#monthlyau002

Once upon a time, in what is now Jaén, Andalucía, there was a king. And a war. Such stories usually begin this way, don’t they? Two swords clashing; the leaders of two opposite sides, the last ones standing. Around them, nothing but corpses. The sky darkened by the amount of crows flying towards the battlefield, attracted by the smell of blood, even if they yet couldn’t see it. Hungry, impatient to claim the soft tissues, to rip eyeballs from their sockets. While both kings fought and fought and fought to the death.

Moors against Christians. The year 1212. Moroccan and Arabian forces crossing the Strait of Gibraltar and ending the reign of the Visigoths. The creation of Al-Andalus, a place that would become a center of production and cultural interaction. A home for bright minds, with even brighter futures. But not all agreed – some others, of fairer skin and lighter eyes, consider the land as theirs. Could someone really claim that a piece of soil belonged to them? It seemed to be the case.

And as such, wars were fought and won and lost and treaties were sent and none of them accepted by any of the sides. ‘We won’t retreat,’ had the Moor king said. And as such, he had gone to war, in shining chainmail and armor, arm raised, holding a sword. Him and his horse disappearing into the horizon were the last things his most adored treasure, his daughter, had seen before being hidden underground, locked inside a secret room only her father knew about, with enough provisions and oil lamps so that she could survive until he was back. He hadn’t told anyone about it, hoping he could keep her safe. His last, and most fatal mistake.

Because he never returned. The Christians were victorious; her father’s heart had been punctured by a spear. She hadn’t been there to see it, but had she been, she would have watched as the king was standing there, in his white steed one second and then… not anymore. Strides behind it, he laid now, with the blade deep inside of his chest and a red stain that grew bigger and bigger and bigger. Eyes open, misted, that watched no more.

But Cassiopeia hadn’t been there. And as such, she trusted in her father’s prompt return. Prayed for it, even when madness started to get a grip on her mind, even when she had run out of oil for the lamps and of things to eat. Soon, she knew the truth she had refused to accept: no one would be coming for her.

Winter and hunger, worse enemies than entitled men. A battle she couldn’t really win. Desperation and insanity. Cassiopeia thought she would die – but she didn’t. Feverish, she couldn’t feel her frozen legs any longer, but when she touched them with numbed fingers, she found scales. Like that of a reptile.

It wasn’t long until despair became anger. And thirst for vengeance.

No longer could the big stone that acted as the door to the secret room keep her in. No longer was she scared of venturing out. No longer did she care about anything other than blood and killing and separating heads from bodies and sticking her sharp teeth on warm bodies be it woman, or man. The last vestiges of humanity she had left, she used them to sing. On dark nights, walking around, with her serpent tail acting as legs, the top half of her body covered only by red curls that reached her hips.

Whoever listens to me sing

Won’t see the light of day

Or the night of San Juan…

It was precisely the night of the 23rd of June that she found out something that would change her immortal life forever.

She woke up, ready to kill and rip and murder, as hungry as ever, to realize she didn’t crave blood. Instead, bread and potatoes and spiced meats like her mother used to cook filled her mind. Shaking her head to dispel those thoughts, she stood up from the humid floor of the castle dungeon she had made her home, only to find she still had legs.

A pair of white, sickly-looking things, filled with bruises but not with scales.

Each step felt like a thousand knifes stabbing the soles of her feet, and yet, she danced and sang and cried of happiness and did so some more when she found an old dress that had belonged to a maid once and put it on and went to the nearest town and was served mead, and bread with meat and potatoes and danced to the tunes of the local tavern’s bard, until he asked her if she wanted to spend the night with him, and she did, kissing him until her lips were sore and stroking his skin, his hair, until her hands were tired.

However, by morning, a blinding pain.

And she didn’t have to lift the sheets to know, she was half serpent again.

Because the bard’s meat had been ripped from his bones, his blood sucked and the tender hands that had caressed her body were not anymore attached to his.

Cassiopeia ran away. And hid. And started eating only lonesome travelers that deviated from the road, or those that wanted to see the legend of the Tragantía, as the locals had started to call her. She cured her bloodthirst with those that invaded her privacy, furious with their behavior, feeling rage travelling through her body instead of blood, plasma, and other fluids.

