Nikandros’s Wife

Nikandros goes through the whole thing. Drinks Du la Font's blood. Passes out. I don't know if it's Du la Font who drags him back home, or if Nikandros staggers through the bushes on his own like some idiot who just got clubbed in the head. I have no idea. That part's missing from his memories. What comes next isn't. Just like it happened to me, that Greek thief and murderer wakes up at home looking like a steaming pile of sick. And I say "home" just to be polite, because the proper term would be third-rate cavernous pigsty. And yeah, in that trash heap of a cave, that bandit—my uncle, in case you got lost—lived with his wife and kid. And holy shit, Nikandros's wife was a slap in the face to femininity. UGLY. All caps. Just looking at her hurt more than a kick to the balls. But hey, I guess that's what was on offer. Sometimes, better a rotten scrap than an empty plate. Different times.

If you ask me, Nikandros didn't deserve that walking insult of a woman. Sure, life had beaten the hell out of him—but he was still a handsome bastard. I mean it. But apparently, that didn't mean squat back then. The best women went to whoever had the most money and power, even if he looked like a hyena mid-shit. And of course, they also got the best men. I could take this somewhere really nasty, but I'll spare you. Let's just say: if most of those Greek dudes were alive today, they'd be rotting in prison for abuse and statutory rape. Or, you know, if they were Catholic priests, they'd get a free pass. God, once I get out of The Gloaming Inn, I'm killing some priests. And when I learn to travel through time, I'm marching into Ancient Greece and settling scores. One by one. Plato, you better fucking run.

And there we are: Nikandros's home. Yeah, I've said it before, but I'll say it again: The place was vile. A cockroach pit. A rat nest with a door. I swear, a goat shack would've looked like the goddamn Plaza Hotel next to that hellhole. But anyway, whatever. I try not to perceive the memory of the smell. Most of it's buried deep in the subconscious and, even if Nikandros doesn't recall it clearly, I—who can crawl into the darkest corners of his head—can smell it just fine. And let me tell you, it's fucking horrendous. So, like I'm pinching my nose shut, I focus on what matters: Nikandros dies. Goes to the desert of those who'll be reborn. And then, he's back. He opens his eyes and finds Du la Font standing in that dump of his. Du la Font looks like a creature made of radiant diamonds in the middle of that toilet scene from Trainspotting—you know the one. The bathroom with the sign that says "The Worst Toilet in Scotland." And of course, Du la Font welcomes him the same way Agnes welcomed me: by taking away the one thing he loves. He's drained Nikandros's ten-year-old son dry. And his wife? What did he do to her? Well, come on now, sharp reader—you already know. He didn't dirty his fangs with that thing. That woman—who looked more like some beast from the woods—Du la Font snapped her neck. Just like that. That's all.

And goddamn it, I can't hold this in. If you leave me alone in front of the goal, ball at my feet, no goalie in sight—I have to score. So here it goes: Nikandros's wife looked like a troll. And not one of those cute ones from bedtime stories. No—one of the ugly ones. The kind you'd rather swim with a hundred crocodiles in a Louisiana swamp than have the misfortune of running into under a bridge. She had a square jaw, sunken eyes, and a permanent "look at me wrong and I'll break your face" expression. I wonder if Nikandros actually slept in the same bed as her. I swear that woman didn't deserve more than a patch of damp dirt on the floor. Then I picture it—poor Nikandros, in that weasel den disguised as a home, sharing a blanket with that creature—and suddenly, I feel a little better about my own life. My childhood and teen years in La Concepción—growing up with my prostitute mother, her prostitute friends, their loser pimps, my down-on-his-luck conman dad, in a house where things happened that no kid should ever see, bored out of my mind without internet, stuck watching whatever the TV served up—was paradise compared to Nikandros's life with his troll wife. Or orc. Or whatever the hell that thing was. Back in Ancient Greece.

Anyway. Nikandros sees his wife's corpse. And, as expected, he doesn't give a single rotten damn. Back then—this was pretty standard for men of the time, and Nikandros was no exception—a wife was nothing more than a slave no one felt anything for. No affection. No tenderness. Nothing. The only thing Nikandros actually loves is his son. His bloodline. His proof of existence. His legacy. The one thing that shows he was here, even for a little while. That kid is, in his eyes, the one who'll carry his story forward. The one who won't let him vanish into oblivion. Yeah, that's Nikandros's big idea. Classic human bullshit. The kind of crap only a dumb mortal would believe. And I say: Go ahead—have all the descendants you want. You'll still be forgotten. Holy Virgin, if you don't want to be forgotten, don't waste your time having kids. You've got to do something great. Something no one else has done. Something that puts you above the herd. Invent something: a device, a work of art, the cure for a disease. Transform something: take what already exists and make it better, faster, cleaner. And above all, don't share the credit. That's how you get your name carved into memory for a while after you're gone. Now, let's not be idiots. Not even that lasts forever. Your name will disappear, just like the planet you once walked on will disappear. Along with everything you ever loved or hated. That's just how it is. No way around it.

