ONE
     I was totally beachless for a month and a half. No one has suffered like I have suffered.
     –Cordelia, Buffy the Vampire Slayer

Brad Pitt in a melancholy gloom while being interviewed by Christian Slater in a dingy San Francisco room to the strains of haunting music by Elliot Goldenthal, with his soft yet very masculine voice talking about how pointless life was and all there was left was to kill night after night and oh, what’s the point of it all.
     This is what so many vampire wannabes think of when they imagine becoming a vampire. Tragedy, lost love, and an endless yearning for a peace that can only come with the kill. Yeah, right. Pure, unadulterated, angst-ridden crapola. And it was the fact that Garadun realised he was falling right into the trap, that he was becoming the stereotype, that brought him to his senses and helped him shake off the pain in his heart.
     It was now well over a year since his beloved Mary had been murdered. She wasn’t coming back. She was dead and life didn’t give a shit. People died, people suffered, and life just went on. You could either wallow in your misery, or you could accept things, say goodbye, and move the fuck on. There was no disrespect to the dead. He would always love her. But he was still alive. And Mary wouldn’t want him to just sit around and mourn her. One of the things he’d loved so much about her was her joy. She had been insane, yes. But she’d also been happy. How many could say that?
     Cera and Yoriko had gotten their wish, although the circumstances weren’t what they wanted. After Cera had brought Garadun across into the night, the Silent Lands, she and Yoriko, her beautiful Japanese lover, had wanted him to move into Yoriko’s sprawling manor in the wealthy area of Westmount in Montreal. He’d resisted at first, needful of his independence. Then he and Mary had become lovers and they’d decided to move in with them, together. That she was murdered on the very night of the move was proof that Fate could be a cruel fucking bitch. With his love gone, Garadun was lost. So he moved in with Cera and Yoriko at last, though he didn’t take the room they’d carefully prepared. He chose a much smaller room, sleeping in the coffin he’d been given as a backup safety measure instead of using the bed.
     For weeks afterwards, his pain and grief made him little more than a zombie. He rarely spoke, didn’t leave the mansion other than to go out and feed – which wasn’t that often, his grief even dampening the Hunger – and he didn’t socialise at all. At last it just got to be too much. He sought the advise of Louis, one of the city’s most powerful elder vampires, looking for a way out. Louis showed him the technique of quiesco, the deep sleep. A hibernation-like state in which a vampire enters a meditative trance and then descends into complete torpor. Quiesco was often used by older vampires to sleep away the ages, and Louis was frankly impressed that Garadun, a vampire for less than a year, was even able to learn the technique. But Garadun wanted escape from his grief.
     For almost an entire year Garadun slept, completely removed from the world. When he finally did emerge from his coffin, his overwhelming grief had passed. He was still depressed, but Cera and Yoriko rejoiced because their filius had at last come back to the world, come back to them. He didn’t leave the estate other than to feed, but he was feeding regularly again, and he was talking to them and the girls. He read books, watched TV, surfed the net, and generally moped around. Cera and Yoriko said nothing, patiently giving him his space.
     Enough of this feeling sorry for himself shit. He was a vampire, a Child of Horus, not some black lipstick-wearing, angst-loving, pretentious poser of a wannabe.
     Garadun opened his coffin and stepped out with a smooth grace he never could’ve managed when he was mortal. His fluid movements came naturally to him, as did his supernatural strength and stamina, his speed, his skill at convincing minds not to see him, and his vampiric aura. Cera said he’d been born to be a vampire, and quite frankly he agreed.
     He stripped off his clothes and walked out of the room and down the hall towards the nearby washroom without a care to his nudity. He lived in a house with ten women who didn’t care if he saw them nude, so what the fuck. He got in the shower and turned the water on so hot it was almost scalding. The heat felt good on his cool undead flesh, and he washed and simply stood there for over a half-hour soaking up the heat. Not that he thought of himself as truly dead. Just a different kind of alive.