And still, every San Juan’s night, she went out. She bathed, carded her curls, wore a dress. She was still a celebrated beauty; slanted brown eyes, full lips, a round face. Too thin, from the famine before her transformation, but nothing a blouse and a skirt couldn’t mask.

Every year, she wandered the world. Stood wide eyed in front of new things – a television, you say this is called? Are there little people inside? – and heard people’s stories, mostly in bars she entered, pretending to be a foreigner, justifying that way the way in which she spoke Spanish; using strange words, that were out of fashion. But Cassiopeia still managed to make herself understood and to learn, so that hopefully, the next year, she wouldn’t draw as much attention to herself.

It was 2020 when she met him.

A man, another traveler. Perhaps looking for something else in that small town, but finding her. And she knew; finding him was one of the reason why she had been alive for over 800 years, why she hadn’t wished to die any of them. A scholar, maybe, asking questions about eternal life, immortality, a deity he called Sleep. Local legends.

‘I can tell you all about them,’ Cassiopeia said out loud, with a smile, drawing shapes on the wooden table using a finger as a pencil.

‘I would be thankful…’ He seemed to be looking for a way to call her.

‘Cass.’ Her smile grew wider.

Hearing her name come out of his mouth was like a dream come true. Telling him all about the Tragantía, the beast who many used to scare their children when they misbehaved in Cazorla, didn’t. And that’s why she confessed, after their lips had met in a dark alley, remembering the fate of that bard and not wanting this to happen to him. To Alexander.

She told him everything. How she had been left to die. How consumed by hunger and thirst she had gone crazy. How she had cried, waited for her father to return, but he hadn’t, he hadn’t and her prayers had been directed towards a deaf God who hadn’t replied to them, and…

Others would have questioned her words. Would have screamed in horror. But not him. Instead, he placed an unruly curl behind her ear, and looked at her straight in the eyes.

‘You’re the most beautiful monster I have ever seen, then.’

Was he joking?

They had gone their separate ways, after the light of the morning had started to illuminate the small hotel room they had rented for the night. With a promise. One that she hadn’t thought he would fulfill.

‘See you next year.’

However, there he was in 2021. And 2022. And 2023. Waiting for her, spending hours simply talking, holding her hand, kissing the top of her head, her cheeks, her lips, her shoulder… as if he had truly missed her.

As if he loved her, as much as she loved him.

Another night of wandering aimlessly beneath an inky black sky. The city lights were too bright, they blotted out every trace of stars. 

Vessel missed them, stars. When melancholy got to him–as it often had for the past century–the fact that he couldn’t even find comfort in the night sky tore at his heart. 

The party was coming up.

And that meant, Aki would finally be reunited with his wife.

Airi.

The love of his life, the woman of his dreams. They said that good things came in small packages, but when it came to Airi, that wasn’t true. Whatever beauty was in this world was contained in 1.75 meters of silky skin, honey-blonde hair, full lips that remained rosy even after vampirism had stilled the blood running through their veins and eyes that made you feel as if you were wandering into an abyss, into the unknown. Oh, how his heart ached for her, even if they had been already married for two centuries, and had merely spent a few months apart. Oh, how he desired her, her company, her presence.

Something as simple as her footsteps in a different room. Her voice as she talked on the phone. The excitement of knowing he could make a turn and come across her, bump right into her, kiss her and show her his devotion in any way he deemed… 

Now, distance separated them. And it was not a tangible thing, not something he could fight with claws and fangs or a sword or, even using words. He just had to wait.

And, as he waited, he composed a song.

He did that, often, when they were apart. So that his voice would reach her ears (no matter how much he changed his register, she always knew it was him) and she would feel loved. Anywhere she went. Every day that passed.

It wasn’t a matter of jealousy, of claiming property. Aki knew Airi could caress other skin, kiss other lips, and yet, she wouldn’t feel what they felt when they were together. It was otherworldly. And they had this for eternity.

The song that was all over social media right now was called Vampire Heart. In allusion to what they both were; vampires, creatures of the night (but most people listened to it thinking it was nothing but a term to define immortal love). Airi for three hundred years more than him. Age difference would have bothered him back when he had been a human. Now, time was meaningless, vampirism not a curse but a blessing, that had allowed them to be together whereas, if they had led human lives, they would have died without even knowing about each other.

He was sure he would have gone to museums. Seen her face in art. Felt a deep longing. But nothing else, nothing more.

