Eliza had always thought of Reuben as a bit of a doofus, the way he’d argue points only to concede immediately, like he just hadn’t thought things through. Like he was a lovable schmuck who just happened to be a vampire.
But after hearing him tell his stories, it was apparent that this was, at least partially, an act. One, that she had a nagging fear, he used to groom his victims.
Throughout the night his pale umber skin faded to translucent gray. His eyes clouded milky white, and dark drool fell from his chin as he talked. All in all, he looked more like an ‘it,’ like the corpse of some rotten fish pretending to be a man. A creeping feeling ran up her spine, her own primal fear demanding that she incinerate ‘it,’ Reuben, before ‘it’ could get her.
But, Eliza found that if she closed her eyes and only listened, it was possible to imagine that he was a man trying to talk and eat soup at the same time, so she did that whenever his appearance became too much for her, which was often.
He continued, “This one is from a time not so long ago. I almost remember the events, rather than the story, and I still find them amusing to revisit.
“I had become patron to a man named Tartini, a violinist. This was not unusual in and of itself, I’ve often supported artists whose works interest me, though more often than not,” a coy smile spread across his lips, “it would end in their deaths. It seems as I acquire a taste for the art, so too I acquire a taste for the artist. Their deaths were not so much a choice, but a practicality. When you feed on someone and don’t kill them, they tend to call the Church on you… or worse yet, ‘vampire’ hunters.” He snorted. “Charlatans. I had almost forgotten about them.
“Tartini was brilliant, a court favorite in the city of Serensima where he studied under Master Cappella. Moody and unsatisfied with his work, he believed he was destined for failure, obscurity, but that doubt drove him ever harder, improving his craft. That is, until the day a great violinist, Francesco Veracini, visited the court.
“When Veracini played, such was his mastery over the instrument, his connection between music and soul, that all who listened found their hearts soaring. All, that is, except Tartini. To his ears, it served as proof of his shortcomings, a bar to which he could never measure up.
“So, the young maestro locked himself in a room for nigh on a year and did nothing but practice. Curious of his progress, after my nightly hunts, I would wander by his window and listen. In that year, he grew from brilliant to virtuoso. Every bit Veracini’s equal and then some. But as his talent grew, so too grew his estimation of Veracini. He became depressed, angry, cursing the Song Mother for forsaking him. Until one night, I overheard him utter the words, ‘what good is a life that’s second best? Better to be done with it now than go on suffering.’
“I was mortified that an artist whose greatest works were still ahead of him would consider snuffing that out, denying their art to the world, and most of all, to me.
“Tartini, like most great composers, slept with an instrument nearby, his violin.
“So that night after he went to bed, I sneak in, put on my most terrifying guise,” Reuben, paused, licking his fangs. “And wake him. To my surprise, he does not scream, but he asks, in an unsteady voice, ‘What the Bastard are you?’
“I smile and nod."
Reuben continued, “‘Then you’ve come to punish me for my ineptitude, to kill me, and take me to burn in your hell?’ he asks.
“‘No,’ I say, ‘I come to offer a bargain. Trade me your soul, and in return I shall be your servant, your humble teacher in the art of music.’
“‘I don’t need a teacher. I need a miracle,’ he says.
“‘Miracles can be such fickle things. My way is better.’
“‘Well, how do I know you’re any good,’ he says.
“‘You doubt the skill of the Bastard himself?’
“‘I doubt the skill of anyone I’ve not heard play.’
“Lucky for me, I was not so young at the time and had gone through a phase, one of roughly eighty years, when I’d learned to play every instrument in existence. Though not a great composer myself, I had dabbled on and off. So, I say, ‘Hand me your violin.’”
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As Reuben let out a gleeful laugh, a glob of dark drool ran from his lips. He sniffed at the air, taking quick breaths, leaning towards Eliza until he was sniffing her.
He caught himself, backed away, licked the drool from his lips, and continued, “I played him a discarded trill from the composer Stradi, whom I killed a century before, back when I was impulsive.
“The boy watched me with eyes so wide, you would have thought he was seeing the Song Mother herself; though, I’ve never tried to impersonate her. He agreed to the bargain, and I drank his blood as he drifted to sleep.
“A week later, he was playing his new work, entitled ‘The Bastard’s Trill.’” Reuben shook his head. “He didn’t even get the notes right. But he went on to be a great composer, not because he believed in himself, but because he believed the Bastard had made it so, and I too, found a better way to feed, one where my meals were voluntary, and the Church need never be involved…”
His voice returned to normal, with a bit of a hiss, “So, no killing, I thought you might appreciate that. Sssometime later they even wrote a play about it.”
“Wait, are you telling me?” Eliza asked. “That the story of the Bastard’s Bargain, people trading their souls, started as a scam so you could feed in peace?”
Reuben drew back, looking a bit offended and a bit unsure of himself. He held out his hands, palm forward as if to apologize, then closed them so that only his two index fingers were raised. “Yess.”
“And you’re sure you didn’t just make that up?” she asked.
“Well, no. I don’t remember it actually happening, but I’ve alwayss told myself the story as if it did.”