     After towelling himself off, he returned to his room, stopping to kick the coffin lid closed before he put on a fresh set of clothes. No more sleeping in the damn coffin unless it was needed. The clothes he picked were what he always wore: simple. He put on a new light grey T-shirt, a grey-black check shirt left open and untucked over the T-shirt, grey boxer-briefs, faded blue Levis, and white sport socks. There was also the platinum ring etched with an ankh. A gift from William, the Master of Montreal.
     No need to do his hair because it was cut in that extremely short, buzzed style favoured by the military, and his face was clean-shaven. Always would be. Eternally low-maintenance. There’d been grey in the dark brown hair, but no more. It had kinda freaked him out when he’d woken up one night and found the grey gone. Cera explained that it was a by-product of his Becoming. Her own hair had become softer, lusher. Hair changes were common, though not always a guarantee; but more likely if the vampire’s sire had had it happen to them, as with he and Cera.
     Garadun stopped to look in the dressing mirror, leaning forward and taking in the sight of his eyes. At one time hazel, thanks to vampirism they were now green. Deep, make-an-Irishman-weep-with-envy emerald green. Not a human eye colour. Even he, who always thought himself very plain-looking, had to admit his eyes were noteworthy. His one good feature. His five-foot-nine body was now lean and muscled thanks to his Horus blood, but very subtly. The cheetah rather than the lion. But no point in bitching. He wasn’t handsome, never would be. Not ugly by any means, but just plain, nondescript. Cera insisted that she thought he was cute, and so did Yoriko. But they were his friends and their opinions were biased. He knew better, knew what he didn’t have. This was his lot and that was that.
     Yoriko’s mansion was so big it actually had wings. It was the kind of house in which you expected to find butlers and maids and parties in the ballroom, with everyone who was anyone from the yacht club in attendance. It was all that, and yet not. The place was littered with a collection of fine antiques that you’d expect from a vampire who was over three-and-a-half centuries old. The house had every conceivable modern convenience, every luxury, all the electronic toys, and more rooms than you knew what to do with. Yet for all its elegance there was an air of comfort to it, a sense of casual relaxation.
     There were no butlers or maids or hangers-on; although there was a harem, for lack of a better word. Entourage tends to sound too superficial, too Hollywood. The eight young women who lived with Yoriko and Cera were devoted to them, loved them, and were loved in return. Vampires call them blood dolls. Humans who not only willingly give their blood, but revel in the “kiss” and eagerly anticipate the next donation. Yoriko’s girls were also hers and Cera’s regular lovers, and looked after the mansion during the day. All were extremely attractive.
     Garadun strolled through this palatial home with almost total confidence that he wasn’t going to get lost. Almost. Even after all this time living there he still didn’t know the entire layout of the place. But his cat appreciated the room. When he’d moved in he’d brought her with him because she was his baby and she needed him, and he needed her. Now she had this megalithic playground to enjoy and a whole new bunch of people to love her and spoil her rotten.
     His first stop was Yoriko and Cera’s master bedroom, a sensual love nest that saw more action than the Playboy Mansion. But they weren’t there. He checked a couple of the girls’ rooms, but no luck either. Screw it, must be downstairs. When he hit the grand staircase in the main entry hall he finally managed to find someone.
     It was Yuka, one of the blood dolls. The others were Miho, Hiromi, Kyoko, Akiko, Hiroko, Lani and Ayumi. They’d all been brought over from Japan and spoke passable English, except for Lani and Ayumi. Lani was originally from the Philippines, but had been raised in Canada since she was a little kid. Ayumi was Japanese like the other girls, but she’d been born and raised in Canada. Both young women were the smallest of the girls, each only standing five-foot-one, with Lani about five pounds heavier than Ayumi and her curves a bit more pronounced.
      “Konichiwa, Yuka-chan,” said Garadun, smiling.
     The young women were always a visual treat, especially for Garadun who had a very strong weakness for Asian women. Yuka was extremely pretty, standing five-foot-five with a very curvaceous figure. Her eyes were dark brown and her dark brown, almost black hair fell to the bottom of her full breasts.
      “You know where Cera or Yoriko are?” His Japanese didn’t go beyond a few words, much to his dismay.