And now, however, he could sing her beautiful words, waiting for her return…

Let me bleed you this song of my heart deformed Lead you along this path in the dark Where I belong until I feel your warmth

Hold me like you held on to life When all fears came alive and entombed me Love me like you loved the sun Scorching the blood in my vampire heart

(...)

Let me weep you this poem as heaven's gates close Paint you my soul scarred and alone Waiting for your kiss to take me back home *

It was since Aki had met Airi that the word love had taken a completely different meaning.

It was since then that he had started to believe in its power, in its strength, in its significance. It was more than obvious for any empaths. They could not look at Airi and him, or at Andrómeda and Laszlo, without realizing the deep bond that they shared, the invisible string that pulled them together. And now, that was also the case for Vessel and Cassiopeia.

The way he caressed her hair, delicately, as if she could disappear from his arms any second, as if he couldn't believe that he was so lucky to have her in front of him. It was different, but perhaps, also quite similar, to the way he had contemplated Airi for an entire day after they had shared their first night together, afraid that if he would close his eyes –if only for a minute, just to rest his tired eyelids– she would vanish into thin air. 

Aki didn't think too much about his mother. Not because he didn't love her; quite the opposite. It was because her memory was too painful. A prostitute, he had been raised sneaking in and out of a somewhat fancy whorehouse that claimed to have the prettiest women from all around the world. Exotic ladies brought from places that most men attending the place hadn't even heard about. Asia, India, America…

His mother was a fan favorite. One of the most gorgeous women Aki had ever seen and would ever see. Luscious, straight black hair, so long it reached her lower back, an oval face with slanted eyes. Full lips, high cheekbones. An intelligent woman, who knew her worth, even if most people didn't and liked to play mahjong as a way to pass time. 

'One day you will find someone who will redefine the entire world for you. She, or he, will make you feel like your five senses were numbed for your whole life. Foods will taste better, the colors will seem brighter. Smells will be richer. You will find meanings in songs you would have never considered, you will notice feelings that were hiding in melodies. Their skin will feel like the softest fabric and the only thing to bring you comfort…' she had said, before putting him to bed, laying beside him.

He had been in his early fifties when he had finally met Airi. Fifty-seven when his mother had died, He had offered her the gift of immortality many times after turning, but she had rejected it time and time again. 

‘For such a clever girl you do a lot of stupid things.’ Her stone-cold words and tone clashing with the crooked smile her lips bent into, Andrómeda was a vision. She had always been, as far as Cass' memory went… which wasn’t too much. Roughly eighty-seven years. She had lived longer than that, twenty-six years longer, in fact, but of that previous life before being bitten by Laszlo Cravensworth, her brother-in-law, and turned into a creature of the night, she had little recollection.

‘Yeah, I admit it wasn’t my best idea.’ Cass’ shrugged, as she shifted uncomfortably in her chair, changing her position because under the stare of her sister’s dark brown eyes, one could stay still for only so long.

She had, not for the first time, decided to terrorize her neighbors. Nothing much. Just used her telekinesis to make a few books fall from the shelves, get their dog to stare at an empty corner of the house and bark and groan and howl for a while. But yeah… since it hadn’t really… been the first time…

‘They’re going to end up calling a priest.’ A thick British accent. Laszlo, entering the room, smiling adoringly towards his wife as if they were still in the honeymoon phase instead of about to celebrate ninety years of marriage. He didn’t sound disappointed, only perhaps… mildly annoyed, but Cass’d bet he was used to her antics after an entire lifetime of putting up with her and Hércules.

‘Noooooo, they won’t. They’re atheists. They’ll probably just… move somewhere else.’

‘Like the previous ones did?’

‘Come on, Lasz! Admit it. It was a little funny.’ Cass tried her best. The same lopsided smile Andro had, but showing her teeth. Like a shark, or a wolf; like a predator. She lifted index and thumb, separating them only by a few millimeters. ‘Hilarious, I’d say.’

‘It was, but…’

‘That’s not the problem, Cass,’ Andro interrupted. She was shaking her head, but she wasn’t angry. More like… worried? ‘We need to keep low. Hércules works in Walmart. Why can’t you…?’

‘I’m not working in Walmart.’

‘No, no, of course not. But maybe… find some hobbies? Try to get out of the house? Hopefully do something that doesn’t involve our possible demise.’