“Ahh,” Eliza groaned… and shivered once she saw Reuben eyeing her throat. Sitting cross-legged, he was rocking back and forth, faster and faster, like he was working up for a lunge.
“Should I try telling mine again?” she blurted out, hoping to keep his mind occupied on anything besides her blood.
“If you need to improve it… we could alwaysss strike a bargain.” He winked. “Sorry, too much?”
“No no, that’s fine.” She shrugged, not being in the least bit prepared.
“Then pleassse, regale me.”
“Alright,” she took a deep breath, “I came to the Rowan school, not knowing my own origins. I had no memory of anything before the age of six, and when I asked, I was told, ‘You were raised by wolves.’”
Reuben snorted. “I know I ssaid embellish, but that’s a bit much, don’t you think?”
“Who’s telling this story?” she asked, trying to force a playful tone as she noticed Reuben edging closer.
“Fine then, embellisssh away…”
Eliza nodded, readying her spark. “Rumor had it that the headmaster, a giant, eight-foot-tall priest named Gregory, had been assigned there as punishment after he murdered a man during mass for forgetting the words to the Verse of Humility.”
Reuben rocked his hand back and forth as if to say, ‘so-so.’
“They knew me to be an evil child the moment I stepped through the door. My first punishment was to stand upon a chair all day and all night—”
“Eliza, I think I’ve heard this one before. Plagiarism, really?” Reuben cocked an eyebrow.
“And that was when I first saw her. Her hair was the color of…” Eliza blinked. Out the window the sky was the hazy cream of just before dawn.
“Yes?” Reuben asked, his gaze gliding over Eliza’s leg, to the veins in her thigh.
She edged away, but he pulled nearer. “Blonde, the color of blonde.” She forced herself to inch back toward him, hoping that if she didn’t run, he wouldn’t chase her.
“The first thing she ever said to me was, ‘Don’t complain, don’t fight back, don’t give them a reason, and don’t worry, you’ll get through this.’ Huh.” She remembered Jo speaking those words, and thought it sound advice only when one had the luxury of time.
Reuben shifted forward, putting his weight over his back feet, readying to pounce.
She just needed a minute longer… “Did I ever tell you about my friend Miranda? She’s got red hair.”
Reuben rocked back, gasping. “Red?”
“Fire red. Natural I think, but she dyes it too, just to make it pop. She’s in the city, you know.”
The sky was dull orange, brightening.
He fell back, propping himself up with both arms. “Is sshe…?”
“Young and single. And I think she likes the dark mysterious type.”
His eyes grew wide, and in that instant, their cloudiness vanished as his pupils sharpened to black circles. “I would have liked to meet her, Scaggss.” He bolted upright. “But it’s too late now. It’s time.” His jaws snapped shut, flicking spit and bile into the air.
“Stay back.” Eliza pushed spark out her arm, covering it in flame.
“Goodbye. You were a good friend.”
Then Reuben was on her, his teeth pressing into her leg.
She pushed off with her spark, swinging her body up on the chains. Reuben latched on, his hands, claws, gripping the flesh of her torso. When they hit the ceiling, Eliza saw it: the first sliver of dawn.
The beast yowled, and they fell to the ground. His jaw pressed and released, pinching her flesh, but did not break the skin.
Breaths coming ragged and quick, he hissed, “Congratulationsss, Witch. Sunlight makess me nauseous.” And reeling with convulsions, he pulled himself up the wall and climbed into the vent.
“Reuben? I didn’t do a thing.” She let out a long breath. “It was all you.”
“Who ever would have thought that talking to ssomeone might make you forget about drinking them?” He let out a grating chuckle. “Tonight though, I’ll be on you in an instant.”
“Hells, it’s a date then? At least Josephine will be disappointed.”
And as Reuben’s skittering faded into the duct, a thought struck her. The inquisitor would expect one of them to be dead. What would she say if she didn’t see a corpse?… But what if she did?
“Reuben? Can you still hear me?”
No reply.
“Look, if you can, and you want a chance of getting out of here. Do this…”
No reply.
“If you still have it, dump old Whatshiznam’s corpse in here before she arrives, then hide in the duct… Reuben, please.”
After a long silence, Eliza sighed. He wasn’t listening.
And then the skittering returned, dragging something. The lump of flesh plopped out of the vent and fell to the floor, now a lifeless, bloodless husk.
Eliza took a steadying breath and, trying not to think about what she was doing, reached out with her feet, touching the limp corpse.
Shuddering as her feet made contact, she laid old Whatshiznam out on his back. Part of his skull was missing. He looked like a thing, a curio, a shrunken head with the body still attached.
She laid as much of herself on top of him as she could, cringing when he jiggled under her, then she pushed spark down her legs, closed her eyes and ignited it, bracing for the smell.
Josephine would be pleased.
Is it a pattern? I don't know. ???♀?
Is it anti-trans? I don't know. ???♀?
https://www.royalroad.com/ideas/1916 (It would really help new writers!)
All are welcome. The invite link is
What part of the world, besides Noria, would you be the most interested in learning about?
