The Vampire Mystique, by Nicole Hadaway
mystique: an air or attitude of mystery and reverence developing around something or someone
vampire: the reanimated body of a dead person believed to come from the grave at night and suck the blood of persons asleep
It's a subject that comes up often these days: what is it about vampires, and why are so many people drawn to them? Vampires seem to be everywhere right now, in books (Twilight, The Strain), to movies (Suck, The Vampire's Assistant) to tv shows (True Blood, Vampire Diaries) to even a musical (I Kissed a Vampire), but instead of covering their windows with garlic and cowering behind silver crosses inside their homes, people are sporting fangs, Nosferatu t-shirts, and even inviting Tall, Dark and Handsome vampires into their homes (via vampire doormats).
My own vampire obsession started probably around age 12, after seeing the 1979 version of Dracula. And you know what -- I can't really explain why I was so drawn to them, all I knew was that it would be really, really cool to be able to stay young and beautiful forever, appear suddenly out of a mist of fog, mesmerize people, have control over dangrous creatures such as wolves, and ride on the back of Kiefer Sutherland's motorcycle. The only drawback to having such desirable traits was indeed a high price -- one's immortal soul, although now it seems, with newer variations on the myth, that vampires are no longer always the bad guy, and may not face eternal damnation if they meet an untimely death.
Whatever the reason for the attraction to vampires, there is no denying it -- the creatures of the night have been in our pop culture for a long time, and though their popularity may wax and wane, they are likely not to turn to dust before our eyes any time soon. I personally like my vampires strong, seductive, dangerous, beautiful, and able to shape-shift. Here's a little 'taste' of those traits from my new novel, Release (which is set during World War II).
Anne stood atop the step-stool in the small Dijonnaise bookshop, putting the last book back in its place. The owner was very happy to be open again, now that France was liberated. She surveyed the small shop, and then looked at her watch. Still so much to do, she thought, looking at the boxes and packing materials that littered the floor. She looked out the window, dismayed that, although it was the beginning of March and the days were now growing longer, the daylight had gone. Although lately she’d found the darkness of the night enjoyable as well.
We could be done in no time if I had some help, Anne thought, glancing darkly at her co-worker, Brigitte, who was busy looking out the window at the Allied soldiers passing by. As the shop-keeper’s daughter, Brigitte could get away with doing very little work and much flirting with the soldiers. She harbored hopes of landing an American husband, one who would take her back to the States with him when he left. If Papa only knew, he wouldn’t like that one bit…, thought Anne, who knew how the shopkeeper doted on his only child.
Anne looked at her watch again, which showed it was two minutes later than the last time she’d looked. She deliberated for a few minutes, then decided that there could be no harm in indulging herself in Brigitte’s hobby. She’d been a diligent worker, after all, and she’d put in more than a full day at work. Perhaps her recent dreams had given her a little more confidence and daring. So Anne walked over to the window where Brigitte stood.
Brigitte gave a small start when Anne appeared next to her, and Anne surmised that she wasn’t used to having company in her ogling, although from the way Brigitte moved over slightly to give Anne room, and leaned her head towards Anne in a conspiratorial manner, it seemed Brigitte was glad to have a compatriot. Brigitte said, “Look at that group over there.”
There were two soldiers who were interrogating two other men, one of whom had shockingly light blond hair. Anne was surprised at how pale it was, and she decided in her mind that Brigitte could have him. Anne herself preferred dark-haired men, so she moved her eyes from the light-haired one to the other. She couldn’t see him clearly as his back was to her, but it looked like he had thick, curly, brown hair. She was intrigued by him as he seemed so familiar. Feeling guilty and wondering if she should make her way back to the till, Anne started to turn her head but stopped, when, out of the corner of her eye, she saw the brown-haired one reach out and pat one of the soldiers on the shoulder. It was him – him – the man from her dreams. Anne would know those blue-gray eyes anywhere, so clearly visible under the street lamp. She should have known that it had been his curly brown hair she was looking at, since she’d run her fingers through it enough times.
The man had first appeared at her window about a week and a half ago. At least, that’s what she thought, but her memories were so foggy sometimes. It had seemed so fantastical at first, a grown man, so very attractive as he, balancing precariously on the ledge of her second-story bedroom window. Anne thought that it had to have been a dream, and so she’d convinced herself that the big black bird, tapping at the glass, that changed into a man when she’d opened the window to shoo it away was all just a dream. Birds turning into men were the kind of thing that happened only in dreams or fairy tales, and Anne knew her life was no fairy tale.
The dreams had surely brought excitement to her otherwise dull existence. The first night had certainly been exciting, with The Stranger crouching out on the window ledge, his hand on the window pane. One look into his intense eyes, and her initial fear of a strange man, a possible assailant, had melted away. She found herself opening the window, staring into his eyes the whole time, strange tingling sensations over her body telling her she was safe.