‘Easy to say. You can be here forever and you’ll never get bored.’ Cass looked at Andro. Her older sister was beautiful, tasteful, discreet, elegant, had a refined sense of humor and an eye for business and, even if she was always the brightest star in the room, she never, ever, stole anybody’s entire attention for herself. Everybody loved her. Laszlo most of all. Proof of that were the moans and groans and different sounds of pleasure that flooded their bedchamber every single night. And sometimes, mornings and afternoons, too. 

The black-haired woman looked at the ring that adorned one of her hands. A gigantic diamond, the biggest stone that Cass had ever seen. She was glad Andro was happy. She was glad that they’ll be together as a family forever – literally. She just wished her idea of having fun didn’t clash as much with Lasz and Andro’s. 

She sighed, and, seeing as she wasn’t going to get an answer from neither of her companions, ended up nodding. ‘Sure. I’ll try to keep my torturing to a bare minimum.’

Again, she found herself missing someone. Something. A mask. A white mask with six eyes, that’d cover everything but the lower half of the face of the person wearing it. She didn’t know why, but in the last eighty-seven years, that mask had appeared in her mind time and time again, like a calming balm, like a beacon of sanity, like God’s answer to a prayer. Whenever she thought about it, Cass felt at home. A love so pure that it couldn’t be questioned. Where are you?, she asked, not for the first time.

Could he (she was sure it was a he) hear her? Would he answer, if he did?

*

The letter had arrived a few days after that conversation.

Dear Vampires, from all around the world.

We cordially invite you to a ball, a party, a reunion. It has been far too long since our last meeting in 1965… was it 1965? Ah, how fleeting memories are when you live forever. Anyway, we did think it was time for a réunion, as the French would say. To meet the newest members of our ranks, as well as to resume contact.

Please, confirm your attendance.

Signed,

The Vampiric Council.

‘A party,’ Andro summarized, after reading the letter out loud, with barely contained excitement. Laszlo, with his right arm surrounding his wife’s waist, was also smiling; he smiled whenever she smiled, so that literally said nothing about what he thought of this whole thing. He would have flooded their house with cockroaches, if Andrómeda had said it made her happy.

‘Cool.’ Hércules was a chill, laid-back guy. He was sitting down in one of the sofas in the living room, dressed with wide-leg jeans and a cool graphic t-shirt from some videogame only he knew about, reading a comic book distractedly, one he held between fingers full of rings. None of them silver, of course. 

Cass was the only killjoy. Her immediate response was to pout. ‘I don’t want to go.’

She wished she hadn’t said anything, because suddenly, her family members were looking at her with interrogative eyes.

‘What? I never have a good time. It’s always the same thing,’ She complained, feeling more and more like a toddler about to have a tantrum. ‘I don’t like it. If I hear one more comment about me having weird fangs again…’ 

It was common knowledge that all vampires had different fangs, depending on their bloodline. Andrómeda and Hércules had the same as Laszlo. Because he had been the one to turn them. And, while he had turned Cass too, hers were different; slightly bigger, more animalistic. Why? Nobody knew. But everytime she had met other vampires they had said the same thing: oh, what a strange pair of fangs you have, never seen anything quite like it…

It annoyed her. It made her feel like an outcast.

‘Cass…’ Andro was suddenly by her side. Her movements, fast and quiet. If Cass hadn’t seen her feet touching the ground she would have thought her older sister was levitating. ‘I want you to come. And… you should come, you’ll see Airi. And Aki.’

‘They’re your friends, not mine.’

‘They love you.’

Fine. She loved them too, but to admit it would be to lose what little power she had left.

‘I reaaaaaaally don’t want to go.’

‘Cassiopeia,’ Laszlo only used her full name when he was serious about something. ‘We all want you to come. It wouldn’t be the same without you.’

A small smile, but she still wasn’t fully convinced. Hércules stood up, then, throwing his comic book aside with all the drama and flair he could manage. ‘If you don’t come, I won’t go either, but you know this is probably my only chance to get laid in at least a decade, so…’

That made her laugh, and she ended up nodding, feeling like this was a battle she couldn’t really win. ‘Fine, I’ll go. But only because it’s the only way Hércules can get a potential partner for the night. Can I wear a Halloween mask and scare people?’