Chapter Text
.
.
The elderly man, as he had done for the last twenty or so years of his life, took his cane and his sketchbook and shuffled out the door of his apartment. It was early September, chilly enough to warrant a long coat, gloves, and insulated sweater, which he wore in varying shades of dark grey, not wanting to draw too much attention to himself. So often during his nightly walks a well meaning but unnecessary twenty-something year old would drift by and ask if he needed help getting to wherever he was going. He didn’t, of course—but it did get rather annoying to have to shoo them away when all he wanted was a peaceful walk to the park. It was better if they didn’t notice him at all.
Eventually, the man settled into his favorite bench near the empty gazebo, an area that rarely ever saw any foot traffic. And while not having to deal with any late-night drunken college students hobbling down the stone path was nice, it wasn’t the real reason why he loved sitting there. He opened up his sketchbook and slipped the metal tin of charcoal pencils out of his coat pocket and looked up briefly at the lamppost situated just above his head. He couldn’t say for certain, but the light here seemed to shine brighter than any of the other lampposts within the small park.
With the lamplight to guide him, the man let himself draw, a familiar face slowly being etched into the tan-toned paper. He lost himself to the rhythm of it all, to the sound of the crickets chirping near his feet and the rustle of the grass nearby as raccoons and other nighttime creatures scuttled through the underbrush. It was peaceful, he thought, a slice of heaven in the middle of the bustling city that was Staten Island. Or, he had been thinking that—until he heard two distinct voices arguing in the dark behind him.
The man rolled his eyes and tried to tune them out, but eventually stilled as the conversation went from poorly hushed whispers to a near yelling match. The man was eighty-two, with neither foot in the grave, and a hearing aid to boot. In other words, he could hear the two men argue rather plainly.
“Guillermo, I can’t eat him! He has that old persons mashed potato smell like Benjy did!” An accented voice that the man could not quite place echoed in the darkness, tone pitched in a near whine.
Despite the words, the elderly man had to chuckle. Young ones had such an imagination, nowadays. His granddaughter, Lucy, for instance, played Dungeons & Dragons, and had made quite an impressive little world for herself and her friends. Perhaps the two men in the dark were doing something like that? He continued to listen in on the conversation, dropping his pencil to the side for now.
“But, master, you haven’t eaten all week. You need to eat something soon or you won’t be strong enough to catch anything—not even an old man alone in the park.”
The elderly man raised a brow. Well, that was rude. He was old, but he wasn’t decrepit. He’d like to think that he could give a would-be robber (or cannibal, it seemed, in this case) a run for their money. Mainly, he knew he’d be able to at least get in a few good swings at his assailant’s kneecaps with his cane.
“Find me someone else,” the accented voice commanded. “He is not tempting in the slightest. Would you eat a burger with mold all over it? I don’t think so! I bet his arteries are clogged with fat!”
“Excuse me, you two,” the elderly man called, holding up a finger as he turned around to look behind the bench in the general direction of where the voices were coming from in the dark. “I happen to have great cholesterol. My LDL levels are actually very low.”
Something like a hiss echoed from the bushes. “Guillermo, your accent! He heard us speaking because of you!”
“T-that’s not how accents work at all, master…”
Eventually two men-shaped figures came stumbling out of the darkness and into the light of the lamppost. The elderly man whistled in surprise at the sight of the taller man in a gold-trimmed cape. He looked like a painting come to life of a rich nobleman, his dark hair and eyes appearing almost ink-like in contrast to his tan skin. He looked nothing like the elderly man expected—usually LARPers or whatever Lucy called them were young teens or young adults dressed in either Halloween costumes or hand-made garments. If anything, the clothes the man wore looked bespoke, fitted to match his physique like a glove.
The shorter man, dressed in a sensible pair of slacks and a button-up sweater looked rather soft in comparison to the man in the cape. It was strange to think of it, but the elderly man supposed that he was dressed to look like a simple servant. There was an intelligence in his eyes though that he noticed immediately; beneath the servant façade, the elderly man was sure he saw the flash of an intelligent, strong-willed man. That was the thing about being as old as he was; you tended to see patterns in people, similar eyes or expressions that almost always matched certain personalities. He was sure that there was something more to the man, but he couldn’t quite place what it was.
