FollowIt was that dusky dark time of day when Chloe Clarke arrived for her interview. She had thought it was an odd time for such a thing, and the fact that the interview was taking place in her potential employer’s home didn’t help. But, if her time working as a personal assistant for the wealthy had taught her anything it was that rich people were very weird. And, this guy, she thought as she walked up the steps, appeared to be very rich. Set in Sedgefield, one of the most “old money” neighborhoods in Greensboro, the house was huge. It looked more like a castle than anything. It also had a slightly shabby look, with the ivy growing up the walls and the discolored stonework, that made it look much older than it was. Really, it wouldn’t be out of place on some desolate European moor, she thought as she rang the doorbell. She could hear the sonorous chime through the heavy door and it thrilled her gothic soul.
“Oh, shit,” she said, “I fucking love this place.”
Just then, the door swung open and she got her first glimpse of her (possible) future employer. He was tall and thin, with an impressive mane of white hair swept back from his forehead and falling just above his shoulders. She wouldn’t call his face “cadaverous” but she wouldn’t say it was “full”, either. His lips, while thin, were visibly red, and a bit jarring set against his pale skin. His complexion was only a little darker than the white foundation some of the popular girls in high school wore when they played at being goths and she wondered if he ever went outside. He wore black jeans and a black silk paisley shirt that looked like cost more than her entire wardrobe. A pair of black Stefano Ricci sneakers completed the outfit. It was, to say the least stunning. When he spoke, she felt an involuntary shiver run down her spine.
“Good evening,” he said in a voice that was as resonant as his doorbell, “You must be Chloe.” She nodded. “Please, come in.” He stepped to the side and waved her inside with an elegant gesture. “I am, of course, Arnould Barillot.” She couldn’t quite put a finger on his accent. It had a definite French air, but there was something else, too. He held out his hand. “I am pleased to meet you.” She took it and was surprised by how cold it was. Dude must have circulation problems, she thought. “I thought we would chat a bit in the study if that’s all right with you.”
“That sounds great,” she said. Barillot was already one up on most of the rich fuckers she’d worked for. None of them had ever been this polite. “Lead on.”
As they made their way through the house, she took in the decor. It had that cold, almost sterile look that the wealthy seemed to prize. Lots of tile and stone, with marble-topped tables and elegant chairs that looked so uncomfortable no one in their right mind would sit in them. The hall felt utterly devoid of warmth even though she wasn’t cold. Why is it always like this, she thought. It’s like there’s only one interior designer in their fucking world. Becca, her best friend, would love it all. That girl has a real hard-on for rich people shit. Chloe, on the other hand, wanted comfort and the glow of home. Maybe the study will be better. She hoped it would, anyway.
It was. If there was one interior design trope that wealthy people did well, it was the study. Barillot’s was among the best she’d ever seen. Dark wood paneling hung with some amazing art pieces, thick, lush carpets imported from god knows where covering rich hardwood floors, and a crackling fire ticked off every box on her list. She could spend the rest of her life in this room and never want for more. Barillot settled into a chair by the fire, offering her the one across from him. She sat down into a sumptuous cradle of cushioning and butter-soft leather that was unlike anything she’d ever experienced. Between the chair and the fire, she was in heaven.
“So tell me, Chloe,” Barillot said, “Why are you interested in working for me?”
“To be perfectly honest, Monsieur Barillot,” she said, taking a chance with the French honorific, “I need the work. I actually swore off P.A. gigs a little over a year ago when my ex and I decided to give van life a try.” She frowned at the memory of that period. “Then, I caught Jace hooking up with a barista, so. . .” she let the sentence trail off. “I came back home and crashed with a few friends for a bit but that’s not what I want out of life. I started looking for work and apparently, personal assistant is all I’m qualified for,” she said with a shrug. “And, the fact you’re offering room and board in addition to a generous salary doesn’t hurt.”
“Um,” he said. “Infidelity is a horrible betrayal. But, I admire your resilient spirit.” He smiled. “As well as your pragmatism.” What was about this man, she thought, that makes me melt at the slightest compliment? “Shall I go over the job requirements?”
“That seems like as good a place as any to start.”
