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"And all I ever want
Is just a little love
I said in purrs under the palms
And all I ever want is breaking me apart.”
.
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The thing about being a vampire—at least as far as Simon the Devious was concerned with—was that you were never satisfied. You would always be craving something, whether it was blood or companionship or some other unattainable flight of fancy. Simon had spent centuries building a home for himself in the form of a flashy, gaudy Manhattan nightclub. He thought it would make him happy.
It didn’t.
You see, navigating centuries of time as a vampire was like traversing a narrow cavern with only a meager candle to guide you. With no map, with no way to circumvent the suffocating darkness, all you could do was stumble headfirst into the gaping jaws of immortality. It had even been fun in the beginning, like the thrill of a rollercoaster as it made its first steep, mountainous descent. But all novelties eventually faded. Simon had seen this firsthand, had seen young and old vampires alike grow stagnant, become forgotten relics to whatever era they had been sired.
So he adapted as best he could. He handpicked his crew, choosing vampires that had otherwise found themselves adrift in the tumultuous waves of time. He kept his mind sharp, watching with critical eyes as the world changed around him. He would not let himself be moored in any specific time period, always looking ahead to the bright, glittering future. It was better that way; he did not like thinking of his past, of who he was before vampirism turned him into a sentimental hoarder.
(Because that was all this was, really—the vampires he kept in his crew, the blood bars and drunken karaoke nights, the flashing lights and music that reverberated so deeply that he could practically feel the sound beating against his sternum—they were all part of an elaborate set, a gilded backdrop that was his life. He had been playing house for a long time now and no one had noticed.)
The truth was simple: vampirism had given him everything—money, popularity, friends, a long list of lovers, and here he was, still wanting something more, something that he could not properly put into words.
Now, slinking about the house that Nadja, Laszlo, and Nandor shared, Simon wondered if he too could one day find contentment in living like this, in existing simply for the sake of existing, no real goals or ambitions in mind.
“Simon,” Carol’s familiar rasp broke him from his thoughts as he lounged on one of the sofas in the room closest to the foyer. It looked like a library owned by a budding taxidermist, but Simon wasn’t all that surprised; a lot of vampires tried to cling to their past by immortalizing it, making the old bones and pelts of various creatures into décor—into something that couldn’t leave them.
Simon clears a place beside him on the chaise lounge for Carol to sit, mindful of the scraps of garbage he had brought to make into a sculpture to trick the Staten Island vampires into thinking he was ready to make amends. He pats the seat, lips pulling into an eager grin. “There you are, Carol! Come, come, tell me what you think of their house. Personally, I think they need to hire an interior decorator ASAP. I mean did you see all those swords on the wall? It’s incredibly tacky.”
Carol hesitates, clawed hand clutching at the fabric of her dress right above her undead heart. “It is not safe here,” she hisses, voice filled with venom. “Back to the sewers… or we die.”
Simon gives a roar of laughter, head tipping back against the sofa. “Oh, Carol, you are hilarious! I’ve known these vampires for centuries. They’re about as dangerous as a group of banana slugs.”
Carol is silent, but the quills on her back are raised, as if she were expecting to be attacked at any given moment. It makes something in Simon’s chest ache at the sight.
When he had been nothing but a mess of sickly, charred flesh in the wake of his club’s destruction, Carol had been there to help him. She hadn’t even known him, had only seen his bandaged body crawling pitifully through the sewers after he had slipped out of the hospital. For whatever reason, perhaps pity or loneliness, though Simon didn’t know for sure, Carol began to feed him, bringing him humans that had been paralyzed by the venomous quills that lined her spine. Without her, he was sure he would still be feeding on the rats and other vermin that made their home in the sewers.
Carol had been an angel in his eyes—not of the same stock as the conventionally attractive angels depicted on stained glass that made Simon shiver in revulsion, but that was probably for the better. She had already proved her loyalty in spades, making her one of his closest companions within his motley crew of vampires. As such, he did not like seeing her upset.
At her obvious discomfort, Simon rose to meet her at the threshold of the room, gently placing a hand on her forearm. “If you want to leave, you can. I know the sewers are your home and where you’re most comfortable.”
Carol doesn’t reply—at least not verbally. Simon is used to this, to the way Carol speaks most often through physical gestures. It makes sense, really, if he thinks about it hard enough. From what he could gather, Carol had been living alone in the sewers since she was turned. She had grown accustomed to being alone, to being silent, to only venturing out into the world to sate her hunger. So it doesn’t surprise him much when she makes a noise somewhere between a growl and a purr and tackles him to the ground.
He only lets out an amused chuckle as she pins him to the plush carpet, rows of dangerously sharp teeth inching closer as she presses her face into the vulnerable flesh of his throat. She clings to his chest, fingers balled into the fabric of his shirt, and Simon can immediately tell what Carol is trying to say—he can see it in the flexing of her fists, in the way she holds onto him so tightly that he’s convinced she’s trying to remind herself that he is real and here and not just another specter of her imagination, not another mirage born from years of living alone in the maddening dark of the sewer.