The elderly man clapped his hands together. “My goodness, you two must take being LARPers very seriously, huh? I can’t imagine what a gold-trimmed cape like that must cost.”
The taller man gave a wide grin, exposing his white, gleaming fangs. The elderly man was somewhat surprised to see that the stranger’s fangs didn’t really scare him.
Perhaps his little Lucy’s friends made him more aware of certain gothic subcultures than most people his age knew of, but regardless, he didn’t feel like he was in any real danger. He’d been in danger many times in his life, had known danger by the way his gut urged him to flee, a reflex he took no shame in indulging. So, tonight, he listened to his gut and its placid calmness and smiled back. Besides, neither stranger had admonished him for being out alone at night in the middle of a secluded park so they were already in his good book—even if they had discussed eating him. That was odd, for sure, but so were many things in the 21st century. He could adapt.
The elderly man tilted his head for a moment in thought. What was that phrase he heard once? All strangers should be at least a little bit strange? Well, the two men in front of him were certainly strange. And undoubtedly interesting.
The vampire-looking man gestured to his cape eagerly. “This is one of my favorite capes. I did not pay for it because I was the ruler of my country and so I got many things for free. But I am pleased that you can tell it is of high-quality.”
The elderly man nodded along. Okay, so the stranger was still in character. That was fair; Lucy’s friends would often come over to play Dungeons and Dragons at the kitchen table in the summer so he was no stranger to how theatrical they could get. He was fine with all the noise, really, even if he pretended that it cut into his beauty sleep. Truthfully, ever since Lucy had left for college, the apartment was unbearably quiet. He didn’t know how much he enjoyed the company—even Lucy’s outlandishly extroverted friends—until they were gone.
“Wait, you know what LARPing is?” the shorter man—Guillermo, if the elderly man remembered correctly from his eavesdropping—cut in.
“I’m eighty-two, not in the grave, kiddo,” he chuckled. “I’ve learned to adapt with the times.”
“Yes, that’s very age-y-ist of you,” the vampire-looking man said. “That’s like saying that I should know nothing about basketball. Or the Macarena. Or even the Superb Owl. I am ancient, but I am also not in the grave, either. Just a coffin that I sleep in during the day.”
“I’m sure he didn’t mean anything by it, Mister…?” the elderly man paused, realizing that he only heard Guillermo address the vampire LARPer as Master.
“Nandor the Relentless. But just Nandor is fine too.”
The man nodded. “Nandor. Hmm… what an interesting name. I don’t think I’ve ever heard it before.”
“Yes, it is a strong, proud Al Quolanudarian name!” Nandor said proudly, one hand placed reverently over his chest.
“I’m afraid I’m not familiar with your birth country. Where is it, if I might ask?”
“Southern Iran.”
The elderly man nodded. “That’s lovely.”
Nandor hummed in response. “It was lovely when it existed. Now, it’s just a memory… but I do have a bag of soil from Al Quolanudar that I keep on me when I travel. So perhaps it isn’t all gone.”
“Master, do you think we should maybe go back to finding you something to eat?” Guillermo asked, obviously wanting to steer the conversation back to food.
“You’re right, Guillermo. I do not want to eat this man—even if he says his cholesterol is good. It would be rude. And look, he’s an artist!” Nandor pointed to the open sketchbook. “That’s very pretty. Are you sketching someone you know?”
“It’s my granddaughter, Lucy. She’s my pride and joy.”
Nandor nodded sagely. “I too have a great great great great great great great… is it one more great? I do not recall. Anyway, she is a granddaughter.” He sniffled. “Her name was Madeline. I scared her to death accidentally by floating up to her window in the middle of the night. I am still sad about it.”
“Oh… I’m so sorry,” the elderly man replied. He could tell that while he might still be in character, there was genuine grief in Nandor’s voice. How sad that he could only express it while pretending to be a vampire.
“I appreciate your sympathy,” the vampire-looking man said, gaze softening. “I hope you enjoy the time you have with your little granddaughter. Children do not stay children for very long. You turn around and then suddenly… they’re gone.”
