Tales in Vein

By Diotima

"They don't know... they can't. That is their curse.
And their blessing...."

So begin a series of short stories, told by a
long-lived vampire. He retells some of the more interesting passages from his life, and reflects on some of the more intriguing characters he has known.

In "Late of the House of Vesta", we follow him through a Rome which seems ancient to us, to the sun of Renaissance Florence in "He only saw her three times" and the mists of Scotland in "I dislike Scotland", through to a more modern Victorian sitting room and the badlands of Texas.
You may recognise some of the people he discusses - as he finally understands, for instance, why it took a famous figure so long to die (if die, he did), and casts scorn on a cherished story of unrequited love. You will also see him rather discomfited as he deals with the newest generation of his species. And in "Cold, so cold", we are let into the secret of how some of the very old vampires arrange their lives. In all the tales, we are shown the lives of vampires from a unique vantage point: from the inside.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Diotima
• Release date: Jan 20, 2012
• ISBN: 9781465729842

Diotima

Although not the original Diotima, the author does agree that the western world has invested far too much energy into separating the inseparable duo of mind and heart. Diotima has written widely on a number of subjects, including essays, fiction and poetry. Her two latest books have been published by the Bibliotheca Alexandrina: Dancing God – a collection of poetry, and Goat Foot God, an examination of the Great God Pan; both available through Neos Alexandria

Book preview

Tales in Vein

Diotima

Published by Diotima at Smashwords

Copyright 2012 Diotima

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Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

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Table of Contents

Ignorance

Interlude

Late of the house of Vesta

Interlude

He only saw her three times

I dislike Scotland.

The Penny Dreadful

Symbiosis isn’t always fun

Interlude

Replacement required

Interlude

Jamison

Interlude

Ethical Dilemma

Interlude

It’s all academic

Interlude

The art lover

Interlude

When it’s all you can do, not very good is good enough

Interlude – the last

Cold…. So cold

About the Author

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IGNORANCE

They don’t know... they can’t. That is their curse.

And their blessing.

The open window was outlined in crimson – drapes so red the light within seemed to bleed its own frame.

I needed no direction – I could find her well enough now even in a crowded city. But the effect pleased her dramatic tendencies, so I did not complain.

She was at her dressing table, brushing her hair, again as she felt befit the night. Six months ago that hair had only known the tug of a comb and the ministrations of an expensive salon, but since... knowing... me, she’d allowed it to grow. At least it was past the awkward stage now... if only she, herself, had kept pace.

Yet, for all that, here she was – and here was I.

So strong is suggestion that she started when I spoke my good evening – my face was plain enough to see in the glass, but she saw it not. For, of course, everyone knew I could cast no reflection.

Her greeting was, as always, delightful. But I held her off for the moment.

Ah, my love, how pale you are in the moonlight! But have you done as I asked?

She moved, then, trying to take her wrists from my hands – but of course, she could not. That much, at least, is true.

Abandoning the half hearted attempt to free herself, she nodded, and looked to the dressing table, where a small slip of paper waited.

There – her name’s Samantha – she works.. Used to work next to me. Again, that catch in the voice – for you no longer work, do you, my dear? Signed off, you say you are – too ill to work.

And of course, you are. Too ill by far to rejoin the officer where you once whiled away your shortened days. You tell me – you told them – it was only a break, a hiatus for healing.

We know better, do we not, my dear? But you do not admit it. Not yet. Perhaps not ever.

But you have done as I asked – you have found me a new place, a new face. You didn’t like doing it; your petulance shows that much. But my dear – did you never wonder how I came into your life? Did you think it was kismet, blind fate that drew us together?

Of course you did. Because you are not like the rest, we are not like the rest. You – we – are unique, unheard of, once in a lifetime.

Just like all the rest.

But to be sure, my dear, you are correct in part – this will be once in your lifetime.

And perhaps – looking at you – yes, this will be the last in your lifetime.

And so – as a reward for Samantha’s details, and as a farewell present, I take you once more in my arms – carry you once more to your ornate, overly romantic bed, lay you gently on the silken covers you bought to please me (though whatever made you think I would welcome black silk, I do not know), and for the last time... feed.

You rise under my hands, as you always have done, my dear – but weaker, so much weaker than at first. Then – oh, then – you were a lusty companion. But now...

