Stabbing a Pencil Straight Into My Heart

Nikandros tells me that during his time as the receptionist at the Gloaming Inn, two hundred and thirty-three vampires have passed through this place. Only two have made it out.

"Vampires and vampiresses?" I ask.

"Of course, Mr. Fabrizio. We're all just vampires now. We all deserve the chance to grow stronger. It doesn't matter what sex we had back when we were human."

"Agnes was here?"

"Yes, of course. Du la Font's daughter passed through here as well."

"She's not just his daughter. She's also my creator."

"I know."

"How do you know?"

"You smell like her. Her blood runs through you."

"You don't smell like Du la Font."

"Oh, of course not. I smell like oblivion."

"You smell like damp wood and rot."

"I suppose that's what oblivion smells like."

"And what does Agnes smell like?"

"Divinity. Perfection. She has a very particular scent. Quite pleasant. Hard to forget."

"And do I smell like that?"

"A little, yes. But with your own twist."

"How long ago was she here?"

"There's no time here, Mr. Fabrizio. I thought you'd already realized that."

"I have. What I want to know is how many years she had been a vampire when she arrived."

"Then you phrased the question poorly."

"Answer me, goddamn it," I say, unable to hide the anger welling up inside me. No. I can't hide it. It's impossible. "For fuck's sake, you moldy sack of cemetery scum…"

Liora places a hand on my forearm. Of course—it's her way of guiding me back to the path of calm. I lower my voice and say:

"I'll rephrase: how many years had Agnes been a vampire when she stayed at this hotel?"

"No idea, Mr. Fabrizio. But not many. I'd say about as many as you have now. Miss Agnes and I barely spoke. I disgusted her."

"How long did it take her to get out?"

"Three hours, maybe."

"Three hours?" Liora says, stunned. "How's that even possible? How did she do it?"

"Agnes isn't just any vampire, Liora," I say.

"Indeed," Nikandros adds, calmly.

"And who else made it out?" Liora asks.

"Another vampiress. A prodigy, like Miss Agnes. She escaped in roughly the same time. Though this girl hasn't been born as a vampire yet in the time you two come from."

"I don't understand," Liora says.

"Nikandros wants to make one thing clear—any vampire can show up here. From the past, the future," I explain to Liora.

"And we would be vampires from the present, sir?"

"Only to ourselves. To others, we're from the past. And to some, from the future. In fact, Agnes might've entered this place a shift before us. But let's not dwell on that. It's not important."

"That's true, Mr. Fabrizio," says Nikandros. "It's not important."

"What's the name of the other vampire who managed to get out of here?" I ask.

"Constanza."

"Who turned her? Was it also Du la Font?"

"I can't speak about her, Mr. Fabrizio."

"But you spoke about Agnes."

"I can speak about her."

"Why can you talk about one but not the other?"

"Mr. Fabrizio, please. Must I remind you that I don't make the rules?"

I glance at Liora. She says:

"You have to find a way back to our dimension, sir. You have to learn how to control the jump between dimensions."

"Yeah. That seems to be the challenge. And I have no fucking clue how to do it. It's like being asked to perform open-heart surgery without even finishing a semester of anatomy."

Liora turns to Nikandros:

"Could you jump between dimensions before you were condemned?"

"Yes. I could."

"How?"

"I had the power."

"Can you teach the sir how to do it?"

"I have no powers anymore, little one. And besides, it's impossible to teach another vampire how to awaken a power. The only thing you can do is push them. Challenge them. Throw bigger and bigger obstacles in their way. With some luck—and a lot of effort—the power eventually shows up."

"I think I heard Du la Font say something different," I say.

"If my creator told you something else, he was most likely indulging in one of his little amusements. Vampires are playful creatures when we hold power. We like to lie. Contradict ourselves."

"Did Du la Font do that with you? Push you to find your powers?"

"Yes, he did, Mr. Fabrizio. He was demanding. He's a good creator."

"Agnes never pushed me to discover anything. That bitch kept me in complete ignorance."

"I'm sorry to hear that, Mr. Fabrizio."

"You know what I think, Nikandros?"