“All right,” he shifted slightly and crossed his legs in a way that would’ve seemed feminine of most of the guys she’d known. On him, it seemed right. “I keep what some would consider ‘odd’ hours,” he said. “For example, I’ve only been up for an hour today. And, to be honest, this is early.” Hey, it wasn’t the weirdest quirk she’d encountered in her line of work. “So, I need someone available during the day to answer the phone, deal with workmen, sign for packages, that sort of thing. And, I absolutely despise shopping, so what can’t be accomplished online, I would need you to handle.” Again, not that bad. “There will be some light cleaning, but not much. I have a maid service come in once a week.” This gig was sounding better with everything he said. “How does that sound?”
“Pretty sweet, actually,” she said. “I do have a question, though. What about time off? Like, do I get specific days? Also, how much notice do you need if I have an appointment or something?”
“Well, there are no set days,” he told her. “But, as long as there are no pressing needs, you may come and go as you please.”
“So, wait. I don’t have to let you know, like, two weeks ahead of time if I need to go to the doctor?”
“Of course not,” he said, sounding a bit surprised. “You can’t schedule an illness.”
“And, I don’t need to be available 24/7?” He shook his head. “What if a friend drops by to see me? Are you okay with that?”
“Well, to a degree,” he said. “I realize you have a life outside of work, but I am a very private person. Perhaps clear it with me first?”
She nodded. “Hey, I get that. It’s completely reasonable.”
He looked at her for a moment, then asked, “Are these things you’ve dealt with in previous positions?” She nodded. “Oh. I see now why you ‘swore off P.A. gigs’ as you mentioned earlier.”
Chloe laughed. “Oh, that’s only skimming the surface,” she said. “I worked for one guy who would only wear a specific brand of sock that I spent days looking for. The closest place that stocked them was all the way over in Raleigh. They were available on Amazon but he would not let me order them. He said online shopping was evil and he would not countenance it. He actually said that word, ‘countenance’.” She shook her head.
“What did you do?”
“The first time? I drove to Raleigh and got several pairs. He didn’t like that because while I was gone, he couldn’t find his favorite fountain pen. Which was in his pocket the whole time.”
“Mon Dieu,” Barillot said softly.
“Yeah. But that’s not even the craziest thing he had me do. Once, he said his pretzels were too salty and made me remove all the salt.”
“That is insane,” he said, incredulously. “How did you manage?”
“I told myself I needed the job. Over and over. It became a sort of mantra.”
“Well, you won’t have to worry about such things here.” He paused for a moment, then smiled slyly. “I do not care for pretzels.” They both laughed. “When would you be able to start?”
“Would tonight be too soon?” she said, sheepishly. “I’m basically living out of my car right now.”
“Of course,” he answered happily. “Let me show you the apartment.”
Three months into the job, Chloe still couldn’t believe her luck. Her apartment was bright and airy and Arnould (she called him “Arnould” now, at his insistence) had allowed her to decorate it to her taste. He offered a few suggestions, most of which she implemented because the man had impeccable taste. It was, without doubt, the nicest place she’d ever lived. While the living conditions were delightful, they were only part of what made her current situation what it was. Arnould himself played a major role. They had clicked almost immediately and over time, their relationship had deepened. He was now more of a trusted friend and mentor than an employer. Becca had completely gotten the wrong idea when she’d told her about it over lunch.
“Ooh, sounds like someone is falling for their boss,” Becca had said. Chloe was grateful that she’d at least waited for the waitress to leave before blurting it out.
Chloe sighed. “It’s not like that, you perv,” she’d said. “It’s more like a father-daughter thing”
“Hey,” Becca said, waving her fork. “I’m not kink-shaming. If daddy-daughter gets you randy, nothing wrong with that.”
Chloe just looked at her for a moment. “What is wrong with you?”
“What do you mean?” Her friend seemed genuinely perplexed.
“Why do you make everything sexual?” Chloe answered. “Can’t two people just be really close friends? Like, platonically?”
Becca picked at her salad. “I guess,” she said, after a moment. “But where’s the fun in that?”
“You are a hopeless horndog,” Chloe said.
“A fact that I freely admit,” Becca said. “Now, when am I going to meet this mystery man? I’m dying to see what’s got you so worked up.”