Then he asked, “May I come inside?” in a voice like melted chocolate. Awed by his appearance, she’d only been able to nod in response. The whole thing had seemed so real at the time, but the next morning when she awoke, she knew that it had been just a dream.
Anne had told herself that her imagination must have been working overtime after listening to Brigitte boast of her latest tryst with a soldier. Whereas Brigitte made it a prerogative to have men in her life, Anne had to live vicariously through her. Anne’s parents were very watchful of their daughter’s virtue, saving her for any future husbands that came calling. None had, and Anne had begun to wonder if one didn’t need to entice men a little with something. After all, Brigitte had had several offers of marriage, and her virtue was hardly intact.
Then, it had happened again. After a second night of a wild, erotic, impossible visit by The Stranger, Anne had grown worried. Was there some demon at work? Was she being tempted against her faith? Her parents were concerned as well about her sleep, noting that she was so pale and drawn. They had suggested she sleep in with them, but Anne had quickly reassured them she was fine, she only needed to eat more at dinnertime.
Despite her worries, Anne wished the dreams wouldn’t end, as they filled her with such warmth, such pleasure, and confidence. Certainly, dreams such as those couldn’t be bad. Besides, she wasn’t actually sinning during the dreams, for The Stranger never entered her, for he was content to lie next to her, kissing her lips, her neck, her thighs, all with such tender, warm lips. He never asked anything for himself, not at all like Brigitte’s men demanded of her.
The dream always ended the same way, where The Stranger would kiss her thighs, at first very soft, then more fiercely, concentrating in one spot. Anne thought she could feel some kind of piercing sensation, as though he’d pricked her skin with a needle, but the pain only lasted a second before Anne would then feel a tingling, a burning that spread throughout her entire body, which would grow hotter, and hotter, until she didn’t think she’d be able to stand it, and then – she would wake up, to an empty room, with daylight streaming through, signaling the end of her dream and the start of reality.
Only now, Anne was starting to doubt that they were dreams, for there he was, The Stranger, across the street, standing under the lamplight. She was starting to feel nervous, uncertain of what she should do, when Brigitte exclaimed “He’s looking at you!” in a surprised voice.
Anne forced herself to look across the street again. She tried telling herself that the man across the street was certainly not The Stranger from her dreams, and it was just her mind playing tricks on her. She turned her head and forced her eyes to look at him, gasping slightly as his eyes met hers. It was no trick; he was really there.
“Do you know him?” Brigitte said, her curiosity unable to keep the jealousy out of her voice. “He’s smiling at you.”
Indeed, the man was flashing her the same smile she’d seen those past few nights, the smile that melted away any fear, nervousness, or doubt she might have. For it wasn’t only his mouth that smiled, but his eyes as well. Her mother had always told her that was the mark of a good person – one who smiled with their whole face, not just their mouth.
She found herself smiling back, unable to tear her eyes away from the man as he spoke to his companion, the one with the light-blond hair, and then gestured for the two of them to cross the street. They’re coming here! Anne thought, with a mixture of panic and pleasure. She would show Brigitte how good a man a lady could land, for Anne could tell that Brigitte had wanted the stranger for herself, and who wouldn’t – with those light blue eyes, high, chiseled cheekbones, and a charming smile on full lips – he really resembled a statue of some Greek god she’d seen in the museum. He was all hers, she was becoming more sure of that with each confident step he took towards the bookshop, all the while looking at her like she was the woman of his dreams.
“Oh look, do you think Monsieur Lagraize knows them?” Brigitte asked, breaking Anne’s excitement. She was so busy looking at The Stranger that she’d failed to notice Mr. Lagraize walking pointedly, almost running across the street towards the two men. He spoke a few words to the blond companion, who then pulled at the Stranger’s sleeve. The Stranger unwillingly turned his gaze away from Anne to Mr. Lagraize, listening to what Mr. Lagraize had to say. Anne watched in dismay as her Stranger and his blond companion followed Mr. Lagraize, away from her, without even a backwards glance in her direction.
“That was weird,” Brigitte said, not bothering to hide her glee that Anne had been denied. Anne didn’t bother to answer her – she was already behind the till, bending down to retrieve her purse, trying to keep from sobbing. Her only solace was that if she rushed home, and went to bed early, leaving the window open, she might see The Stranger in her dreams that night.
Want more of RELEASE?
The first person to correctly name The Count's cat from Seasme Street will win a pdf copy of RELEASE.
As many of you have probably noticed, New Orleans, and indeed Louisiana in general, has become what Transylvania is to Europe -- the vampire center of the United States. So, what is it about this locale that has people mesmerized, as if they were staring into a vampire's eyes?
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