from the veins of these crass mortals. What he had imbibed contained not just vital nourishment for him, but the sum total of his cretinous victims’ values. He had come to see humans as less than insectoid, with nothing to offer him but the blood. But now, oddly, he felt an infusion of life where he had expected none.
Vlad rewound the film around the reel and replayed the short black and white story for the tenth time. Varietease was one of his favourites, featuring Lili St. Cyr, and, more to his taste, Miss Bettie Page! This Bettie was a marvel, the woman of his dreams, were he still able to dream. Fetching, attractive, and most of all playful in her sensuality. Females in his youth had expressed either violence towards him, or had proven passive enough to retain his interest. Early on, when natural life had bubbled hot in his veins, when he had been full of passion, a warlord, fighting the Turks to retain his territory, and his own countrymen for power, he demanded his women be subdued. Life had been brutal enough back then—his mortal death verified that fact. Why fight with a woman in the boudoir? Oddly, immortality proved far easier, not particularly violent, yet he found himself less than enthralled with the ‘humanizing’ global changes. He was alone. Always. Stalking vapid prey through the streets of European and North American urban forests, destined to find none in sympathy, no empathy from the living, none in the progressingly dispassionate centuries to inspire his appetites…This turn of the tide had left him depleted. Existence in a bland world produced ennui in one such as himself, one of immense substance. And he knew the cause: humanity. They were worse than peasants. Worse than the insects that crawled from the earth’s graves. They viewed his state of ungrace far too simplistically, as they viewed their own pathetic lives. And that was the problem. They were neither terrified of him—hellbent on destroying him as those in the past had been—nor utterly enamoured. He lost interest in his snivelling soul-pale victims before he had drained the last drops of their vitae.
He watched the two lovelies cavort on screen, focusing mostly on Bettie. She was young, winsome. She forced him to feel himself an anachronism, and that he could not, would not tolerate! He was Vlad Tepesh! Prince of Transylvania! King of the Living Dead! Lord of the Darkest Night! And he would have more than banality. He would have love.
As if out of a mist his celluloid vision turned towards the camera, towards him. He watched his pristine darling glide with the grace of a she-wolf. She played with the other, revelling in her role, whether as the giver or the receiver. Miss Page enjoyed herself to her naughty fullest. He longed for a woman who could enjoy herself. Who could appear so sweet and alluring and yet obviously kindle his intense passions. He deserved to enjoy himself as well. And, as always, he would have what he wanted.
The dark-haired beauty, who reminded him so much of his second wife, flirted with the camera lens. She seemed to stare right at him, a brazen, teasing look, one that he felt moved to tame. The other on screen punished her mildly—he would be more firm, that was certain. But even mild chastisement titillated him. This decade was truly a turning point in history, and like nothing else he had experienced. Oh, there had been French postcards, and those mild Victorian moving pictures at the turn of the last century. And he’d encountered a sufficient share of ladies of the night during his nocturnal wanderings. But never in several centuries had he witnessed such verve, such panache, such ... full-blown erotic expression on a woman as fresh as the one he saw before him now.
Beside him lay an assortment of publications and film canisters, all featuring Miss Page: girlie magazines with cheesecake shots; Cartoon and Model Parade No. 53; various calendars; Playboy Magazine, January 1955,
Vlad rewound the film around the reel and replayed the short black and white story for the tenth time. Varietease was one of his favourites, featuring Lili St. Cyr, and, more to his taste, Miss Bettie Page! This Bettie was a marvel, the woman of his dreams, were he still able to dream. Fetching, attractive, and most of all playful in her sensuality. Females in his youth had expressed either violence towards him, or had proven passive enough to retain his interest. Early on, when natural life had bubbled hot in his veins, when he had been full of passion, a warlord, fighting the Turks to retain his territory, and his own countrymen for power, he demanded his women be subdued. Life had been brutal enough back then—his mortal death verified that fact. Why fight with a woman in the boudoir? Oddly, immortality proved far easier, not particularly violent, yet he found himself less than enthralled with the ‘humanizing’ global changes. He was alone. Always. Stalking vapid prey through the streets of European and North American urban forests, destined to find none in sympathy, no empathy from the living, none in the progressingly dispassionate centuries to inspire his appetites…This turn of the tide had left him depleted. Existence in a bland world produced ennui in one such as himself, one of immense substance. And he knew the cause: humanity. They were worse than peasants. Worse than the insects that crawled from the earth’s graves. They viewed his state of ungrace far too simplistically, as they viewed their own pathetic lives. And that was the problem. They were neither terrified of him—hellbent on destroying him as those in the past had been—nor utterly enamoured. He lost interest in his snivelling soul-pale victims before he had drained the last drops of their vitae.
He watched the two lovelies cavort on screen, focusing mostly on Bettie. She was young, winsome. She forced him to feel himself an anachronism, and that he could not, would not tolerate! He was Vlad Tepesh! Prince of Transylvania! King of the Living Dead! Lord of the Darkest Night! And he would have more than banality. He would have love.
As if out of a mist his celluloid vision turned towards the camera, towards him. He watched his pristine darling glide with the grace of a she-wolf. She played with the other, revelling in her role, whether as the giver or the receiver. Miss Page enjoyed herself to her naughty fullest. He longed for a woman who could enjoy herself. Who could appear so sweet and alluring and yet obviously kindle his intense passions. He deserved to enjoy himself as well. And, as always, he would have what he wanted.
The dark-haired beauty, who reminded him so much of his second wife, flirted with the camera lens. She seemed to stare right at him, a brazen, teasing look, one that he felt moved to tame. The other on screen punished her mildly—he would be more firm, that was certain. But even mild chastisement titillated him. This decade was truly a turning point in history, and like nothing else he had experienced. Oh, there had been French postcards, and those mild Victorian moving pictures at the turn of the last century. And he’d encountered a sufficient share of ladies of the night during his nocturnal wanderings. But never in several centuries had he witnessed such verve, such panache, such ... full-blown erotic expression on a woman as fresh as the one he saw before him now.
Beside him lay an assortment of publications and film canisters, all featuring Miss Page: girlie magazines with cheesecake shots; Cartoon and Model Parade No. 53; various calendars; Playboy Magazine, January 1955,
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