“Ah, you’re awake!”

Chauvelin tried to turn his head to look at the girl who spoke, but this small attempt made his head spin. He moaned, and covered his eyes for a moment. The girl came to his bed side, sitting on the edge, a bowl of warm water and a cloth in hand.

When Chauvelin dared to uncover his pale eyes, he found a pair of green ones staring down at him, the girl’s black hair tied tightly back. Without taking her gaze from him, she lifted the cloth toward a spot near his neck. “This may hurt,” she warned.

It did not only hurt, but burned! He cried out in pain, and tried to push the girl’s – only nineteen, by the look of her – hand away.

“Stop struggling,” she advised. “I know it’s painful, but I must clean your neck.” He continued to glower at her and wince and whimper as she bathed the wound. “You know, I think I preferred it when you were asleep. At least I could clean you up without all this fuss.”

“Where am I?” he finally asked.

“You have the honor of being in the home of Jean Claude Meaux. He is my elder brother. You are in the city of Beauvias, and in case Monsieur Bouquet gave you a knock on the head, you are in France.”

“Beauvias? I was just outside of there when I was attacked!”

The girl giggled. “Oui, by Monsieur Bouquet.”

“A robber?” he asked.

“Good heavens, no! Monsieur Bouquet is richer than the three most successful highwaymen in France all put together! He,” she corrected, “is a vampire.”

Chauvelin paled. His hand suddenly and wildly clutched the girl’s. “W-what did you say?”

The girl seemed not at all astounded by his present change of state. “Monsieur Andre Bouquet is a vampire.”

“If this is some new name for a thief or attacker, I’ve never heard it before. And if it is a joke, I find it most definitively unfunny.”

“No, monsieur, I can promise you; it is no joke, nor is he a thief of any kind. Monsieur Bouquet is a vampire. As is my brother, and myself.” She noticed that Chauvelin, though still weak, was trying to scoot as far back from her as possible. “And you, also.”

He stopped.

Mademoiselle Meaux looked down at him pityingly, knowing the state his mind was just flung into. She dipped the cloth back into the warm water, and delicately washed his neck with it. This time, he did not wince, and after dipping it a second time, and reaching for his neck, he stopped her. His grip on her wrist became almost vise-like suddenly, and she noticed that he was shaking like a leaf.

“Please, mademoiselle, repeat that?”

The girl gazed down at him pityingly. “Poor thing,” she sighed. Brushing some of the slightly unruly hair back, she kissed his forehead. “You’ll see. It’ll be alright.”

“Jacqueline,” a voice from the hall way called, “who on earth are you talking to?”

“Entre vous, mon frere, ” she called. “he has woken up!”

“Has he now?” answered the man, who then stepped into the room.

He looked to be a year or two older than Chauvelin, and was smiling in a calm, surreal way. It was the kind of way someone who is completely assured of himself smiles, and that was monsieur Jean Claude Meaux in a nut shell; assured in everything he did.

“My goodness, monsieur, but you look as grey as a ghost! Soeur, do be sweet and fetch him something to drink.”

Obediently, Jacqueline rose and left the room to get the beverage.

At length, Chauvelin asked “What am I doing here?”

“Resting until you are well enough to travel home with Monsieur Bouquet. That will be a week at the earliest, and I highly doubt it will be that soon.”

Chauvelin’s eyes widened. “The one who attacked me? You must be out of your mind!”

“I can assure you, we’re all quite sane here. You obviously know my sister’s name, and you probably know mine. I’m afraid none of us have the pleasure of knowing yours. It is?”

“Armand Chauvelin, and I would like to leave here immediately.”

“I’m afraid I cannot allow that, Monsieur Chauvelin. That would be like sending a babe into a lion’s den.”

Chauvelin began to grow irate. “In case you have not noticed, monsieur, I am a full grown adult, and can easily take care of myself!”

Meaux pulled up a chair. “But not as a vampire, you can’t.”

Chauvelin paled again, and it was now that Jacqueline reentered the room.

“I wish people would stop saying that! I am not a vampire.”

“Of course you are, monsieur,” said the girl lightly, sitting at the edge of his bed, a glass in hand. “I can give you a mirror to look at your neck with if you do not believe me.”

And she picked up a small mirror, angling it so that he could see his neck, which was certainly not a pretty sight; two, slightly inflamed puncture wounds were prominent, and around them radiated a patch of purplish green flesh, quite sickly looking. Chauvelin turned his head away.

“That is proof of nothing!” he protested.

“It’s more proof than is necessary,” responded Jacqueline. She now barred her own neck and indicated the small, faint scar there. It, too, had two puncture marks, the exact same shape in the exact same direction as Chauvelin’s.

