In that respect, he was not like his “young,” follower. Bouquet’s “progeny,” (or, suffice to say, the creature of his own creation) was sitting in a wooden chair broodingly, staring intently down at the piece of paper before him on the desk, tapping the feather pen soundlessly against the old oak desk.

Bouquet settled into his own arm chair, which sat facing the fire, and watched the “young man,” (just barely out of adolescence with only one hundred years of immortality tucked under his belt) before finally asking “You mean to write it down, then?”

The man’s head snapped up, and his pale eyes, quite a contrast to his dark, black hair, narrowed. “Why shouldn’t I?” he asked darkly, suspecting some ulterior motive.

“No need to get testy,” respond Bouquet, taking a sip from his glass, though the red liquid was not wine. “You may do as you please, but your reasoning confuses me. Forgive an old man his foggy mind.”

The other rubbed his face with his hands in a tired manner. “Because, I’m afraid that I might one day forget it all.”

“Isn’t that what you want?” asked Bouquet, genuinely confused this time.

The man leaned back in his chair, his face lifted toward the ceiling, which was robed in black for lack of light, eyes gently closed. “No,” he responded quietly. “These hurts, yes, them I’d like to forget. But the rest…..her…..no……That’s worth remembering. She’s worth remembering.” “After all that you’ve gone through, your loyalty to her does astound me,” admitted Bouquet dryly.

“You’d never understand,” the other answered, eye’s still closed, trying to conjure up an image all his own.

“No,” agreed the elder. “That’s true, I wouldn’t.” Changing the subject, he asked “But what do you plan to do with this book of yours once it’s finished? It’s not as if you plan to publish it. No one would read it!”

The younger’s eyes snapped open. “And why wouldn’t they read it? Why shouldn’t I publish it?” he asked icily.

Bouquet rolled his eyes. “You are always so touchy. You’re trying to pass it off as your biography. No one will believe you for an instant, and the publisher will certainly think you’re mad. A story about a respected agent of the Committee, spewing some insane story about being a vampire? Really, Armand; do grow up.”

“Grow up?” the younger, snapped. “Grow up? Or did you mean grow old?”

Bouquet rolled his eyes. “Don’t start that again, Chauvelin.”

“It bears starting!” Chauvelin shouted, clenching the arms of his chair.

“Calm yourself,” Bouquet said forcefully, and Chauvelin clenched his teeth, trying to control his temper. “I am sorry you are so unhappily stuck as an immortal. I am sorry she whom you loved loves you no longer. And I am sorry the Committee has fallen and you have run in terror, maybe to spend the rest of your eternity with the ancient man who raised you in night, and taught you in darkness, but these are what you must learn to deal with. Stop behaving like a child.”

Chauvelin just glared menacingly at Bouquet. “Apologizing won’t kill me, nor will it bring her back, or raise the Committee. In fact, your apologies do me little good at all.”

“I am sorry for that, too.”

Chauvelin turned his head back to his paper, and began to tap the pen against the desk all over again. Now there was only one question: Where to begin……..

Several myths circled around about vampires, most of them false. Bouquet, a full eight hundred years old (though he looked not quite forty), had built up enough resistance to sunlight to walk about in it, the way a mortal may build a resistance to poisons. It still made him dizzy, from time to time, and he naturally preferred the forgiving night.

Garlic was more of a deterrent, really. It probably wouldn’t save a human’s life, but it would delay a vampire long enough to give the mortal a chance to escape.

And the crosses? Well, that was just rot. Bouquet had personally met several very staunch Catholic vampires. Really, children of Satan? Bouquet speculated that there probably were a few vampires who were children of Satan, but then, that was because the same was true for a few mortals. And vampires were just slightly altered mortals.

Unfortunately, a wooden steak worked all too well. That was how most vampires met there end, though in most cases it was suicide. Life as an immortal could become quite disheartening, and down right pointless.

Coffins were optional, really. The more dramatic vampire might enjoy them, but Bouquet found them not half so comfortable as a bed, which is what he slept in.

Bouquet mussed over all these things sitting in the dark of the tree. He was getting far too old to sit and wait in dark trees for his next meal. He grunted and rubbed a stiff shoulder when he heard something.

It was distinctly the sound of a horse in the calm of the night. It was easily a mile a way, but vampire hearing, smell, and sight is keen. Bouquet knew that the mystery rider was coming long before the mystery rider felt he was being stalked. Stealthy in his black attire, Bouquet noiselessly left the tree and began to slink in the direction that the noise was coming from.

And surely enough, around a bend in the rode came a horse and man. The bay trotted nervously, while the man remained calm and unaffected. But that natural instinct that all creatures have, that extra sense, alerted him to the realization that he was being hunted. With a slight cluck noise, he urged the horse a little faster, and his heart beat tapped a little quicker. The man, around thirty, delicately fingered the hilt of his dagger, and drew it a little bit out of the protecting sheath.