Chloe sighed and abandoned any hope of convincing her friend that it wasn’t like that. “Let me talk to him and see what he says.”
“What, I can’t just come over? That’s kind of weird.”
“He’s a very private person,” Chloe explained. “He doesn’t like to be photographed and he’s not a fan of crowds or people in general. Plus, he sleeps during the day, so we try to keep things quiet. At night, sometimes, he’ll have some friends over and they’re even more shy than he is.” She took a bite of her burger. “I’ve actually never seen them,” she said, swallowing.
“Then, how do you know they’re there?”
“I can hear them,” Chloe said. “And, sometimes, I have to clean up a bit the next morning. Usually after the more rowdy gatherings.”
“Ooh,” Becca said. “That sounds like my kind of party.”
Chloe shook her head. “You’re incorrigible,” she said. She waved for the check. “Since I just got paid, I’ve got lunch.”
“Oh, look at you,” Becca said. “Moneybags.”
“Shut up,” Chloe said. “I’ll talk to Arnould tonight about you coming by.” Then, she added, “He’ll probably be fine with you visiting but I can’t guarantee he’ll meet you. He’s kind of funny that way.”
“Okay,” Becca said. “Text me when you know something.”
It was an hour before sundown and Chloe did a walk-thru of the house to make sure everything was in order before Arnould emerged from his chamber. Not that he was picky, though. She just wanted things to be right. For Arnould to be comfortable. She’d done it so many times in the past few months that it was automatic and her mind drifted. In these moments, something nagged at her, a sort of picking in the back of her brain. There were odd things about Arnould’s life and they didn’t seem to add up when she thought about them. Like, his schedule. She’d never met anyone who slept during the day and didn’t work third shift. And then, there was his bedroom. It was in the basement and the only hard and fast rule of the house was that she was never to enter his room. In fact, he said, he preferred that she didn’t come downstairs at all. His friends were another issue. She’d told Becca she’d never seen them but that wasn’t exactly true. She’d caught a glimpse of one about a month ago. It was a little… strange. If she had called Central Casting for a vampire, this is who they would’ve sent. They had the cape, the fangs, even a weird little widow’s peak. At the time, she had told herself it was a costume for a Halloween party. But, in moments like this, it was hard to hang onto that thought. Before she could pull at the thread anymore, she heard Arnould’s footsteps coming up the stairs.
“Good evening, Chloe.” Even after three months, his voice still sent a shiver down her spine.
“Hi Arnould,” she said. “Have you got a minute? I need to ask you something.”
“Of course,” he replied, dropping into his favorite chair. “What can I help you with?” He leaned back and crossed his legs with the feline grace she’d come to admire.
“Well,” she began, “I ran some errands this morning and then met my friend Becca for lunch.”
“Becca,” he said, interrupting her. “She is your friend from high school?”
“College, actually,” she said. “We were roommates all the way through.”
“Ah, yes,” he said. “Sorry for the interruption, but you know my fondness for building a picture when a story is related. Please, go on.”
“Okay,” she breathed in nervously. She’d never asked for much of anything as long as she’d been serving Barillot and she wasn’t sure how he’d react. “Well, she wants to visit me. Here. At your house. Would that be okay?” she asked hopefully.
Arnould got the far-off look she’d noticed he took on when thinking. He reached up and slowly stroked his neck a few times. Okay, she thought, it’s not that tough of a question. After a few seconds, he said, “I don’t think it will be a problem.” She picked up an odd emphasis on the “I” in his statement. “But, I have something to tell you that may cause you to reconsider.”
“Reconsider what?”
He waved his hand and said, “Everything.”
“Okay, Arnould, that sounds a little ominous. What’s up with that?”
He hesitated for a moment. “I—I have been trying to devise a way to tell you this almost from the beginning. It is. . . difficult because, well, because of several reasons. One of which is that you won’t believe me as it is so fantastical.”
She nodded. “Yeah, I get it. When I’m in a situation like that, I usually just say it. If they believe me, they believe me. If not, oh well.” She looked down at him, wondering what secret was so bizarre that this normally eloquent man couldn’t put it into words.
