Chapter Text
It’s a beautiful day.
My eyes swept along the cityscape around me. The breeze was light, the air was clear, and the gentle laughter of Parisians at a nearby café wafted on the breeze along with the scent of coffee.
I still can’t believe Considine decided to take us to Paris for our first anniversary.
The trip, as most things Considine did, had come as a complete and sudden surprise. To me, anyway. Everyone else had apparently been painfully aware for two months as Considine organized everything around me to make sure I could go.
Unsurprising to him, I had been reticent to miss work. We had gone back and forth over their limited vacation days (“what, do you think the department is going to fire you, their best and only slayer, if you take an extra day?”), the cost (“I could buy you Paris, Jade, but you won’t let me”), the logistics (“I know you have a passport and je parle francais tres bonne, mon cherie”) and the safety of the team (What do you know, Killian has offered to provide a daily Drake to replace us, surely not to get rid of me for his own vacation).
But when Considine admitted to his true reason—wanting to make memories with me—my will had crumbled. How could I say no?
And, despite being one of the junior most members of the task force, Considine was not above throwing around his weight as one of the Supreme Vampire Elders, TM, when it suited him. To my great pleasure, the task force had now dubbed Considine “The SVE,” which both delighted and irritated him.
Though we do sound like one of those human crime drama shows when someone announces us together: Blood and SVE, Task Force Unit.
The trip itself was easier than I expected. Considine called up a private jet and had us flown right in. He even had a kitted out Parisian condominium—and one or two houses elsewhere in France—that he could pop into at a moment’s notice.
Sipping my gourmet latte as we walked hand-in-hand along the Seine, I had to admit I was having a good time.
And at least I talked him out of wearing berets constantly.
I stopped to observe an artist sketching away with a set of well worn pastels. They were capturing the river view before them. Only…
Tilting my head, I looked from the canvas to the scenic waterway. “I don’t think the Eiffel tower is in that direction?”
Looking around I wondered if I had somehow missed the iconic building.
“It's not,” Considine said, hooking his thumb to point behind him. Turning around, the building was practically staring us in the face. “It’s that way. He’s either adding final touches or adding it in anyway so he can sell that painting to some tourists. They put it on everything now.”
“I’ve noticed,” I agreed, feeling Considine wiggle his interlaced fingers as we continued to watch the artist
“It’s almost comical. Did you know they didn’t even want the blasted tower to begin with? When it was first erected, Parisians hated it. Now it’s synonymous with the country.”
“Were you here when it was unveiled?” I asked, curious. From the little I did know, the tower was constructed ahead of a World Fair taking place in Paris just before the turn of the 20th century. Given Considine’s long life, I wouldn’t be surprised if he had made his way over for such an event.
Considine shook his head. “No. It took about two years for them to build it, and I got to see the planned structure ahead of time. I agreed with the Parisians then: it looked terrible. It still does, no matter how they choose to paint it or how many lights they put on it. A truly tragic streetlamp indeed.”
“Careful, he might hear you,” I chastised, bumping my hip into Considine’s.
“And?” Considine asked, raising his eyebrows as if he’d be concerned what one silly human artist thought. “
Oh!” He said loudly, startling the poor man who smeared a bit of pastel where it didn’t belong on his art piece. “You’re saying you’re worried he didn’t hear me. Don’t worry, my love. I can speak louder—"
I bumped Considine again and coughed to hide my chuckling from the artist.
Considine settled, wrapping his arms around me instead, as we paused to look over a railing at the quiet waterway.
“So does that mean we should cross it off our sights to see list?” I asked.
“What? No, we absolutely will not!” Considine said, sounding positively horrified.
His strong reaction surprised me in light of his earlier criticism. “But if you don’t like it—"
“It’s still a major cultural touch point, no matter how ridiculous it looks. More importantly, we need to go to the top of it so I can get a selfie of me kissing you. I want to print off a gallery sized print of it.”
“More photos, huh?”
“Yes!” Considine said with glee. “Then I can watch Killian turn green with envy that we got here before he and Hazel did. Which reminds me, we need to take as many selfies as possible of us thoroughly kissing at all of the typical ‘romantic’ spots we can think of so—”
“What’s that over there?” I shamelessly interrupted Considine’s wild tirade. I had no objection to romanticism with Considine, but we would not be doing that just so he could torment one of the Drake siblings. Or, at least, not to that extent, anyway.
The distraction worked. Kind of. Considine’s eyes flicked immediately to where I pointed. “What where?”
I shrugged. “My mistake. Just a pidgeon. For a moment I wondered if there were the trash griffin piggin piffin things we have in Magiford.”
“It would be just our luck that they are multiplying. Rats with wings, they are,” Considine muttered, Shifting to reclaim my abandoned hand, he lifted it to kiss it. “And you don’t need to try to distract me, Jade. I will refrain from announcing my seductive intentions, which will happen at any and every tourist location, if that is your preference. Enjoy your plausible deniability, oh Responsible One.”
Rolling my eyes and shaking my head, we continued on our walk. Considine pointed out a variety of sights and told me a number of stories along the way. Apparently he had been to the city often over the centuries, and had seen it develop from a small town into the booming metropolis it is today.