Finally, Bouquet sensed the right moment, and lunged with a shout, trying to tackle the man from his horse. This was unsuccessful, for the man, at the same instant, yanked the rest of the knife from the sheath and threw it at the attacker. The blade went deep into the Bouquet’s chest, knocking him back. But the prey had lost his balance, and fallen from the horse. He was attempting to get back on when Bouquet finally was able to rip the accursed dagger from his chest. With and angry cry, he whirled around the horse, which was now rearing up, and snagged the accursed prey. Before the man could do so little as to cry out, Bouquet’s canine teeth had lengthened and plunged into the helpless victim’s neck.

The man’s eyes became glossy, and, to make it easier to drain his victim, Bouquet sank to his knees, bringing the victim down with him. Several minutes passed, and in the silence of the night, the only noise to be heard – for the horse had galloped off – was the a slight slurping sound. It had been a while since Bouquet had fed, so he drained this victim of a little more blood than he usually drained. He tried not to kill his victims, if at all possible, and was careful to make sure he resisted the primordial instinct to lick up the remaining blood around the wound. If he did so, and the victim were still alive, then a vampire was born, and, much like a human child, Bouquet would have the fatherly responsibility of raising and teaching it.

The victim had ceased to move, and Bouquet was sure he was dead. Even though he had killed, Bouquet was smiling, for a wonderful warmth was flooding him, which only occurred when he was full of blood, or very near a living mortal, the body heat created by the blood warming him. With a very satisfied sigh, Bouquet drew from his pocket a handkerchief, and whipped his bloody mouth with it.

Then he made the mistake of looking back down at his victim’s neck.

Sure enough, a small pool of blood had formed around the wound in the neck. Bouquet bit his lower lip and thought.

“He’s dead anyway,” thought Bouquet aloud, his voice echoing eerily in the still night. “Ah, what’s the harm?”

And so, Bouquet bent his head down once more to lick away the remaining blood. He cleaned it as a cat does, and some of his saliva did go into the wound. Letting the body drop with a “thud,” from his arms, Bouquet stood, still feeling energetic from the blood.

He then turned and began to go the way the man had come. He had been walking back to Dieppe, a lovely costal town where he lived, after having visited a friend in Beauvais, when he’d grown terribly hungry. And so, whistling, he began to walk again.

“S-stop!” a shaky voice cried out, and in complete surprise, Bouquet turned to find none other than that self same victim, supposedly a corpse, standing, a sword drawn, and held neatly out. “I don’t know who you are, you highway man, but I swear I’ll-” the man stopped his fiery, but weak, speech at the look on Bouquet’s face.

Bouquet’s face had paled of all color, and he was staring intently at a still bleeding wound on the man’s neck. Sure enough, it was turning a nasty, purplish-green color, and the man had begun to sway from foot to foot. His eyes were glossy, and he was loosing his balance. Rushing over, Bouquet caught him as he fainted, helpless as a child, into his attacker turned “father’s,” arms.

“Damn it!” Bouquet shouted into the dark of night. “You are supposed to be dead.”

“It serves you right for being careless, Andre.”

Bouquet lifted his head to see the friend that he’d been visiting in Beauvais, which was only a mile or two away, ride up on his own grey horse, leading the bay by the bridle. The other vampire, whom was younger, but one of the wisest of the kind, trained by the greatest vampires that ever “graced,” the earth, dismounted, dropping to the ground a case. “You forgot one of your boxes, so I rode out to give it to you. Isn’t it lucky I did?”

Bouquet had ceased to look astonished, and now looked like he could kick himself. “I’m such a fool! What am I to do, Jean Claude?” he asked mournfully.

Clucking his tongue, Jean Claude tilted the newly made vampire’s neck, causing him to moan slightly, though he did not stir. “That’s quite a discoloration he’s got. I’ve not seen one so vibrant before.”

“I don’t understand it! I drained him of more blood than usual!”

“Did you now?” Jean Claude asked calmly, raising an eyebrow. “It looks like you’ve got quite a strong ‘child,’ to raise, in that case.”

Bouquet gapped. “You don’t honestly expect me to….? Jean Claude, no! I’m too old to be taking on protégées!”

“You made your bed, Andre. You’ll simply have to sleep in it. Come, get him on the horse. Am I to presume it was his horse? I thought so. Up now! We’ll get him back into Beauvais and keep him there until safe passage can be arranged for the both of you to return to Dieppe.”

Grumbling, Bouquet obeyed, and climbed up behind the young vampire on the bay to keep him from falling off.