Page 8 of Desperately Seeking Vampire
“You keep mentioning a festival,” Ivo said, running a hand over his jaw. “Why on earth are you holding one here?”
“It’s a tradition started twenty or so years ago. How do you feel?” Christian asked.
Ivo took inventory of his limbs. “I have a dull headache in the front of my head, but everything else seems to be functioning. Did I hear you say I fed? From whom?”
“What, not whom,” Finch answered, pulling a container from a small wicker basket. “I’m not personally acquainted with the pigs who donated their blood, but it evidently agreed with you.”
“It won’t for long,” Christian warned, giving Ivo a long, steady look that made him uncomfortable, just as if his soul had been laid bare for the older man.
The headache pulsed as he sagged back against pillows that had been arranged to prop him up on a bed. “So I’m back to where I was before?”
“If by that, you mean did we find your Beloved, no,” Finch said, exchanging glances with his uncle. “We tried for years, Ivo. It was difficult during the war, but once it ended—”
“It did end? I’m glad to hear that. How?”
“Germany signed an armistice two years after you were injured,” Finch said, his expression solemn now. “I’ll bring you a tablet so you can read about what you missed. Assuming you’d like to do that.”
The dull ache that he had been aware of gripped him, driving home the utter uselessness of existence. “A tablet of what? No, it doesn’t matter. I don’t want to know. I don’t want to be if you didn’t find the woman who ruined my life. I just want to go back underwater and drift.”
“Underwater?” Finch asked, then shook his head. “We did search for her, Ivo. For years. We damned near examined every woman in that region of France, not to mention the bulk of nurses. A few died. If your Beloved was one of them ...” The sentence finished awkwardly.
Ivo nodded, his soul as depressed as the rest of him. “Then there’s no hope. I know. I’ve known since you dragged my carcass here ... what year is it?”
“Two thousand two.”
He blinked a couple of times at that, but resumed his sentence. “Since you dragged me here eighty-six years ago. You don’t have to look so guilty, Finch. I know that you and Christian have done all you can. It is what it is. I am resigned to that. I just want to go back to my watery not-grave.”
Finch frowned, and asked his uncle, “Has water seeped into the mausoleum?”
“I believe Ivo is speaking metaphorically.” Christian gave him another piercing look. “Naturally, you are welcome to resume a state of noctambul, but I would advise you to wait a few days after the end of the festival More blood is available for as long as your body is willing to tolerate it. Judging by the past, I assume that to be a week or possibly two.”
“The mortals are annoying, but they make for an interesting study,” Finch said, rubbing his chin.
Ivo plucked at the down comforter covering him. “Don’t tell me you’re writing another book on how to live an organized life?”
“Er ... not another,” Finch admitted, clearing his throat. “It’s the same one, actually. I’m just putting some finishing touches to it now.”
Ivo cocked an eyebrow.
“Yes, yes, I know, you’ve written copious volumes of poetry while I’m still working on one book, but with all due respect, your poetry can’t be compared to the work demanded by my book. Making organization out of chaos isn’t easy, you know.”
“I said nothing,” Ivo said, smiling to himself. He hadn’t thought of his poetic phase in a very long time. There was a point where he’d been convinced that he was destined to be a poet of Byron’s level, but the public’s reception to his slim volumes of poetry had been disappointing in the extreme. The few reviews he’d garnered didn’t offer him much solace. Especially the one that referred to him as writing “sophomoric, somnambulistic drivel that couldn’t keep a terrier awake in a room filled with rats.”
“You didn’t have to. I can feel you thinking it,” Finch responded, looking irritated. He gave a little sniff, and added, “Regardless, you might as well stay awake until the mortals have finished their celebration.”
“You might actually enjoy seeing them,” Christian told him, moving toward the door. “They can be vastly entertaining, and it will do much to bring you up to date by studying them.”
“A festival?” Ivo scratched at a spot on the side of his head, feeling dusty and itchy. He would bathe, he decided. That and some fresh garments, which no doubt Finch would lend him, would make him feel better. If he had to stay awake for a few more days, then he might as well be comfortable, even if he was in mental, emotional, and physical hell. “What sort of festival?”
“Music, for the most part, which can either be very good or atrociously bad. A traveling fair hosts it, which is entertaining in itself. Go out and see how the mortals have changed since you went noctambul. Then, when they have left, we’ll get you settled again,” Christian told him, and with a nod at Finch left the room.
“Your family,” Ivo said with a little shake of his head.
Finch looked somewhat martyred. “I know. You don’t need to say it. They’ve always had a weakness for mortals. They’re always trying to protect them, even when it’s against their interests.”
“You’re the one who became a doctor,” Ivo pointed out, smiling just a little at the memory of their time training in Germany. “Even your father didn’t do that.”
“No, he was too busy being James Bond,” Finch said with a grimace.