It was his turn to nod. “Fair enough.” He took a deep breath. “I am a vampire.”
She laughed. She didn’t mean to, it just burst out. “A vampire?” she said. “Like those weirdos I used to hang out with in college?”
“No.”
“Well, that’s the only kind of vampire I know of. Well, except for the ones on TV and in the movies.” She looked at him for a moment. “You aren’t telling me that you’re like Dracula or Angel from Buffy the Vampire Slayer, are you?”
“Well,” he said, “Those aren’t the representatives I would choose, but,” he hesitated a moment. “Yes.”
“Oh, be serious,” she said. “Those aren’t rea—” She stopped as everything began to fall into place: his odd hours, the way she’d never seen his bedroom, the lack of mirrors around the house, the reddish liquid she’d cleaned up after some of the gatherings he’d hosted. “Oh my god,” she said and immediately regretted it. “Oh, I’m sorry. I probably shouldn’t use the ‘G’ word around you.”
He smiled. “It is all right. The mention of the Almighty doesn’t cause me any trauma.”
“Oh, okay,” she said. “But, you don’t look like a vampire. At least, not what I thought a vampire would look like.”
“Really?” he said. “Some of my friends would beg to differ. Georges, for example, says I look like a modern-day Dracula.”
“Well, maybe. But, you don’t have fangs. Aren’t vampires supposed to have fangs?”
“I have fangs,” he said, sounding a bit indignant. “I try to keep them concealed until needed. See?” he said, lifting his lip to reveal what looked like a normal human canine. As she watched, it lengthened and sharpened to a point. This should be terrifying, she thought, but really, it’s kind of cool.
“Okay,” she said. “You have fangs. Are there other things? Like, can you turn into a bat or something?”
“No,” he said. “That is a fiction made famous by Stoker.” He paused a moment. “Who, incidentally, got it from one of the vampires he interviewed for his book. A Serbian chap, Čarapić.” He looked as if the name left a bad taste in his mouth. “He was one of the bad ones.”
“The bad ones?” she said.
“The kind who feed on unwilling victims,” Arnould said.
“Feed on… you mean, like, drink their blood?”
“Yes,” he said, sounding a bit reluctant.
“Do you do that? Drink blood, I mean?”
“I do,” he said. “But only from those who give themselves freely and with full knowledge of any consequences.”
“Oh,” she said. “Um, yeah. I, uh, I don’t know what to say about all this.”
“Perhaps you should take some time to absorb this information. You have learned much in the past few minutes.”
“Yeah, that’s… that’s a good idea.”
When she came down the next morning, she was surprised to find Arnould still up. “Why are you still up? Won’t you burst into flames if the sun hits you?”
He smiled. “No, my dear, that is an old wives tale. It’s something the peasants used to comfort themselves when some of my more feral kin were devastating their towns.” He got up and walked to the cocktail table. As he poured another glass of cognac (at least, she had thought it was cognac), he continued. “I can stand the sun in limited amounts. Hours, even, if it’s overcast. The real issue is my strength. It peaks around midnight and reaches its lowest ebb at noon. One the of things the Irishman got right.”
“Oh,” she said. “Wait, ‘the Irishman’?”
“Stoker,” he replied as he settled back into his chair. She noticed it was out of the path of any sunlight that might find its way through the curtains. “He was Irish.”
“Really?” she said. “I thought he was English.”
“No,” he said, with a wry smile. “No Englishman has the heart to write a character like Dracula.”
“Okay then,” she laughed. She paused for a moment, then said, “So, I’ve been thinking about what you told me last night.”
“And?”
“Well, I’ve got some questions.” He nodded and motioned for her to go on. She took a breath. “Okay, you said you only drink blood from the willing. I take it that means you’ve never drunk any of mine.”
“Rest easy, Chloe,” he said. “I have never tasted your blood. And, I never will unless you offer it.”
“I thought that was the case,” she said, “But I had to make sure.” She hesitated a moment. “So, is that the only way you get blood? From people who are okay with it?”
“Well,” he said, “It’s not the only way. Unfortunately, fewer and fewer people believe vampires exist which means the pool of willing donors is shrinking.”