Sated, I settle you back and – yes – I was right, this has been the last time. And, as so often, clarity at the end. Your eyes wide, you name me one last time, as you look in horror at what you have become... what you really are.

I would have spared you that, but death is as it will be.

Picking up the paper from the dressing table, I take one last look, and yes, my dear. When they find you in the morning, they will marvel that it’s been so long. Did it never occur to you odd that you didn’t mind being out of work, not being paid? That you bought no food, needed no heat? It’s only just come home to you, my dear – but you’ve been dead quite some time.

Pocketing... yes, Samantha, that’s the name... Pocketing Samantha’s details, the window affords me as much exist as it did entrance, as I think on the oddity of humans.

They don’t know... they can’t. That is their curse.

And their blessing.

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INTERLUDE

The preceding vignette may give you some idea of at least one aspect of my life. However, there are many others, and at the insistence of those to whom I answer, I set these down for wider publication.

Why, you may ask?

Look around you. Walk into any bookshop, any movie theatre, any purveyor of media, and you will see tome after tome, movie after movie about vampires.

And all of these have one thing in common. They are all, without exception (in spite of what you might read on the dust jacket of a book) written from the outside, and almost always by those who have absolutely no belief, and even less experience, of vampires. The tales are wild, fantastic, full of blood (which, to be fair, is a useful sort of thing for movies and the like). They portray vampires either as monsters or as misunderstood heroes, thwarted from attaining their rightful place in society by a malady over which they have no control.

What they lack is believability; for the simple reason that there is nothing to believe in. The stories are no more real to their creators than any other mythic figure: they would be no more surprised to meet a chimera coming down the street than they would a vampire. (And in that, they might well be correct, as the last chimera regretfully died some centuries ago. I say regretfully, but in reality it was a thoroughly unpleasant beast).

These stories, instead, are written from the inside. As I go about my work, as well as about my pleasures, I encounter others of my kind. Those who rule us have decided that it is high time to set the record straight as it were, and so have instructed me to write these few trifles to show you the variety and richness of the lifestyles my compatriots either enjoy or endure. Beginning sometime in the past, up to the present day, I intend to present a series of vignettes.

You will, of course, assume that this tome, as all the others, is purest fiction.

And so should it be....

You will ask who I am and I will tell you... I am no one. I am no man, and every man. Such is my stock in trade – I am merely one of the crowd, one among so many. I do not – unless I wish to – stand out from others.

Unfortunately for the majority of the media mentioned before, you average vampire cannot be distinguished from humans by a casual glance, or even by an in-depth examination. We are – we have become – adept at hiding what we are.

This is only to be expected, if you think about it; vampires whose visage proclaims what they are would not enjoy the normal life expectancy of our kind, at least if they insisted on mixing with humans. There are indeed some of our race how rarely venture into human company, for that very reason; but these are ancient indeed, and powerful, and rarely have need to venture outside the confines of what you may be sure is an extremely well protected fastness.

The rest of us, however, have had to make a virtue of necessity and tend to pride ourselves on our ability to go unnoticed among humans. I am led to believe that this habit can also be found among lower animals (lower than humans) where certain wasps or some such are able to disguise themselves as the insects they prey upon, and thus move among them unmolested.

As we do, among humans.

And yes, before you ask, the simile is apt.

I will not say that I have never had friends who were humans; as my work often calls upon me to blend into human society, I have passed many quite pleasant decades of time – even and enjoyable year or two – with humans.

The vast majority of my life – the length of which I will not divulge but of which you may get some small taste in these pages – has, however, been one of unutterable boredom whenever it was passed among humans.

Yes, there are good humans.

There are even ones who aspire to beauty, grace, and other such concepts.

But you are so limited, so ephemeral, so very, very parochial.

I know you cannot help it – it would hardly be possible to be anything but parochial with such a short life span: you have no time to develop a breadth of knowledge, vision or outlook. The few humans who do manage to live a reasonable length of time – and even then, still measured in centuries rather than millennia, are much better companions.

(You did not know that such humans existed? Well, no – they advertise themselves as little as we do, for much the same reasons).

So yes, I can make a friend of a human. Humans can make friends of their dogs, cats and birds, as well.

The difference is in how rarely humans look at their dogs or cats and think, food....

The stories