My Vampire Lover by J. P. Bowie Read Free Book Online
Authors: J. P. Bowie
he said, kissing my lips gently. "Thank you."
He looked better. The gauntness had gone from his face, and his eyes had regained the luminous quality I remembered. I knelt at his feet, gazing up at him, truly moved by what had passed between us.
"I'm looking at you," I said, "and I can't believe you're a hundred and thirty years old. How is it possible?"
"Do you know anything of vampire lore?" he asked, touching my cheek.
"Only what I've seen in movies," I admitted. "I'm not much of a reader, I'm afraid."
He grimaced. "The movies generally show us as cold-blooded killers without compassion for those who give us life.
There are some like that, of course, just as there are good and bad mortals, but we do not have to kill those whose blood we take." "How did you ... uh ... become a vampire?" I asked, taking his hand in mine.
"I was changed one hundred years ago by a man for whom I had formed a great admiration." His eyes took on a faraway look as he remembered. "His name was Augustine LePlante.
We had been introduced by a mutual friend, Henri Renoir.
Henri was a very close friend of mine and had brought Augustine to me thinking that, as a person of great connections in the art world, he could be of great benefit to me." He paused and smiled at me. "I do not think I've 51
My Vampire Lover
by J. P. Bowie
mentioned I am an artist. In my youth I was quite successful.
If you could ask Henri he would tell you, very successful. He handled my business affairs, and it is because of him I have, even today, enough money to live in comfort."
"He's not a vampire?" I asked, my mind struggling to take in all he was saying
"No. Henri died many years ago. I still miss him. Of course, he did not know LePlante's true identity—why would he or anyone else for that matter? I had a lover at the time, Paul, who was jealous of everyone in my life, especially of LePlante, whom he considered a threat to his position in my life. Henri detested Paul, and I think encouraged his fears of being replaced. He considered Paul no better than a whore, a leech who clung to me only for his own needs. I won't bore you with all the petty details, for in the end they were of no consequence, whatsoever.
"LePlante drugged me, and over a period of days, changed me into what I now am. He wanted me for himself, but I, on awakening from my death, could not bear him near me. I railed at him for what he had done, cursed him for making me one of the living dead, no longer able to hold my darling Paul in my arms without wanting to feed on him or make him like myself. I fell into a state of near madness and LePlante left me in disgust. Henri found me close to death, unable to live with what I had become."
I gazed at him, trying to visualise the kind of horror he must have gone through in those first days as a vampire. As hard as I tried, I knew nothing I conjured up in my mind could actually compare with what he had endured.
52
My Vampire Lover
by J. P. Bowie
"How did you survive this?" I asked, my voice thick with emotion.
"Henri saved me. When I told him what LePlante had done and that I could only live by drinking blood, he gave me his, just as you did tonight. Poor Henri. I did not know then how to control the bloodlust that can overpower a vampire's senses. I think I would have drained him, but he, sensible man that he was, struggled to free himself, and in doing so, made me aware of what I was doing.
"For a long time, he sheltered me in his home, where I continued with my work, until we felt it was expedient that I should 'die' and disappear from Paris. I was buried in St.
Germain cemetery—or rather, my casket was buried there—
and I came to this country. Henri sold all my paintings for exorbitant sums of money—now that I was 'dead', they had tripled in value—and he invested all the money in a Swiss bank, in my name."
"And your lover, Paul?"
"Of course, he saw a change in me but never guessed what it was. He thought I was ill and
He looked better. The gauntness had gone from his face, and his eyes had regained the luminous quality I remembered. I knelt at his feet, gazing up at him, truly moved by what had passed between us.
"I'm looking at you," I said, "and I can't believe you're a hundred and thirty years old. How is it possible?"
"Do you know anything of vampire lore?" he asked, touching my cheek.
"Only what I've seen in movies," I admitted. "I'm not much of a reader, I'm afraid."
He grimaced. "The movies generally show us as cold-blooded killers without compassion for those who give us life.
There are some like that, of course, just as there are good and bad mortals, but we do not have to kill those whose blood we take." "How did you ... uh ... become a vampire?" I asked, taking his hand in mine.
"I was changed one hundred years ago by a man for whom I had formed a great admiration." His eyes took on a faraway look as he remembered. "His name was Augustine LePlante.
We had been introduced by a mutual friend, Henri Renoir.
Henri was a very close friend of mine and had brought Augustine to me thinking that, as a person of great connections in the art world, he could be of great benefit to me." He paused and smiled at me. "I do not think I've 51
My Vampire Lover
by J. P. Bowie
mentioned I am an artist. In my youth I was quite successful.
If you could ask Henri he would tell you, very successful. He handled my business affairs, and it is because of him I have, even today, enough money to live in comfort."
"He's not a vampire?" I asked, my mind struggling to take in all he was saying
"No. Henri died many years ago. I still miss him. Of course, he did not know LePlante's true identity—why would he or anyone else for that matter? I had a lover at the time, Paul, who was jealous of everyone in my life, especially of LePlante, whom he considered a threat to his position in my life. Henri detested Paul, and I think encouraged his fears of being replaced. He considered Paul no better than a whore, a leech who clung to me only for his own needs. I won't bore you with all the petty details, for in the end they were of no consequence, whatsoever.
"LePlante drugged me, and over a period of days, changed me into what I now am. He wanted me for himself, but I, on awakening from my death, could not bear him near me. I railed at him for what he had done, cursed him for making me one of the living dead, no longer able to hold my darling Paul in my arms without wanting to feed on him or make him like myself. I fell into a state of near madness and LePlante left me in disgust. Henri found me close to death, unable to live with what I had become."
I gazed at him, trying to visualise the kind of horror he must have gone through in those first days as a vampire. As hard as I tried, I knew nothing I conjured up in my mind could actually compare with what he had endured.
52
My Vampire Lover
by J. P. Bowie
"How did you survive this?" I asked, my voice thick with emotion.
"Henri saved me. When I told him what LePlante had done and that I could only live by drinking blood, he gave me his, just as you did tonight. Poor Henri. I did not know then how to control the bloodlust that can overpower a vampire's senses. I think I would have drained him, but he, sensible man that he was, struggled to free himself, and in doing so, made me aware of what I was doing.
"For a long time, he sheltered me in his home, where I continued with my work, until we felt it was expedient that I should 'die' and disappear from Paris. I was buried in St.
Germain cemetery—or rather, my casket was buried there—
and I came to this country. Henri sold all my paintings for exorbitant sums of money—now that I was 'dead', they had tripled in value—and he invested all the money in a Swiss bank, in my name."
"And your lover, Paul?"
"Of course, he saw a change in me but never guessed what it was. He thought I was ill and