrenching letter. The weight of loss and emptiness pulling him down into the depth’s of his own void.

**********

The tourist business was brisk this time of year and the lobby was bustling. Though his brooding good looks could pass for Transylvanian, Stefan was actually more Persian in appearance. Tall with long unrestrained black hair. Penetrating dark brown eyes and olive skin. Though not quite a beak, his straight nose was prominent, accentuating full lips and high cheekbones. His only unusual feature was his teeth. Except for 4 molars and 4 slightly oversized canines, the rest of his 32 teeth were sharpened incisors like those of a lion. The primary reason he never smiled publicly. Bayuda spied him from the lobby front desk and nodded acknowledgement, mildly surprised to see him among the people. The women were noticing him as well. They always did. Drawn to him like moths to a street lamp. Gripped by his grief, he hurried to the elevator, beckoning Bayuda to join him. He needed distraction. He needed blood.

In the elevator, Stefan gave the folder to Bayuda. “Take care of these legalities and make any necessary arrangements. I’ve had a turn of bad luck.”

“There is no such thing as luck, Master. Only destiny and opportunity.”

“So I was once told. I want his ashes, Bayuda. Arrange it, whatever it takes. Now I must feed.”

Bayuda thumbed through the papers. “It will be done post haste.” Though Stefan’s face was impassive, Bayuda could sense his gloom. He ventured a rare, personal observation. “Master, this man’s passing has caused you great sorrow, has it not?”

“He was my paramour, my confidant, my soulmate. He was the greatest of my kind…and hence the saddest. Never speak of him again.”

**********

Squatting on the water tower atop his building, Stefan surveyed his once beloved city with contempt. Feeling personal loss was not in his world and was taking a toll. He hadn’t always been misanthropic and cynical. But the interminable succession of days, years, and centuries had been eroding the ground beneath his reality for so long, so gradually, that he now found himself looking up from the tedious depths of boredom. No. Not bored. Weary. Weary of the endless cycle of disappointment, weary of adapting to changing civilizations. But mostly, weary of the inevitable death of everything and everyone around him.

The sun’s warmth was disturbing. Stefan rarely hunted during the day. Contrary to the myths of folklore and media, sunlight was not deadly to his kind. More, annoying. Intensified by the loss of his beloved Ramses, the Blood Hunger was rising. Stefan closed his eyes and focused. With his enhanced feral senses he scoured the sounds and smells of the city, searching for possible prey. But something else caught his attention. A woman. Running. Fight or flight fear. Pursuit by a…what? He inhaled deeply. Not a man, not a vampire but definitely an apex predator. Curious, he followed the trail by sound and smell. Moving down the fire escape and through the streets with such speed, he was little more than a blur to passersby. There, in the heart of the slum district, Stefan watched the scene in a dead ended alley unfold, from atop a long abandoned warehouse. The woman was black. Rare in this Bucharest ghetto. Her wavy dark hair was a mess. The scent of fear had faded. Expressive dark brown eyes were wide with, not the panic that he was so used to seeing from humans but resolve. She wore a tattered hospital gown of sorts, pulled around and tied at the waist with a pair of cut-off jeans. Dirty bare feet. Her body was shapely but toned. Considering her state, she was actually quite attractive. Crouched and brandishing a common butcher knife, she backed away from the pursuer until she could go no further. He was well over six feet. Bulky, well-muscled and wearing an unfamiliar uniform of sorts. His face was brutish and his skin leathery, almost scaley. Stefan was not familiar with his scent.

The creature spoke. “Don’t make this hard on yourself. They want you back. They don’t care in what condition as long as you are alive.”

“Fuck off you neanderthal shit-for-brains.”

Stefan stifled a snorting chuckle. The retort amused him. Especially coming from a woman in this situation. She had mettle. He liked her already.

The woman stood and tucked the knife into her waistband. Untying her top, she slipped it off and tossed it aside, invitingly exposing her ample breasts. She became coy. “I know you Hunters desire human females. Perhaps we can make a deal. My body for my freedom.”

“You have no say in that matter. I will use you as I will. Then I will take you back to the Greys.” He reached for her.

Stefan marveled at the speed and grace with which she ducked under his grasp while pulling the knife and burying it deep between his ribs. He caught her by the hair and slung her brutally into the brick wall. As she lie unconscious, the Hunter extracted the knife from his body with little reaction of pain.