      “Hai, Garadun-sama,” Yuka replied, bowing. “They in parlour.”
      “Domo, Yuka-chan,” he said, stopping to kiss her on the cheek in gratitude when he reached the bottom of the stairs.
      “You need blood, Garadun-sama?” she inquired happily, more than ready to bare her neck for him.
      “Iie, I’m fine. Thanks for the offer, though. Domo.”
      “Hai,” she said, and after another bow kept going on her way. Garadun made his way to the parlour, amused that he was in a home that actually had a parlour. Yoriko was lounging on a divan reading the Gazette, Montreal’s only daily English newspaper, and Cera was hunkered on the floor with balls of cotton between her toes and painting her toenails. The scene was very homey and very adorable.
      “Please don’t tell me you’re painting them black,” said Garadun.
      Cera looked up and smiled. “No, dark burgundy.”
       “Thank God,” he said, and leaned over to kiss Yoriko on the cheek. “And how’s our Yoriko this evening? Aside from being devastatingly beautiful, of course.”
       “Very well, thank you for the compliment,” she replied, kissing him in return. The Japanese accent in her soft voice was barely noticeable.
       “You seem like you’re in a better mood, luv,” said Cera, cautiously.
       “I am,” said Garadun, stuffing his hands in his pockets. “I just got out of my coffin and said fuck it. I’m tired of being depressed. I know Mary would agree.”
       “Yes, she would,” said Yoriko, and stood to give him a loving hug. “Welcome back, darling. We’ve missed you.”
       “I’ve missed you too,” he said, holding her close. She was a petite woman, only five-foot-two and weighing around a hundred pounds, give or take. But in his mind her 32-23-33 figure was wonderful – he preferred a trim body on a woman.
      Cera was taller than her consors at five-foot-six and her 32-24-35 frame weighed a few pounds more. Her extra inches helped show off how leggy she was. Raised a workhouse orphan in the early 1800s, she had no idea who her parents had been, but her features said that one of them, most likely her mother, hadn’t been English. Her face definitely had a Southeast Asian influence to it.
       “Great, yer finally back on yer feet an’ ‘ere I am paintin’ me bloody nails,” Cera smirked, her London accent showing itself. When she got emotional, whether up or down, the accent usually surfaced. You can take the girl out of London, but you can’t take the London out of the girl.
       “Don’t bother getting up,” said Garadun, and let go of Yoriko to sit cross-legged on the floor in front of her. “So what’s the deal? Any news I’ve missed?”
       “Yeah, there is actually,” said Cera, leaning in to continue work on her right big toe. “William announced that since we lost three of our own last year, he’s allowing each bloodline to create additional progeny.”
       “Really,” said Garadun, surprised.
       “The Master of each line can embrace one filius or filia,” Yoriko supplied helpfully. “Or they can allow another of their line to do it in their place.”
       “Any takers yet?” New vamps? Cool. I won’t be lowest on the totem pole any more.
      Cera chuckled. “Most everyone jumped at the chance. William normally makes you petition him for the right to do it, like I did with you. After all, I’m the Master of the Horus bloodline in the city. Even if there’s only the two of us.”
       “You embracing anyone else?” Garadun asked. Jealous? Nah.
       “You’re the only filius I want, luv,” Cera told him, her purple eyes filled with love and friendship. “But most of the others have already done it.”
       “Okay, who and who?” he said, leaning back on his hands.
       “Tabitha has brought over another artist to our Hathor bloodline,” Yoriko answered. “His name is Ulysses, and he’s a painter. Quite handsome, too.”
       “Colour me stunned. I’d never’ve guessed.”
       “Quiet, you,” said Cera, grinning, and moved onto her left foot.
       “Louis gave his permission to Balthazar to make another of the Sekhmet bloodline,” Yoriko continued. “He calls himself Dogma.”
       “Niiice,” said Garadun. “Fan of Kevin Smith movies, is he?”
       “I don’t understand,” said Yoriko.
       “Gar’s referring to the movie Dogma,” Cera explained.