“It’s alright, Carol,” Simon says softly, running a comforting hand through her dark hair. He can feel her smiling at his ministrations, razor sharp teeth pressing gently against the crook of his neck. “I trust you. Just come back to me when you can.”
Simon drifts through the house like a fitful ghost once he knows that Carol is planning to return to the sewers before his plan comes to fruition. He feels extra restless not having Carol at his side, though he is thankful that Count Rapula had decided to retire to the guest coffin early—he isn’t in the mood for his raps.
Through the cracked door of what he surmises is Nandor’s crypt, Simon watches briefly as Nandor stands over his own coffin, reading a book that was splayed over the lid. Simon knocks but doesn’t wait for a reply, shuffling in and closing the door before the other vampire can so much as gape at him.
“Hi there, Nandor,” Simon greets, only realizing a tad belatedly that Nandor is not alone in the room.
His familiar is wrapped up in a fur blanket, chest rising and falling slowly as he dozes on the sofa adjacent to Nandor’s coffin.
Nandor immediately leaves his book and steps forward, somewhat blocking Simon’s view of the little human.
“Simon… what a pleasant surprise,” he says with a grimace. “I thought you would be asleep by now. Do you need something? More pillows? Or perhaps a blanket?”
“No… no, I’m alright. I was just making my rounds,” Simon replies, a sly smile spreading across his lips. “So, you let your familiar sleep in your room? That’s almost sickeningly sweet. Like I’m actually gagging at the thought of it.”
Simon did not know Nandor as well as he knew Nadja and Laszlo. There had always been a strange distance between them, a gulf that he assumed was due, in part, to Nandor’s age. Once vampires reached a certain age, they tended to either mellow out or lean into their cruelty. It was like a human midlife crisis, except with significantly more bloodshed. Nandor had done the former, the stories of his conquests as a human soldier seeming more and more like a fairytale than actual biographical truth. He was as domesticated as a vampire could be, at least in Simon’s opinion and he only had room for strong, ambitious vampires in his crew—not vampire homebodies who practically swaddled their familiars.
Nandor bristles immediately at the insinuation. “N-no—Guillermo doesn’t normally sleep in my crypt. He is just here to… keep watch over me.” The vampire nods as if he’s trying to convince himself that what he is saying is true. “Yes, that is exactly why he is here. He is definitely not here because he was worried about Carol eating him.”
“Okay, but he’s literally asleep right now."
“Guillermo!” Nandor hisses. “Guillermo, wake up! You are supposed to be guarding me in my slumber!”
The human bolts up with a startled expression, immediately groping for his glasses on the nearby table before slipping them on. He visibly freezes as he meets Simon’s gaze, something like fear flickering across his face.
“Haha… right,” Guillermo trails, gulping loudly in the quiet of the room. “Whoopsie, didn’t mean to fall asleep. I’m sorry about that, Master.”
Nandor rolls his eyes and mutters something about a demerit point, but he still sweeps over to Guillermo’s side, one hand pressed protectively against the arm of the sofa as if he anticipated having to fight Simon off.
The tension in the room is delicious, Simon thinks, purposefully walking closer to the pair. Whether unconsciously or not, Nandor’s grip on the arm of the sofa tightens, fingers digging into the fabric as he bares his fangs and hisses.
Simon feels dangerous in a way that he hasn’t in awhile—recovering from his injuries had taken a substantial amount of energy and time; this is the first instance where he feels like his old self again, the Simon who could grab flaming arrows out of the air and knock back bottles of drug blood without even a hint of dizziness. He wants to poke and prod and reveal whatever secrets lie at the heart of Nandor’s relationship with his familiar. And Simon never denied himself anything—especially when it came to sating his own curiosity.
He turns his attention fully to Nandor. “So, you really haven’t partaken in his blood? Not even a sip? It’s rare, you know, for a vampire to refuse to feed from their familiar. I know you said he was the last donut in the display cabinet, but that was all a lie, wasn’t it?” Simon’s grin grows wider, fangs flashing in the candlelight. “I can understand not wanting your familiar to be eaten. It’s a pain to get a new familiar—I mean onboarding can takes months! It’s exhausting! But what I don’t understand is why you haven’t even tasted him.”
Nandor’s gaze darkens as he points an accusatory finger at the other vampire. “How I treat my familiar is my business, not yours, Simon. And Guillermo is not food.”
“Isn’t he, though?” Simon goads, watching Nandor’s expression carefully. “All humans are food. Why would he be an exception?”
At that, Nandor falters. Simon can practically see the cogs in the vampire’s brain begin to turn as he struggles to voice why he values his familiar so much. Eventually he lets out a stilted reply. “Well... you see… it’s because he’s Guillermo! If I drank from him, then he won’t be the same Guillermo, will he? He’d be much more skittish… more afraid… and the smell of fear always ruins my appetite anyway.”
“You could always just erase his memory,” Simon offers. “That’s what I did with my last familiar. He was delicious—I drank him dry within a year though, which is such a pity because I still haven’t found anyone to replace him.”
