Agnes and I live in a beautiful early-twentieth-century mansion, fully renovated and luxurious, with a perfect view of Lake Balboa. It's in the Chapiteles neighborhood, one of the most elegant neighborhoods in Miraverde—like all of them in the city's southeast. When the sun is up, of course, we hide from the light and rest in the basement. I do everything Agnes—my creator—tells me to do. Or maybe it would be more accurate to say everything she orders me to do. It's been eight years since I became a vampire. The time has gone by fast, to be honest. Still, even after all this time, I keep thinking about Irene. I can't stop thinking about my dear Irene. Is she in Hell? Has she come back as a human again? The doubt gnaws at me. And Agnes, of course, always knows when I'm thinking about Irene. She said something to me recently that she'd never said before:
"I can't believe you were once the vampire who created me. Sometimes I think you were stronger, even more virile, when you were human. It's absurd, of course. But what can I say? I think it because you give me no reason to stop thinking it. When you were human, you were a little melancholic, sure, but still full of life. You used to kill people—and on top of that, write that little book of yours. Terrible book, if you ask me. But hey, all of it seemed to make you happy."
"I still kill people."
"Yes, but before you did it with passion. Now it seems like you just do it out of necessity. You do it because you have to feed, and that's it. At first, during our first three years together, you were different. But over time, you've become more and more taciturn. Like nothing really matters anymore."
"I have my down days. No one can be a fountain of joy and laughter all the time. But yeah, maybe I don't enjoy killing like I used to because now it's just too damn easy. Back then, killing required strategy. Now? It's easier than saying hello."
"For fuck's sake, you're a vampire, Fabrizio. One of the most magnificent creatures in the world—no, in the entire universe. Things are easy because we deserve it. Why are you complaining?"
"I'm not complaining. I'm just stating a fact."
"Tell me something."
"What."
"Do you think I'm bad company?"
"You can read my mind. You know what I think."
"Say it."
"Of course you're not bad company. You're great. We laugh and all that. But still, I can't help comparing you to her. I had way more fun with Nené."
"Would you like to be human again?"
"I'd like Nené to be here."
"Sometimes I think a hundred years will pass and you'll still be stuck on the same thing."
"Maybe I'm not the vampire you thought I could be."
"Why don't you go back to writing that book of yours?"
"Because I'm not interested anymore."
"Maybe if you went back to writing that garbage, you'd be a little happier again. And speaking of garbage, I think you should start by writing about your dear Irene."
I didn't like that. I didn't like her calling my novel garbage, and I liked even less that she lumped Irene in the same sentence. But what could I do? Obviously, nothing. So I said:
"I've never written, and will never write, anything about real life, Agnes. I write fiction. Completely made-up stories."
"Didn't you write about your own death when you were Edmundo?"
"I didn't know that had actually happened. I thought I was making it all up. And look, you know damn well I didn't really write what happened. What I did was take a memory—one buried deep from my past life—and I reshaped it to fit the story. That's what writers do. We take something real and turn it into fiction. I didn't write what actually happened to me as Edmundo."
"Would you like to know if Irene has returned to the world?"
"You already know the answer."
"I'm sorry, my love. Let me rephrase that. Would you like to know if I know whether Irene has come back into this world?"
"Do you?"
"Of course I do. I know exactly where she is. I know where her soul came out of the cavern—the one humans pass through when they die."
"So what? Come on, Agnes, just tell me. Has Nené come back or is she in Hell?"
"I'm never going to tell you. I know where she is, but you'll never hear it from me."
"Fucking bitch."
Agnes laughed. I can't say I hate her, because I don't. She's my creator, and the nature of our bond makes that impossible.
Eight years. Eight years with the same pale, mysterious look. Eight years seducing women—not to fuck them, but to drink their blood until their lives fade out. Eight years seducing men too, of course. Eight years making bodies disappear. Making it look like people just vanished. Agnes uses the mafia to get rid of the corpses. One of the leaders is completely hypnotized. She talks to him, and he sends a team to clean up the mess. No one asks questions. I'd like to learn how to hypnotize people too, but Agnes refuses to teach me anything. And anyway—back to the bodies. No body, no crime. No body, nothing to investigate. Missing persons' photos show up for a while, then disappear. No one gives a shit after that. The families suffer. Some never give up hope. Others, of course, accept they'll never see their loved ones again.
Night has just fallen. Agnes and I are in the living room. She licks my neck. She likes to lick me. I don't know why. I haven't asked. I don't really care. It doesn't bother me. And if it makes her happy, then fine. Let her do it.
"What do you say we head to the beaches of Victoria this summer and hunt some of those rich vacationers?" Agnes says.
"If that's what you want, let's go."
"I'm giving you the chance to choose, Fabrizio. Come on—your pick."
"Honestly, I'd rather stay in the city."
"Well, no. That's not happening. We're going to Victoria."
"Fucking bitch."
Sometimes I like to pretend—just so I don't feel like a cockroach—that Agnes and I are just two teenagers who mess with each other but deep down, care and respect one another. Two teenagers just playing a game of power, a game I always lose.
I look at Agnes. She looks so young. I don't feel young at all anymore, but I know I still look it. From the outside, Agnes and I are just two nineteen-year-olds. Two kids who will always look nineteen.
I ask her:
"Are you happy?"
"You know I am, my love."
"Do you love me?"
"With all my vampiric soul."
"You were really lonely before you had me, weren't you?"
"But I'm not anymore. Never again. You'll be with me forever."
And then, suddenly, I feel another presence in the living room. Agnes looks at me like she never has before: she's afraid. And in her face, there's nothing else—just fear. Pure, unfiltered fear.
We both turn toward the figure that has just appeared. I have no doubt: it's a vampire. But not just any vampire. You can feel the weight of his power vibrating in the room. He looks like Clark Gable in Gone with the Wind. He says to Agnes:
"Agnes, my dear. Agnes, my sweet, sweet girl. You always convince yourself you'll never see me again, don't you? Always the same, Agnes. But look at us now. Here we are, once again."
"Who the hell are you, old man?" I ask him.
"Just this once, I'll overlook your poor manners, little friend," he says. "I am Edmundo. Edmundo Du la Font."