“Did you and the Drakes live here for a while?” I asked, curious. Though he refused to accept the position of family elder, Considine had been well acquainted with the true Drake elder, Ambrose, and was fairly close to Ambrose’s children.
“Sometimes. They didn’t all stay in the city at the same time, though Ambrose liked it. Aimee and Aubrei frequent here, or at least they did when—well, suffice to say, they used to live here. Now they visit frequently.”
“Why didn’t they stick around?”
“Hm? No reason.”
“Considine.” I gave him a look as if to say “I have heard repeatedly about your destructive antics; I am asking why they moved aside from that reason.”
Considine knew me well because he just grinned.
“In my opinion, it would be because, like the tower, Versailles is ostentatious and tacky and always has been. In truth, the Dracos family has rarely gotten along with the rulers in residence. French Kings didn’t really enjoy challenges to their power and authority, and a group of handsome, charismatic, wealthy nobles that seemed to escape every attempt at assassination were a little bit threatening. The Dracos had to move on from time to time and wait for generational memories to die down, before returning again.”
At the mention of memories, Considine’s smile took on a bittersweet quality.
“Do you have any happy memories here with Ambrose?” I asked.
This could sometimes be a touchy subject. Considine had explained to me that vampires, though no longer human, still had some limitations that came with a human mind: namely, that they were not designed to hold endless amounts of memories. Given enough time, even significant events, people, and places would be forgotten. It was one of his greatest fears, and he had confessed being unsure if his memories of Ambrose were truly his or just informed by the scant paintings and writings he had.
It was part of the reason I was willing to indulge his desire for constant photos and portrait sittings. As his “One,” he lived in perpetual fear of forgetting me, should anything happen to me. We were working through it, but it was going to be complicated to unpack that very reasonable fear.
“Happy Memories with Ambrose? Yes...some. There are some I’m sure I’ve forgotten. Paris was, at one point, a very small river settlement, but in most of my remaining memories, it’s a sizeable city. Still, it has developed quite a bit beyond that today.”
Walking along the river, Considine told me a few stories about the city and France over the years. The last several centuries were freshest and most intact. Apparently, he agreed with Killian that King Charles was “such a tosser” about the whole Joan of Arc thing. The turn of phrase made me laugh, but I nearly choked on my coffee when Considine told me he was practicing learning English slang in light of new properties he had purchased in England.
Our vacation continued, and over the next few days, Considine showed me (as promised) all the touristy places. It didn’t escape my attention that, despite his insistence that his charges (or as he described them, the “Dracos Snake Brat Spawn Demons”) were the bane of his immortal existence, he certainly had plenty to say about them.
We visited the catacombs where Considine took a variety of morbid photos, as if competing with himself for what might be the most shocking to stun them with. At the end of the tour I caught him nearly stealing a skull for the morbid vampire, as a gruesome sort of thanks for the scrap books the Second Knight continued to send him every year. It took me ten minutes and the weirdest set of bat photos I’ve ever taken in my life to talk him out of it, and I’ve been to crime scenes!
Later we went to the Louvre. Walking through their antiquities collection with statues from Ancient Greece, I confess to a mild amount of teasing asking Considine if he too used to wear togas or leaves as his preferred garments.
To my great chagrin, as usual, Considine one-upped me: he’d attended and competed in some of the earliest Olympian games au naturale.
“Not all of those myths are pure fantasy,” he added with a mischievous wink, but refused to elaborate further.
I can’t tell if he’s being honest, or just teasing me.
Rather than dig into the issue, I put it aside, noting my surprise that the museum had only a limited collection of famous artists like Picasso or Van Gogh.
“Their works are elsewhere, like in the Musee d’Orsay, or in case of Picasso, in his own French Museum,” Considine clarified. “Aimee is still irritated that her favorite of Van Gogh’s Sunflower painting is in the Amsterdam museum.”
“Oh?” I pondered that. Aimee was always coldly beautiful when I saw her. I was surprised she liked a painting that felt so warm in color.
“Don’t look too impressed,” Considine rolled his eyes. “Aimee and Aubrei don’t care for humans, but they do like to think themselves fancy and cultured. Those paintings are famous, so they want one. In fact, they troll the new Louvre collections in particular hoping to convince the museum or private sellers to let them buy.”
“Can they do that?”
Considine shrugged. “Sometimes. But don’t be fooled by the name here. There are many smaller galleries in the area that are also decent, and all of the Dracos have their own private collections for both entertainment and investment, of course.”
“Do you have a private art collection?” I asked before shaking my head. “Nevermind—don’t answer. You’re a vampire with money coming out of your ears. Of course you do.”
Considine chuckled. “I do, but I don’t bother with most of it. It’s easiest to donate it to museums. I actually own one or two at the Picasso museum. Met the fellow early on in his career and bought a few things, but then he got into this blue period and it all felt so depressing. Once he snapped out of it he got into that cubist thing. I lost interest. Still kept the paintings as his name grew, though. Art is a funny thing in that you never know what’s going to age well.”
“Ambrose—” he started, then cut himself off quickly.