“So, how else do you get it? Like, from animals or something?”
“Only in the direst of straits,” he said, a look of disgust passing over his face. “Most of my need is met through donated blood. I am partners with the Jakobssens, a family of Icelandic draugurs, in a donation center where people may sell their blood. Whatever the local vampiric community doesn’t need is passed on to hospitals in the area. It’s really a win-win all around.”
“Wow, that’s cool,” she said. “Not what I expected at all.”
“Yes,” he said, “There are many hurtful stereotypes.” He finished off his drink. “We may feature in people’s nightmares but we are not monsters.”
“That’s fair,” she said. “For the record, I don’t see you as a monster.”
“And, I thank you for that.”
“Okay,” she said, “Here’s another one: Do you have to be invited into someone’s home before you can enter?”
“That one is… complicated,” he said. “Technically, yes. I cannot enter another person’s home without an invitation. But, invitations can take many forms.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well,” he said, walking over and pouring another drink, “An invitation is more than just an occupant saying ‘Come in’. It can be a welcome mat outside your front door or the “Open” sign in the window of a business.” He looked at her. “That last one does, however, require some sort of encouragement, like ‘come in’ or ‘welcome’. The rules on this can be tricky.”
“It sounds like it,” she said. “What about my apartment? It’s my home, but it’s in your house. Would you have to be invited in?”
“That is a gray area,” he replied. “It is possible that I could but I have never tried. It seems like an awful invasion of privacy.”
“Well, thank you for that,” she said. “Are all vampires as gentlemanly as you?”
He laughed. “No, no,” he said. “We are as diverse as you humans.” He got a far-off look, then said, “We used to be humans.”
“That’s another thing I was wondering about. Would be rude to ask how old you are?” She quickly added, “If it is, just say so. I don’t want to pry.”
“It is not rude at all,” he said. “I know so much about you and have revealed so little of myself, it is only fair that I answer.” He thought for a minute. “I am 304 years old,” he told her, “And was born in New Orleans on what later became known as Dumaine Street.”
“How did you become a vampire?” she asked. “Did you want to be one or was it involuntary?”
He smiled awkwardly. “It was by accident,” he said. He got up and walked over to the window. Standing in the shadows, he pulled the curtain back to check the position of the sun. “I still have a bit of time before I must rest, so I will tell you the story.” He returned to his chair and sat, gesturing to the one beside it. “Sit, you should be comfortable.”
“What, is it a long one or something?” she said as she sat down.
“Not particularly, but you have been standing this whole time and didn’t seem to be making the decision on your own.”
“All right, I’m sitting,” she impatiently. “Tell me how you became a vampire already.”
“It was the summer of 1741 and I had been out drinking with my friends. That was a normal enough occurrence at the time as I was a wastrel and drunkard, like so many second sons in those days.” He noticed her puzzled look and said, “Back then, firstborn sons inherited most of a family’s wealth and all of its responsibilities, while the ones born after have to make their own way in the world. If they are lucky, as I was, they may receive a modest stipend or other form of income to ease the transition. Like many in my position, I chose to spend mine on drinking, wagering, and womanizing.” He shook his head. “I was not a pleasant person in those days.”
“Sounds like you had fun, though.”
“That is true. It was a good time at first but by the night in question, it had begun to wear a bit thin.” He sipped his “drink”. She still wasn’t sure if it was cognac or. . . something else. “I wandered through the Vieux Carré,” he stopped for a moment. “Perhaps ‘wandered’ is too nice a word. ‘Staggered’ would be more appropriate as I was incredibly drunk.” He waved his hand and continued. “Either way, I met a gentleman standing at the opening of an alley. As I passed by him, I felt a hand on my shoulder and he pulled me into the darkness. I felt his breath on my ear as he said, ‘Pardon me, monsieur, but I have need of sustenance. Not much, just enough to get by.’ He bit into my neck and began to drink, but he didn’t take my intoxicated state into account and became drunk himself. So drunk, in fact, that he lost track of time and drained me. When he realized what he had done, he panicked and ran away, leaving my body in the alley.”
“So, you were dead?” He nodded. “Well, that sucks,” Chloe said. “What happened next?”
