PROLOGUE
From the private papers of Richard Will, Ten Beacon Hill, Boston, Massachusetts.
Becoming a vampire was the best thing to ever happen to me. The very, very best. Which is why I don't understand all the literature, how the vampires are usually these moody fellows who rue the day they ever got bitten, who pray for some illiterate European to plant a stake through their ribs. Rue the day? If the mob hadn't torched my killer the next night, I'd have kissed his feet. I'd even have kissed his behind.
After all, what else was there for me? Take over the farm when my father died? No, thank you. Farming is back-breaking work for very little reward, and even less respect. And I could hardly endure being in the same room with my father, much less work for him the rest of my life. (Punch first and punch second, that was my dear departed papa's motto.) Had I followed that path, one of two unacceptable things would have happened: I would have killed him. Or I would have kept my hands to myself and endured him.
Other choices...lie about my age to join the army, and perhaps get my head blown off? Back then, if you eschewed fighting you were a coward. Of course, two wars later that generation of young men were encouraged to go to Canada, to avoid their responsibilities to their country. If they fought, and lived, their reward was to be spit upon at the airport. Which just goes to prove nothing changes faster than the mind of an American.
No, life wasn't exactly a bowl of fresh peaches. I was in a box, and each side of said box was insurmountable. I wasn't the only one, but I was the only one who noticed the shape and size of the prison. I was always different from my chums. At least, I think I was...it was a long time ago, and don't we always think we're different? ‘No one in any generation before mine was anything like me.’ O, the arrogance.
So when Darak—that was the name he gave me—bought me a drink, then two, then ten, I didn't turn him down. What did I care if a stranger wanted to help me forget about the box? I was big—twenty-three years on a farm made for a big boy—and if he wanted to get inappropriate, I was sure I could handle it. I assumed Darak wanted to see what I had inside my drawers, but I had no intention of showing him—what men did with other men was none of my concern. Of course, my drawers weren't what held his interest at all.
I'd been confident I could toss Darak through a window if I needed to, which exemplifies the naïve moron I once was. Darak took what he needed from me, and never mind pretty words or even asking permission. He stopped my heart and left me on a filthy floor to breathe my last. The last thing I remember was a rat scampering across my face, how the tail felt, horrid and pebbled, dragging across my mouth.
I woke up two nights later. It was dark and close, but in a stroke of luck I hadn't been buried yet. I didn't know it then, but the town's only mill had blown up, and there were forty bodies to be interred. Plus they'd cornered Darak and set him on fire. Yes, things had been positively hopping in the small town of Milledgeville, pop. 232 (191 when I woke up). They were in no rush to get me in the ground. They had more important things to worry about.
I was thirstier than I had ever been in my life. And strong...I meant only to pop open the door to the coffin, and ended up ripping it off the hinges. I lurched out of my tomb and realized instantly where I was. And then I knew what Darak was...I'd read Bram Stoker as a teenager. But even through the mad haze of my unnatural—or so it seemed to me then—thirst and the disbelief of my death, my strongest emotion was relief. I was dead. I was free. I silently blessed Darak, and went to find someone to eat.
Being a vampire is wonderful. The strength, the speed, the liquid diet...all reasons why cheating death is a good idea. The minuses—no sunbathing (so?), sensitivity to light (sunglasses fixed that nicely), no real relationships other than those of a transitory nature (ladies of the evening)—are bearable.
I miss women, though. That's probably the worst of it. No more sunrises or sunsets? Phaugh. I saw plenty of them on the farm. But I haven't had a lady companion since...er...what year is it? Never mind.
I can't be with a mortal woman, for obvious reasons. She'd never understand what I was, what I needed. I'd constantly fear hurting her—I can lift a car to shoulder height, so being with a mortal woman is not unlike being with a china doll.
Worse, being dead hasn't affected my sex drive at all. I was a young man of lusty appetite, and while I still look young, my appetite has increased exponentially with my age.
I've only met six other vampires in my life. Of the six, four were women, and they were complete and unrepentant monsters. They ate children. Children.
I killed two; the others escaped. I could have gone after them, but I had to get the child to a hospital and—well, I wouldn't have wished their company on my fiercest enemy, much less welcomed them to the marriage bed.
Yes, I'm lonely. Another price to pay for the eternal life and the liquid diet. But I'm young—not even close to a hundred yet. I can wait, and learn, and wait more.
My patience—like my thirst—is infinite.