Well, it's clear now. Agnes lied to me. Painfully clear. I'm not the reincarnation of Edmundo Du la Font, that ancient, absurdly powerful vampire who never once died under the sun. No. That vampire is right here, right now, and he's taken control of my life—and Agnes's—without even trying. So now there's only one question left, a question that desperately needs an answer: Who the hell am I, really?
Edmundo stares at me. Studies me like a man reexamining a painting he's already seen a thousand times. It's obvious—this guy oozes ancient knowledge, the kind that makes you feel like an idiot just for standing near him. You can tell from a mile away that Edmundo has been a vampire for countless centuries. He says:
"Right now, you are nothing more than a lowborn vampire. And of course, how else could this story unfold? Your fate is to remain an insect, unable to shed the misery inherent in your nature. Still the same pitiful, fumbling, insignificant thing. A useless creature that never should've been born—not even as a miserable human. A being that never deserved existence. Over and over again, the same story. Always an artist. Sometimes a painter. Sometimes a poet. Now, a novelist trapped in a story with no end. In short: a failure. And to crown your meaningless existence, you persist as a killer utterly lacking in class. Will it ever be different? I fear not, am I right?"
Edmundo pauses to study me again, this time with the cold precision of someone evaluating a flawed artifact. His way of speaking is a little theatrical, sure, but it's not forced. Not fake. He speaks like an aristocrat from old blood, the kind who's spent centuries expecting to be listened to—revered, even. And yet, there's nothing ridiculous about it. Nothing that makes you want to laugh. It's impossible, really. His voice is too commanding, too precise. And above all, it's the voice of a being who, I suspect—no, I know now, like a dagger of ice in my chest—could erase me from existence with nothing more than a thought. Goddamn it. I've been a vampire for eight years. Eight years trapped in this new flesh, this thing called eternity. And still, I know absolutely nothing about the true power these privileged creatures can wield. Creatures like me. Are they even like me? On that point, I have to admit: Du la Font is right. I'm an insect. Not even a real vampire. I don't know how to use vampire powers. I don't know shit.
Du la Font says:
"You're a despicable aberration. And I say aberration because calling you a vampire would be, for me, an offense to the bloodline I represent. You'll never reach that dignity. You're a being of such pitiful quality, so tragically ordinary, that you don't even retain the faintest trace of your previous lives. No memory. No essence. Only emptiness."
"Please, Edmundo, don't hurt him," says Agnes. She wants to say more, but she can't. Edmundo, without even looking at her, shuts her down.
Then Du la Font tells me:
"For some reason—presumably a pathetic leftover of her humanity—this girl keeps slipping away, again and again, and returning to you, full of emotions. Emotions, of course, fit only for a teenage human. What do I mean? That love. That frantic, feverish love, full of outbursts and delusions—pathetic, predictable. A love that is vulgar at its core, and even more vulgar in how it expresses itself. A love born of ignorance and sustained by error. The kind of madness and passion that only the weakest, most erratic, most tragically emotional species in the rational order of this world can afford: human beings. Eternal dwellers of the lowest rung of the chain. The only ones foolish enough to confuse desire with destiny, impulse with truth." He pauses, then adds, "This is the sixth time we've been through this, boy."
Edmundo tells me that Agnes, during her sixteenth year as a vampire, turned me for the first time. I was a sorry bastard wandering around Paris, lurking through the nearby villages, hunting for easy victims. That simple. I was a killer in this life, and apparently, I was one back then too: a serial killer. The only difference was, back then, I didn't write. I was a painter. A mediocre one, from the sound of it. I was twenty-three when Agnes found me. Not nineteen, like now. Twenty-three. She was captivated by my beauty—yeah, I was hot even then—but more than that, she admired how cold I was when I killed. The first rule for becoming a vampire, Edmundo tells me, is to be ruthless. Amoral. Not to act out of pity or anger, but by your own logic, your own code. But that's not enough. Not everyone who kills without guilt can be a vampire. There has to be something else. Something Edmundo calls a sublime intention of transcendence in the soul. And me? I never had that. I've never had anything close to it. I was just a common killer. Cold. Efficient. Aesthetically violent. A monster like any other.
Du la Font says:
"I never authorized your creation. I did not give my blessing for Agnes to turn you, and yet she did. The girl has a rebellious soul—a lamentable tendency to defy structures that preceded her by centuries. She dared to ignore my authority, as if her whim held the weight of law. And of course, if it had been anyone else—any other vampire without a direct bloodline bond to me—they would have ended up like you did the previous five times our paths crossed: reduced to ashes. Gone. Forgotten."
"You always condemn me to die in sunlight?"
"Five times already, little friend. Agnes learns where you've been reborn, flees from me—well, to be precise, I allow her to flee—she finds you, watches you. Waits for you to begin killing again, to reach the same age she was when I marked her with eternity. Then she turns you. And I, ever magnanimous, allow her a brief illusion of happiness. A little interlude. And then, inevitably, I return and vaporize you."
"The sun hasn't risen yet," I say. "It's still night."
"But whether you like it or not, in a few hours, it will," Edmundo replies.