Strange enough, the elderly man felt the sting of tears in his eyes. It was clear that Nandor had truly lost a family member—though he was pressed to believe it was his actual granddaughter, given how young Nandor looked. “Thank you. Every day I get to be with her is a blessing.”
The man paused suddenly, an idea popping into his head. “Oh, would you mind if I get a picture? My little Lucy loves historical costuming. She just taught me how to use my new cellular phone last week… seeing a picture of you two would make her day.”
“You want us to pose for a picture?” Nandor asked, expression brightening almost instantly. Apparently this was just what the elderly man needed to suggest to help the vampire LARPer perk up. “Come now, Guillermo! No dillying or dallying!”
The shorter man gave an indignant squawk at being manhandled but obliged to having Nandor drape an arm over his shoulder and tug them close together. With his free hand, the vampire-looking man gave a stereotypical vampire pose, fingers curled like a claw, going so far as to open his mouth, fangs poised at Guillermo’s neck.
“Haha, yes, very scary!” the elderly man cheered, snapping a few photos.
“See? Even…?” Nandor trailed, looking towards the other man expectantly.
“Walter,” the man supplied.
“…Even Walter thinks I’m scary! So I win! You can’t say I’m not scary anymore.”
A long-suffering sigh escaped the shorter man as Nandor untangled himself from around Guillermo’s shoulder.
“Thanks again, you two.” Walter piped up, reaching out a hand.
Nandor shook his hand first, grip strong and firm, before Walter turned his attention to Guillermo. The other man’s grip was surprisingly firm as well.
“We must go now, unfortunately. I have not found an appropriate meal yet and I’m beginning to get—how do humans say it—hang-er-y?”
“Hangry,” Guillermo corrected.
“Yes, that. So, Mr. Walter, have a good rest of your evening. And try not to attract any other vampires. Not all of us have manners—or working taste-buds.”
Walter chuckled good-naturedly and waved as the men departed into the night. “Bye, Nandor! Bye, Guillermo! Hope you find some food soon!”
Picking up his art supplies, Walter whistled as he walked in the direction of his apartment. Say what you want about Staten Island, but Walter had lived there long enough to know that there was scarcely a dull moment to be found in the bustling city.
Later that night, sitting comfortably in a black armchair, Walter sent the photo of the two strange men from the park to his granddaughter.
Almost immediately, Lucy phoned him back, wanting to Face Time.
“Grandpa!” she began, steamrolling right ahead with the sort of energy that he knew came from her drinking a late-night venti iced coffee. “You’ve got to tell me how you met a vampire LARPer in the park!”
“Hey Lu-Lu, it’s good to see ya. So glad we got to exchange pleasantries before you started bombarding me with questions,” he joked sarcastically, lips curled into a grin.
At that, Lucy huffed. “We talked earlier, grandpa! And besides, this isn’t a social call; it’s an interrogation. How did you meet a hot vampire dude and his boyfriend? I can barely meet anyone interesting in college.”
“Well, believe it or not, but Mr. Hot Vampire Dude actually wanted to eat me.”
“What?!”
“Don’t worry, you know I wouldn’t go down without a fight. That’s actually the real reason why I carry a cane with me.”
Lucy smiled. “Of course, grandpa. Not even a vampire would stand a chance against you.”
“We are Van Helsing’s, after all. Even though vampires aren’t real, it’d still be rather embarrassing to be killed by a man dressed like one.”
Elsewhere, a certain vampires sneezed loudly as a sudden, cold shudder wracked his frame. They were still hunting within the park, but the pair had circled back to where they met the elderly man—Walter, Nandor supplied easily in his head. He seemed like a cool guy, the vampire thought. He had complemented his cape, so he was definitely Okay-A in his mind. Maybe he’d get to see him again, someday. That would be nice.
“Can vampires catch colds?” Guillermo asked, curious, as he offered Nandor a handkerchief.
Nandor waved his hand. “Of course not! Sneezing and shuddering like I did just means someone was talking about me… and also that I may have walked over my own grave, I think? I forgot how this particular omen goes.”
“…Whatever you say, Master.”