       “Ah. Now, where was I?” said Yoriko, placing a delicate finger on her shapely lips. “Oh yes. Richildas declined the offer for the present, though she’s holding William to his word for future possibilities.”
      Garadun snickered derisively. “Good for her. Can you imagine? She’s the Master of the Anubis bloodline, the lineage of the Underworld. If the city’s Goths found out, they’d swamp her down with their begging to join up.”
       “Don’t be snippy,” Cera chided him.
       “Hey, it’s true.”
       “Maybe, but don’t get all shirty about it. It lacks class.”
       “Fine, fine. Sorry, Yoriko. Please go on,” he said sincerely.
       “None of William’s people have brought anyone across either, though Amicus said he was tempted with this blonde he’s been having lately.”
      Cera giggled. “If that man embraced every woman he had an infatuation with, we’d be up to our bloody eyeballs in lovely, empty-headed vampires.”
       “Preach it, sister!” said Garadun, smiling. “The man’s a wencher, no mistake.”
       “And,” Yoriko concluded in a suffering tone of voice she reserved for just one person, “August was magnanimous and allowed Paris to embrace one of her mortal friends. Her name is Marisa and she’s absolutely adorable.”
      Cera smiled from ear-to-ear. “She’s black, with a delicious body and a killer smile. Very pretty. Coffee-coloured skin. Yummy. And she’s only eighteen.”
       “Paris is only twenty herself.” Yoriko smiled. “Ah, youth.”
       “Marcus must be all over her,” said Garadun.
       “He’d like to be, but Marisa’s evidently been warned by Paris and wouldn’t touch him to scratch him,” said Cera. “She seems nice, much like Paris.”
       “So when are you two gonna seduce her?”
       “We’re not,” said Cera, giving him a look. “Besides, she’s straight. I think.”
       “But a certain charming, very eligible bachelor I can think of might do quite well,” said Yoriko, her beautiful, impossibly brown eyes twinkling.
       “Leave off,” said Garadun.
       “You haven’t seen her yet,” said Cera, raising an eyebrow. “Fantastic breasts, oh-so beautifully shaped. So’s her whole body in fact.”
       “Eighteen and a babe?” said Garadun, his expression becoming jaded. “Right. She’ll want cute young boy-toys, not an old git like me. I know the type, guv.”
       “She hasn’t seen you yet,” said Yoriko, her face amused yet serious. “I can’t imagine any woman not wanting to stare into those eyes of yours for hours.”
       “Horus knows I love ‘em,” Cera agreed.
       “Whatever,” said Garadun, rolling his eyes.
       “You want to go out?” Cera asked. “You haven’t been to the Velvet Casket since–” She stopped, not wanting to mention Mary. The last time Garadun had been to the Velvet Casket, Montreal’s most popular vampire bar, it’d been the Bloody Easter party. The night after Mary had been murdered by Seth. Seth was also dead now, executed for his crime. He’d been reduced to ash by the light of day.
       “The Casket sounds fine,” said Garadun, but there was a hint of melancholy in his voice. “It’s Friday night, the place’ll be jumping. I might get the chance to meet some of these new vampires.”
       “I agree,” said Yoriko. “And Cera and I haven’t been to a club in weeks. I could do with some socialising. Would you like the girls to join us?”
       “I got no problem with that,” he said, and hopped to his feet. “I’ll go ask ‘em and see if any of ‘em wanna come.”
       “Right, just let me finish me bloody nails,” said Cera, smiling.

                                                            *****

The Velvet Casket was the most popular of Montreal’s vampire bars because of its close proximity to the Catacomb Club, the refined “gentleman’s club” for all the city’s metanormal inhabitants. The two establishments were barely a block away from each other, with the Velvet Casket on Stanley Street and the Catacomb Club on De Montagne Street. Both streets bisected Montreal’s famous Sainte-Catherine Street, with the former just above Sainte-Catherine and the latter just below. William, the Master vampire of the city, the Primus, owned the Catacomb Club and was also a silent partner of the Velvet Casket. He also had his fingers in La Tombe Vide and the Necropolis, the two other main metahuman bars in the city.