Now me—personally? I couldn't give less of a damn about my name being immortal if I'm already dead. I want an immortal life. I don't want my name living on while I rot in the grave. That's absurd. It's like someone throws a hell of a party in your honor—and you're not even allowed in. Fuck that. I want to live forever. And over time, I want my name to strike fear into every living thing the moment it's spoken. And why fear? Because saying my name might just make me appear behind you—and rip your fucking head off. And sure, before I decapitate you, maybe I'll drink you. Maybe. If your blood is good enough to touch my fangs.

For a moment, I forget I'm trapped inside The Gloaming Inn. Shit, I love being a vampire. Being a vampire is fucking glorious. I hug Liora. I smile. I listen to Nikandros—that pile of bones—tell his story like we're sitting around a campfire. And Nikandros says:

"My son! Oh, my son! My creator killed my son. Fed on him. I was destroyed, Mr. Fabrizio. MY SON! Every time I remember it, it rips me apart inside!"

And yeah. He's not faking it. I see Nikandros completely shattered by the pain of losing his only child.

The poor bastard throws himself at Du la Font, full of rage and sorrow.

But Du la Font, of course, doesn't even blink. He freezes him without lifting a finger. And says:

"This is your fate, Nikandros. You're a piece. A fragment. An echo. And you must fulfill your role in this game. I know you didn't ask to be part of this play—none of us did—but that doesn't matter. The play moves on. The curtain never falls. And you, Nikandros, you're going to play your part. As you've done before. And as you will again. Over and over. Because fate is not a choice. It's a wound that opens—and opens again. Something that repeats to infinity, inside a chaotic maze that'll make your brain explode if you're not ready to understand it."

Nikandros, with his son's body in front of him, can barely whisper:

"Who are you?"

"Your creator. Your father. The one who'll make your pathetic life matter."

Nikandros can't take his eyes off his son's body:

"My son! Oh, my little one! My little boy!"

Du la Font gives him two slaps. Hard. Necessary. The kind of slaps that remind me of the ones my mother used to give me when I was a kid—you know, to make sure I didn't grow up soft, to keep me sharp, to stop me from falling asleep in my own stupidity.

Nikandros cries. And through the tears, he asks:

"What do you want from me?"

"What I want from you is already in motion."

"I want to know."

"You will. When you become what you're meant to be. Do you know what a hotel is, Nikandros?"

"No. I don't."

"Of course you don't. You're just an ignorant little piece of Greek trash. But one day you'll know. And when that day comes, you'll be damned. Damned to serve as the receptionist in a very particular place. A place called The Gloaming Inn."

"I don't understand any of this."

"Of course not. But I do. And that's what matters. There's no way you could understand this right now. But that doesn't excuse you. You're going to follow a path. You'll move like a piece in a game you don't understand, on a board you can't see, because the lights are out. And you'll end up exactly where you're meant to be, doing exactly what you're meant to do. We all have a fate, Nikandros. And this—yes, this—is yours."

"But why do I have to fulfill the fate you decided for me?"

"You're wrong. It's not my decision. I'm more powerful than you could ever imagine, Nikandros. But even I must be held accountable. No one is truly free. I also play a role in this great play. Mine just happens to be more important than yours. And that, trust me, isn't arrogance. It's structure. It's hierarchy. It's the order of things. You'll start to understand it all with time. Now come on—Would you like to see your new appearance? Of course you would. And let me just say, you're radiant now, boy."

Du la Font gives Nikandros back control of his body. Then, like a stage magician—one of those old-school, velvet-gloved types from some antique theater—he makes a mirror appear. Not just any mirror. One of those gaudy, over-the-top pieces you'd expect to find in a high-end ladies' boutique during the Belle Époque.

Nikandros flinches. He stares at the mirror, eyes wide as saucers. And slowly, he begins to understand. He understands he's crossed a threshold into a world he doesn't know. A supernatural world. He realizes he's crossed into a world he knows nothing about—just like there was plenty he didn't know about the one before. Because let's face it: you don't learn much being a roadside bandit.

Nikandros doesn't stop looking at himself in the mirror. That stinking Greek bastard had never seen his reflection clearly. Never seen himself with any real definition. And now he's frozen. Fascinated. Amazed, like a caveman looking at an iPhone.

Du la Font, in a casual tone, says:

"You look great. And it's a good thing you never saw yourself before. You weren't ugly, Nikandros. But you were pretty worn out. Let's just say you had the charm of a rusty tool. Useful, maybe. But not exactly dazzling. Now you look like someone who deserves a story—even if it's a sad one."

Du la Font snaps his fingers. The mirror vanishes. Nikandros jumps back—just a little—like a startled animal. A dumb, twitchy little jolt.

Then he looks at Du la Font.

"I want you to hear a name," Du la Font says. "A name you must never repeat."

"Of course, sir," Nikandros replies, almost fully resigned to his fate. And, naturally, doing his best not to glance at his son's body.

"Fabrizio. Zico. When you meet the creature of the night bearing that name, you'll know exactly what your role is in this story."

And there I am. Thinking: Son of a bitch.

I launch myself at Nikandros. Grab him by the lapels and shake him hard.

"You told me Du la Font had nothing to do with this!"

Nikandros looks at me—without fear.

"And he doesn't, Mr. Fabrizio. My creator only plays his role. Just like you're playing yours."