My ears caught the name and I waited to see if he would begin again. Noting my watching him, Considine cleared his throat and continued. “Ambrose in particular liked to support the starving artists. He went by a number of names—don’t ask me for them; I can’t remember any of them—but he solicited a lot of work, particularly in the time just before the Renaissance. Instead of investing into religious pieces, which was very much the ‘thing” at the time, Ambrose insisted on funding art that was different, capturing the time and cities of the common man.”
“That’s…very forward thinking of him,” I responded, weighing my words carefully. Considine didn’t often open up about his best friend and perished companion.
“I think, like me, he was hoping to make memories, or possibly leave them. Even in the 1600s, it was difficult to remember things from a thousand years ago. There was plenty of art about royals and divinity, but after hundreds of years of watching the rise and falls of empires and philosophies, you get nostalgic for different things. Favorite tailors. Music. Orators. As settlements grew to towns and cities, mountains and rivers, fields and valleys became more precious. And, of course, he’d lost several of his own children during his existence. If you didn’t buy paintings, you had nothing to remember them by.”
“Anyway,” Considine said, “Killian probably has a family portrait of his favorite family members somewhere or other, I’m sure.”
I tried to envision Vigi, the Viking-like Dracos member, dressed up in French aristocratic clothing for the 1600s version of a family photo.
“Somehow I find it hard to imagine that,” I confessed, and Considine laughed.
“Yes. They are wayward, irritating children, aren’t they? I’ve no idea why Ambrose turned them,” He agreed, slinging an arm over my shoulders to walk with me.
“I can see Baldwin dressing up in a well pressed Cravat,” I thought aloud.
“Baldwin is dumb. We don’t talk about Baldwin.”
I elbowed Considine in consternation as we continued walking the museum pieces. He just chuckled and continued.
“When Baldwin does come, he bemoans the collapse of Versailles, never mind that it is decently protected and maintained. Honestly, I think he’s just jealous that Killian got a personal invitation from King Louis the IVX, when Versailles was at its height. Killian didn’t like him though. Said Louis thought he was god’s representative on earth, never mind that Louis gambled and cheated and was generally unpleasant. And had very bad breath.”
“Really?” I asked, trying to envision that.
“’As bad as a rat-blood, and his personality is even less pleasant,’ I believe Killian said.”
Moving into the Asian art wing, I gestured. “What about Sachiko? Does she like stuff like this?”
Considine tilted his head back and forth, thinking. “Maybe. Generally she said the imperialist westerners were brutes that never learned how to use spices, but she would probably like the art pieces.”
“And Margarita?” I asked, one of the siblings he had yet to mention.
“Ah. Margarita takes after Ambrose.”
Turning to signal my interest, Considine continued.
“Drinking wine, blood infused of course, by the river. Trying the bread and croissants even if they couldn’t taste them. Savoring the life of the city, as they would call it. Ambrose could sit there for hours talking, reminiscing, or scolding.”
That bittersweet smile was back on Considine’s face, and my heart twisted for his loss.
After a full day of exploring museums, galleries, and French patisserie shops, we returned to Considine’s place, where a private French chef he had hired (he truly was ridiculous) was waiting for me.
“Surprise!” Considine said, showcasing the unfortunate victim—I mean, employee.
Surprised, my faithful friend social anxiety came calling once again. “Hello—er, Bonjour! Welcome—or no—I don’t know how to say—”
I tried to stutter out a welcome but trying to swap between languages and not expecting to have to talk to someone put my brain into overdrive and I was unable to say anything.
“Breathe, Jade!” Considine said sunnily. “This here is Chef Bernard. He’s here to feed you, and teach you cooking, if you want. He’s classically trained, so you can ask him anything.”
I looked at Considine with my eyes bugged out.
Ask him anything? In what language? Not to mention, I know I’ve been getting better at talking to people and social interactions, but—
Considine waved a hand at me as I started to spiral. “Naturally, I will be there at all times, of course. If you start to panic, you can just ask me, and I can pass the question along, Jade. Chef Bernard speaks English but I can act as translator as needed.”
“Really?” I squeaked out. The idea was alluring, but…
“Are you sure you WANT to do that?” I sputtered out.
“Yes. Why? Did you want me to hire a translator?” Considine asked.
“No!”
“Then perfect! Go relax for a bit and I’ll be in with you shortly. I’m going to check a few emails quick before we settle in for the evening.”
It seems like a waste to have him make dinner and not even watch his techniques.
“Shouldn’t I help out? Or at least observe?”
“Nonsense!” Considine said, shooing me off to the bedroom. “You should test and see if you even like his cooking first this evening. We can have practice classes after. Or tomorrow even.”
Shooed away by Considine, I retreated to the bedroom where a decanted bottle of French wine was already waiting.
Taking a sip I felt my shoulders start to relax.
During my shower I churned over everything. Considine was definitely spoiling me, and I wanted to do something to help him enjoy the vacation.
I considered pricking my finger to add some of my “spicy blood” to the wine for him.
Or…
Picking up my phone I texted my older brother Jasper.
Jasper. Gonna send you a few pics. Need you to run a bit of a search for me…