       Access to the Velvet Casket required walking up two flights of narrow, steep-angled stairs, and the interior was divided into three main areas: the upper main floor, the adjoining smaller room on the same level that looked onto the street below, and the lower area that held the dance floor and was reached by two sets of stairs of four steps each. The bar was on the upper floor. The men’s washroom was in the rear of the lower level, the women’s on the upper. The DJ booth overlooked the dance floor. Overall, the place was smaller than most bars, more intimate.
       The interior of the dance club was vampire chic: dark-stained hardwood floors and stucco walls, and decorating the walls throughout the club were large, laminated prints of black-and-white photos depicting nude or semi-nude men and women. Very tasteful and artistic; lower genitalia was hidden by flesh, cloth, or shadows. Small, round, stainless steel tables supported by a central pole were scattered over the upper level, each with four stainless steel barstools covered in black velvet upholstery.
       In the adjoining room overlooking the street, and at the far end of the upper floor, were large, comfortable sofas and loveseats also upholstered in velvet. They surrounded low, rectangular tables of stainless steel. There was a lounge area on the lower floor that held the same, with the addition of two large, comfy chairs. However, the velvet upholstery in each area was a different colour: scarlet for the lower floor, midnight blue for the upper, and wine-red for the adjoining room. Lighting was very dim as one might expect, even on the dance floor where the coloured strobe lights didn’t flash as brilliantly as in other bars. Many vampires were sensitive to bright lights, particularly those of the Sutekh bloodline, of which Paris and her new filia, Marisa, were members.
       However, before getting into the club proper you had to get by the doorman, Erik. Erik was a giant and, gee whiz, the Casket never seemed to have any trouble with its mortal patrons. Go figure. Giants were the largest and strongest of the faërie-related races. Hell, they were the largest humanoids on the planet. Never mess with a giant. Ever. See that smear on the wall? That could be you, buddy. But getting past Erik was a snap if you were one of Montreal’s metahumans: vampires, lycanthropes, or faëries. Preternatural folk at the Velvet Casket didn’t sweat things like lines or cover charges. After all, they were the reason most mortals were there: to see and hopefully meet the monsters. Maybe more, if they were lucky.
       Cera, Yoriko, Garadun and the girls walked past the people waiting on the second flight of stairs, paused at the coat check, said hello to Erik, and entered the club. All of them were given priority treatment by the staff, including the girls because they were among the chosen ones, the ones who were in tight and intimate with the monsters. Mortal regulars noted their entrance and their excitement grew. Even if they’d been “normal” people they would’ve been eye-catching.
       It was the beginning of May, and even in a northern city like Montreal that means springtime. Actually, Montreal these days never seemed to have a real spring anymore. There was usually a couple weeks of intense melting, the snow vanished, and then the land woke up and said “heck with it” and got right into summer. Montreal had had a nasty winter this past season. Not tons of snow, but bitterly cold. Everyone was glad to be rid of it, and the gang was dressed for the weather.
       Cera had gone with black leather boots that ended just below the knees and were laced all up the front. Black fishnet stockings in a tight weave, black leather miniskirt and a violet turtleneck sweater made from light wool, complimenting her rich purple eyes. Her dark chocolate hair cascaded like silk around her shoulders and down to the middle of her back.
       Yoriko, for the first time since Garadun had known her, was actually dressed like the late teens/early twenties woman she physically appeared to be. She was slumming in a pair of old blue jeans with a large hole above the right knee and a huge tear on the left upper leg, filled with stringy white threads. Added to this was a red midriff T-shirt with no bra beneath, and a pair of white running shoes.
       Ayumi wore form-fitting faded blue jeans, a white T-shirt with MARVEL in large red letters on the front, and white tennis shoes with white socks. Her soft hair, currently dyed rust-red and which helped bring out her deep, liquid-brown eyes, fell straight down to brush past her shoulders, with bangs across her forehead.