“No!” Nandor raises his voice, eyes burning with fury. Simon drinks up the expression, watching as the candles in the room burn brighter, flames flaring upwards. “I would not betray Guillermo’s trust like that.”
Simon raises his hands up in a mock gesture of peace. “My goodness, Nandor, he’s just a familiar. There’s no need for the fancy parlor tricks. I just think you’d be much happier if you gave in and drank from the little guy already. I can tell you want to. I mean how could you not? Even Carol wants to eat him and she’s a very picky eater.”
“You know nothing about how I feel,” Nandor replies, tone severe.
That is true, Simon agrees, raking his gaze over Guillermo’s bundled form. He feels pity for the familiar, a sort of pity that makes him want to reach over and snap his neck. It would be a civilized, quick, painless death. That was as close to caring as he could get when it came to humans. Their lives were inconsequential, as fleeting as the lifespan of a mayfly when stacked against the immortality of vampires. It was why he could never grow attached—and why he found Nandor’s behavior all the more intriguing.
Having seemingly been caught staring, Simon is surprised by the way in which his body reacts to the sudden change in Guillermo’s demeanor. For a moment, the docile, skittish, fragile familiar is gone, replaced with something almost inhuman. Simon feels a chill rush over his spine, ice weaving through his bones at Guillermo’s hardened gaze. It’s as if he’s walked over his own grave—as if he is staring Death in the face. He couldn’t recall the last time a human made him feel anything close to fear, which frightens him even more, though he would never admit it aloud.
“Guillermo,” Nandor calls, and all at once the ice in Simon’s veins begins to melt. The familiar is back to looking sheepish and flustered, the shadows under his eyes replaced with a beguiling hint of a blush as he looks at Nandor. “You know I would not eat you, yes?”
“Of course,” Guillermo nods, lips pulling into a gentle smile. “I trust you.”
It’s a simple statement, but Simon can almost feel its echoing weight. Guillermo trusted the vampire implicitly—which was usually not a good idea for a human. But it also seemed that Nandor trusted Guillermo in equal measure—which was also not a good idea for a vampiric master. Distance was optimal for the familiar-master relationship; intimacy almost always spelled disaster.
Truthfully, Simon could have spent hours whittling away at the pair, asking all sort of personal and invasive questions until he was satisfied with his dissection of their relationship. And he probably would have, if it weren’t becoming blatantly apparent that the sun was set to rise soon, his vampiric circadian rhythm finely attuned to the moments right before dawn. It was dangerous to walk around an unfamiliar house in the daylight, after all—and all vampires needed their beauty sleep, Simon included.
With a tired sigh, Simon steps away, not even looking at the door as it opens up behind him at his mental coaxing. “Well, it’s almost morning, gentlemen. Thank you for indulging me. I’ll see you both tomorrow—assuming Guillermo doesn’t end up as a snack for Carol.”
He’s out the door and flitting towards the basement before either man can even stutter out a reply. Once safely tucked in one of the spare coffins in the basement, Simon falls asleep with ease. He had never had much trouble sleeping, though this was likely due to him lacking even an iota of guilt or shame. The weight of any past crimes or burdens did not press upon him in his sleep; instead, all he carried into the dark of his dreams was a strange vision of Carol waving goodbye while he was dangling upside-down from a tree at the end of a rope, feet bound together. In his dream, he watched Carol disappear into the night, never once looking back despite how desperately he called for her through the ether. It was unsettling, to say the least.
When it’s all said and done, when he is slowly sinking into the water, foot fused to the iron grating, Simon wonders how everything had went so horribly wrong. He replays the last twenty-four hours on loop in his head, searching desperately for the missing piece. The clue that would make sense of how his unlife had lead him here, sinking miserably into the sewage underneath Staten Island, alone and bitter and cold.
His thoughts immediately drift to Carol. Though he did not want to acknowledge it, he knew Carol was gone. Truly gone. In his desire to possess the witch hat, to stop at nothing until he had what he thought would make him happy (if even for a brief flicker of time), he had made the possibly fatal error of taking his true allies for granted. But now he was slowly coming back to himself. His body ached, as if a part of himself had been excised, amputated, stolen away while he had slept undisturbed in his coffin.
(And perhaps a part of himself had been taken. Carol had become vital to his life, an ever present, looming shadow he could confide in. He trusted her as if she were a natural extension of his own body. Could he survive without her? Did he even want to?)
Yet, there was only one question that echoed in the dark cavern of his mind: Who had taken Carol away from him?
When he finally comes to an answer, the sheer anger he feels is motivation enough for him to rip free of the iron grate with a howl of pain, flesh torn asunder. Revenge, he decided, bleeding and limping through the sewers, would probably taste even sweeter than Guillermo's blood.
.
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"I’m a man, I’m a twisted fool
My hands are twisted too
Five fingers to black hooves
I’m a man don’t spin me a lie
Got toes and I can smile
I’m crooked but upright."