“The next night, I woke up in the cellar of a local doctor,” he said. “Doctor Pierre-Louis Brunet. He was a less-than-reputable fellow, most in the Quarter thought him a scoundrel and I suppose he was. He had scooped up my body, hoping to sell it to a local medical school for research and educational purposes. I gave him quite a fright when I came up the stairs, newly turned and hungry. I almost fed on him right then but he made me an interesting offer. He would find blood for me if I allowed him to study my condition. It would, he said, benefit both of us. I agreed on the condition that he shared everything he learned.” He paused a moment. “He was a terrible person, but he did hold up his end of the deal.”
“So, this doctor, what, helped you become the vampire you are today?”
With a rueful smile, he shook his head. “Not quite. He was concerned with finding a cure for my condition. And, I was too. At first, anyway. After a time, I began to see the benefits to my, shall we say, ‘unlife’?”
“What do you mean?” she asked.
“Well, one of our first actions was to return my body to my family for burial. My father and brother were miserable men, but my mother and sisters? I loved them very much and could not bear the thought of their anguish at not knowing what had become of me. I was buried two days later. That night, Doctor Brunet snuck into the graveyard and disinterred me. After that, I was free.”
“Free?” Chloe said. “From what?”
“Everything,” Arnould said. “All of the expectations, the family drama, my father’s disapproval, all of it. As I began to realize this, I became less and less interested in Monsieur Brunet’s search for a cure.” He laughed softly. “Not that there was much to it. In addition to being a scoundrel, the good doctor was a quack. Even for those times, his medical knowledge was abysmal.”
“So, what happened?”
“Through his attempts to find nourishment for me, Brunet became acquainted with the local vampiric community. Which was dangerous for him as he was a pupil of Doctor Axel Von Hauser.” He noticed her lack of reaction to the name. “You would know him better as Abraham Van Helsing, from Stoker’s book. Von Hauser was the model for his vampire hunter.”
“Yes,” she said, excitedly. “That makes sense.” She motioned for him to go on.
“Anyway, the local vampires rescued me. They took me in, taught me the ways of the undead, and instructed me in their code.”
“I’m sorry,” Chloe said. “Their ‘code’?”
“Yes,” Arnould said. “Remember what I told you earlier about never taking blood unless it is freely given?” She nodded. “That is part of it. There is more, like never reveal another vampire’s resting place, or keep your identity as secret as possible, that sort of thing. It isn’t important to the story, though. If you like, I’ll tell you more another time.”
“I think I’d like that.”
“Very well,” he said. “Now, I’m getting weak so I will finish up my tale. After joining with the local vampires, I found that almost everything Brunet taught me was wrong. It turns out that his incompetence wasn’t solely due to being a dolt, though he was. It seems that Von Hauser was an idiot, too. He was a laughing stock within the vampiric world and the deadly competence Stoker imbued him with for his book is still a point of contention for us.
“So, all that time with Brunet was wasted?” she said.
“Not quite. Within a few days, you see, I figured out that doing the exact opposite of anything Brunet had advised was at the very least a useful starting point. When I told my new friends about this revelation, it amused them no end.”
“Did you ever find the vampire who turned you and left you in that alley?” she asked.
“I did,” he replied. “The poor sod was so embarrassed that he tried to run away from me. He settled down after I assured him that I bore no ill will. We wound up having a nice conversation where he told me that after he sobered up, he came looking for me but by that point, Brunet had already snatched up my body.”
“Do you still see him?”
“Alas, no. He went to Romania on holiday and fell afoul of some peasants who. . . well, let’s just say that what they did wasn’t pleasant.”
“I can imagine,” she said. “So, that’s it?”
“That is it,” he replied. “Now, I have a question for you.”
“Shoot.”
“I enjoy your presence, Chloe. Having you around these last few months has been wonderful. You have taken care of my needs nicely and my household has never run more smoothly. And, as much as I would miss your services as a familiar, I very much want to have you as a friend. Forever. So, I offer you the opportunity to join the ranks of the undead. Would you like that?”
She made a face. “You mean, like, live forever?” He nodded. “Ew, no. I mean, the world is terrible. Why would I want to live forever?” She was such a millennial.