“Would you like to see mine as well?” asked Meaux. Chauvelin mournfully shook his head no. “Come now, all will be well. Take a drink. You’ll feel much better.”

Gratefully, Chauvelin took the glass from Jacqueline’s hand, and brought it to his lips. He then chocked and began to cough, looking about ready to toss the glass away. “This is blood!” he shouted hotly. Meaux now aided his younger sister in bringing the glass to the struggling man’s lips. “Drink,” he ordered. “You’ll feel better once you do.”

And, still struggling, Chauvelin drank the red liquid. And calmed. He now sucked it down and wished for more when it was gone, but said not a word. The color had returned to his cheeks, and he looked ten times healthier.

“There now,” whispered Jacqueline, brushing his hair back with her hand. “Isn’t that better?”

He nodded faintly, and began to sink back into the bed.

“I shall tell Monsieur Bouquet you are doing alright. He’ll want to see you,” said Meaux. “Should I send him in?”

Chauvelin shook his head no. “I do not wish to see the monster who did this to me.”

“Watch what you say,” teased Mademoiselle Jacqueline. “We are all the same type of monster here.”

“I understand your resentment to him. He did not mean for this to happen. Were he intentionally creating a vampire, you’d have far more warning, be prepped for it. What happened last night…..it was an accident. Please forgive him, monsieur. He does not want your hate, and will do the duty he has to do, since you are his responsibility.”

“And what duty is that?” the sick man asked.

“To raise you and train you in the ways of a vampire,” said Jacqueline.

“Get some more rest,” advised the brother. “When you wake up again, he’ll want to see you. Please be polite. He is truly a very good man, and he will train you well.”

Chauvelin sank farther into the pillow, and began to fall asleep. Silently, Meaux left the room, but Jacqueline stayed, humming to him and stroking his head, occasionally, and gently, cleaning at the hurt in his neck.

Quietly shutting the door, she began to walk down the dark hall way when she was stopped by Bouquet.

“Is he awake?” the wretched man asked nervously.

“My goodness, monsieur, have you been pacing outside that door all day?” she asked, for he had been there when she’d returned to the sick man’s room, and that was a few hours ago.

“Never mind that!” he said, agitatedly waving that aside. “Now, is he awake?”

Jacqueline rolled her eyes. “Yes.” Bouquet now looked a combination of fear and joy; his face glowed, yet he slumped in defeat at the same time. “But you cannot see him yet. He needs to have some more blood, and I must go and fetch it for him. Now, if you will excuse me, monsieur.”

“Yes, of course,” he said, and stepped out of her way. He watched her scuttle down the hall way, and a few moments later, scuttle back up, a large glass of blood in her delicate hands. He then watched her as she entered the room, no doubt helping the man to drink, and prepping him.

Bouquet then continued his pacing by the door, until Jacqueline opened it again. “You may come in now, he is ready for you.”

Nervously, Bouquet entered, and looked at the man from two nights before.

He was sitting as erect as he could in bed, just watching Bouquet with his pale eyes. His black hair was rather messy, but that was to be expected.

“Bonsoir, monsieur,” Bouquet said. “Your name is Chauvelin, yes?”

“Yes,” responded the man, trying to be civil. “And yours is Bouquet.”

“Correct…….about the other night……”

“I was an accident,” he seethed.

Bouquet turned his head away. “I was careless. I apologize.”

“But I am a vampire?”

“Yes, you are a vampire. And I am your father, of sorts.”

“And why is that?”

“Because I licked your wound, and so you are my progeny. Mistake though you are, monsieur, I have every intention of doing as I ought; I will raise and train you to be the best vampire I can make you.”

Chauvelin turned his head away. “There’s little point in that, monsieur. Immortality holds no sway with me if I must be separated from all of human kind.”

“I think you are mistaken there,” said Bouquet, stepping closer to Chauvelin, becoming emboldened. “You see, if I teach you enough, and you train hard enough, then you might not need to be separated from human kind. I can train you to hide drinking blood, to appear to eat regular food, to even walk in sunlight! I can-”

Bouquet only realized after he said it that Chauvelin had a look of utter contempt on his face when Bouquet said “drinking blood.”

Jacqueline, who had remained in the corner, quickly rushed to the side of the bed with all the motherly instincts a vampire remembers. She quickly snatched his hand up, and was whispering to him so softly that Bouquet could not hear.

“Monsieur Bouquet, I think the conversation should be continued a bit later. Monsieur Chauvelin needs his rest.”

With that, she ushered the confused man out of the door, closing it behind him.

Next Chapter