"Tell me. I'm all ears."

"I think Du la Font created you in the past, sure—but only after Agnes made me. He went back knowing exactly who I was."

"That's not a crazy idea at all, Mr. Fabrizio."

"By the way, were you able to travel through time?"

"No. I never mastered that power. I tried, believe me. Gave it my best. But I failed. After that, my creator stepped away from me."

"Then, based on what you're telling me, you weren't that great of a vampire."

"I was great, Mr. Fabrizio. I just couldn't time travel. You can still be a great vampire without that power."

"I will have it."

"I'm sure you will."

"I'm the special one in this story. You're not."

"Why do you say that, Mr. Fabrizio?"

"It's not me saying it. Du la Font said it."

"When?"

"He told you I was special. Don't you remember?"

"That's not what he said. He said that when I met you, I'd understand what my role was in this play—which I still don't know the plot of. But he never said you were special."

Shit. That stung. The bastard's right. Better change the subject.

"Did you meet any other vampire besides Du la Font who could travel through time?"

"No, sir. But I know they exist."

"Agnes can do it."

"Probably. When she came here, she couldn't yet. But you could tell that power was going to awaken in her. And likely many others, too."

"Come on, keep telling me your story, Nikandros."

"I think I should rest now, Mr. Fabrizio. I'll gladly continue later."

"Nikandros is right, sir," says Liora. "We should rest. In a few hours…"

She pauses, then asks Nikandros:

"Saying 'in a few hours' is wrong, isn't it?"

"Technically, yes. But not entirely. You two feel time because you're made that way. For instance, when I said you had enough blood for three days—talking about days here is absurd, but it still makes sense to you. You'll feel like three days have passed. And the proof will be that there's no blood left. Not because time passed, but because you drank it. But in reality…"

"Enough. Every time I think about time travel or places where time doesn't give a damn, I feel like grabbing an axe, cracking open my chest, and stabbing a pencil straight into my heart."

I look at Liora.

"Let's get some rest, little mouse."

Liora smiles. I kiss her on the forehead. We head up to our room. No coffins, of course. Coffins are going out of style. These days, everything's designed to block out sunlight. No need to squeeze into some uncomfortable box. You don't even have to sleep in a basement anymore. Agnes did, out of habit. She was over three hundred years old. Habit always wins. She used to sleep in a basement, inside a coffin. Well, not exactly a coffin. It was a special box. Quite comfortable. Spacious. We used to sleep in it together. Wrapped around each other. And I picked up the habit. The basement thing. That's why, back in my house in Portuondo, I always slept in the basement. But not anymore. Now we've got the same sunlight-proof security system they use in vampire hotels. And Liora and I sleep in a bed. Peacefully. Calmly. And yeah. Just like I did with Agnes, I sleep with Liora the same way—wrapped around each other.

Here we are. In this room where not a single ray of sunlight can get in. Everything is dark. Liora sleeps, pressed up against me. With all this business about Nikandros, Du la Font, and the chaos of not understanding a damn thing about fate, the universe, or that grand theater piece Du la Font kept going on about, it's easy to forget something basic: there's a very real chance we'll starve to death. And then I think: How the hell am I supposed to figure out how to jump between dimensions before we run out of blood?

Without moving from the bed, I see what Nikandros is doing downstairs. He's at the front desk. Standing. Tired. I slip into his head. Nikandros isn't thinking about anything. He'd already told me—he can only think, speak, and reason if someone's present. If not, it's like he's been put on pause. Poor bastard. What the hell did he do to deserve this shit? I don't want to wait until later to hear his story. I'm just about to pick it up right where we left off, but then a memory yanks me out of his mind. Not his memory. Mine. I pull out of Nikandros's head. Focus. The memory's foggy. I focus harder. And then it starts to clear.

I see a man in his early twenties walking through the darkness. There's no sign that says: Welcome to Paris. But I know. I know it with absolute certainty—he's walking through the shadowy streets of the French capital. It's 1702. Yes. I'm completely sure. And how do I know? Because it's a memory. A memory of mine, like I said. And the man walking those streets is me.