It had mentioned the Greys. Stefan knew of them. Dealers in DNA and genetics. It was rumored that the first Vampires were of their making. He and Ramses rarely spoke of the Alien races that walked among men. They were best avoided. Kill the Hybrid creature and feed on the woman was the logical course of action. But she intrigued him...So be it.

As the Hunter lifted the limp body with ease and ripped off her jeans, he heard. “Rape? Not at all civilized. You need a lesson in manners, Breed.”

The Hunter dropped her and spun to confront the foolish intervention. But what he saw, or more sensed, gave him pause. There was danger here, even for one such as himself. He drew his sidearm and with speed he had never encountered, Stefan slapped it away, skittering across the pavement. Stefan smiled revealing this raptorial teeth. “Vampire?” Murmured the Hybrid. Remembering specific training, he pulled the silver kindjal strapped to his thigh and attacked. Go for the heart, sever the head, then burn the remains.

Stefan caught his wrist, but the creature was incredibly strong. Stefan bit savagely into the Hybrid’s hand, tearing away bone, muscle, flesh and the weapon. The Hunter stifled a cry of pain and backed away. Stefan nonchalantly tossed the dagger over his shoulder. The blood tasted rich and tart. It would do nicely. Strategy quickly formed in the Hybrids mind. Distraction, retrieve the pistol, then…It was to no avail. Stefan was on him ripping out his throat.

**********

Ah. She was up. Stefan detected her covertly listening to their conversation from the bedroom. “You’re sure of this Bayuda?”

“As sure as one can be of such things, Master. Her build, her features, her tattoos. By all indications, she is a Nubian Princess of the Kushite royal line.”

“I know your listening Miss. Won’t you join us?”

She stepped into the Penthouse great room, taken by its opulence. “Well fuck me sideways. Look at this place.”

“Quell your mouth, woman!”

“Relax, Bayuda. It is her way.”

“Yeah, Bayuda. Fuck off. And don’t you mean Highness? You must be a Sesh to know so much about me.”

“Sesh, Bayuda?” Asked Stefan.

“A Witch Doctor of sorts from the people of the Nubian desert, Master.”

“You never told me.”

“You never asked.”

Stefan beckoned her to sit. “What is your name?”

“Zahra. And thank you for rescuing me from that piece of shit.”

“My pleasure. How are you associated with the Greys?”

“I was arrested in Khartoum for soliciting. As is customary, they swabbed my DNA. Apparently the Greys monitor that shit. Liked what they saw. Fuckers came and picked me up. I was underneath a NATO base near here for months. Every day they would poke and scoop and dig on me. They wanted DNA, mitochondria, my blood and my eggs. But I escaped and here we are.”

“Eggs? Bayuda?” That caught Stefan’s interest.

“The line of the Nubian women is hardy. They originally came from The harems of the Annunaki rulers of Sumeria. Used for breeding.” Bayuda turned to Zahra. “You were whoring your royal lineage. You should be ashamed.”

“And you should kiss my black ass. We Nubian Princesses are good for two things. Fucking and fighting. No one was paying me for fighting. A girl has to eat.”

Stefan laughed. She did have a way. “How do you know all of this, Zahra?”

“The Greys were always in my mind. It did not take me long to learn how I could pick their brains as well.”

“You are a remarkable human. We have a problem. The Hunter was wearing a body cam. They will be coming. I have a proposition for you Zahra.”

“I’m all fucking ears.”

**********

“Next!” called out the Customs Agent. The handsome Arab looking man and his incredibly pregnant black companion approached the desk and presented their papers. As the agent perused the I.D.s, passports and visas, he asked questions. What was the purpose of their visit, where and how long would they be staying. He stacked the documents neatly and held them, observing the lady. “Your quite far along Ma’am. When are you due?”

“Like it’s any of your fucking business.”

The man intervened. “Please disregard that comment. My wife is understandably grumpy after such a long flight in her condition. She is due any day now.”

“You realize that even if the baby is born on our soil it will not be a citizen?”

“Of course.”

Handing back the paperwork he announced. “Welcome to the United States Mr. and Mrs. Honeycutt.”

**********