       Lani was dressed similarly to Ayumi. Low-slung, skin-tight white jeans, a grey cotton-knit halter-top, and a pair of white running shoes. She hadn’t bothered to wear a bra because the top did a good job of holding her nice bosom in place just fine.
       Hiroko looked wonderful in an indigo silk blouse, tight black jeans, black low-heeled shoes, and a royal blue, Bolero-style leather jacket. Her long black hair framed her very pretty face perfectly, with soft bangs.
       Yuka was clad in wine-coloured leather pants that were so tight they looked painted on. Added to this was a black T-shirt which was almost as tight and showed off her large breasts, and black leather boots that reached her knees rounded out the ensemble. Her soft, brown-black hair was in two pigtails behind her ears.
       Akiko was a knockout in a very short black leather dress that showed off her long, shapely legs just fine. It was a strapless design that left her arms and shoulders bare, and to go with the dress she wore black high-heeled sandals. Her rich, dark brown hair was tousled around her shoulders.
       Kyoko had donned a pair of white jeans, white tennis shoes with white socks, and a silk hapi coat (sort of like a butt-length, informal kimono she was wearing in place of a shirt). The base was white, with Japanese patterns on it in three different shades of blue, along with small accents of black.
       Miho had chosen comfort over style for the evening, although she was still terribly pretty all the same. Slightly faded powder-blue jeans, worn but cosy Adidas, and an oversized T-shirt that hung to her knees. The shirt was white with an image of Tifa Lockhart from Final Fantasy VII on it. Miho was a huge fan of all the Final Fantasy games.
       Hiromi was wearing a blue-grey tank top with fine white trim and spaghetti straps; there was a good deal of her impressive and lovely cleavage showing. Hiromi had a 34C bust, quite chesty for a Japanese woman. Added to this were very tight, black short-shorts and a pair of black sandals with thick high heels, all of which showed off her rich, golden-bronze tan. She was one of the most beautiful of all the women.
       Me-ouch.
       Garadun thought he could’ve been dressed in a day-glow orange ski suit and still not get noticed beside all these gorgeous women. But he did get noticed, because they hadn’t been inside for more than a minute or so when there was a high-pitched screech of total delight, and suddenly Paris was jostling through the crowd and hurling herself into his arms. She hugged him and kissed him, and he didn’t mind one damn bit.
       Paris was very cute, with cobalt-blue eyes, short brown hair with blonde highlights, and a slim frame that was almost six feet tall with legs that went on forever. Those legs were clad in black fishnet along with black pumps on her feet. Black leather skirt shorter than the one Cera was wearing, and a dark burgundy silk blouse unbuttoned down to her navel. Beneath the blouse could be seen a black lace bra. Over all this was a full-length chinchilla coat dyed a red so dark it was almost black, lined with crimson satin. The fur had been his gift to her when he’d done a modelling shoot of Montreal’s vampire women the year before. It’d become her clubbing coat.
        “Gawd, it’s so good to see you!” Paris declared happily, squeezing him tight, but not to the point of using her vampiric strength to crush him. “It’s been so long.”
        “Good to see you too,” said Garadun, holding her tightly in return. He’d missed the energetic young woman more than he realised. He ran his hands down along her coat. “I see you’re still wearing the chinchilla.”
       Paris grinned at him. “Hey, this is my party fur, baby.”
        “You look awesome in it,” he grinned back.
        “Thanks, you’re looking good too,” she said, then ran her hand along his scalp. “You okay, Gar? I mean, have you… you know…”
        “Yeah, I’m okay. Thanks,” he said, and they hugged once more, this time offering each other comfort. Mary had been Paris’ friend as well. She’d even stayed at her sanctum on several occasions.
       Paris stopped hugging Garadun, but kept her arm firmly around his waist as she smiled at the others. “Hey, you guys, looking hot! Glad you made it!”
       All the ladies gladly exchanged kisses on the cheeks with her.
        “Any seating for us tonight, or are we scrounging?” Cera asked.
        “Hell no, baby,” Paris told her happily. “Purebloods like us get only the best. I got seating down in the reds.”