Re: Jude and the Vampire
The vampire breed of which the fool Daniel Webster had become in the prime of his wasteful life was of an old European kind, made for dark woods and people who knew only the people fifty miles 'round. He was, however, equipped to conceal his presence, to avoid the medieval pyres and churches, to conceal where he did not kill. The rivulets of blood would not last, and they were rare when he was tidy, because his saliva had something to help the wounds seal. The dishcloth was an afterthought, more to secure Jude's trust than his flesh.
"Put the kettle on again," the vampire said, in an accented voice more of teeth than Europe. He was more human the moments that passed -- not in mind, certainly, but in appearance. The teeth vanished as his abraided skin sealed over his forehead and chin. "I'll not say no." The vampire ran a thumb across newly reddened lips, rotated in place to eye the room and the gaping holes of windows.
"Caught in the open," he replied, of vague bitterness. He made sure the door closed solidly, prowled the edge of the table, and took a noseful of air to see who else was present here, if anyone. "The others do not trust me." He sounded hurt, like he had built a clubhouse no one would enter, or planned a birthday party to which no one would come.
He went to the stove and attempted to operate it mechically, like a patient with memory loss hoping his body would handle the details; it had too many knobs, and he gave up on it and the kettle. He returned to Jude and took his chin in a warm-flushed hand, so he could direct the younger man's eyes into his own. "All will be well," he said, in a soft, even voice, to entice and calm. "You want to keep me safe here. You remember?" He waited for confirmation.