Complications

Now, living in the vampire’s castle,
And watching some of this unfold,
Is Sternendach’s one human vassal,
Named Galen. Forty-five years old,
For half his life has he been serving
His undead master’s will, observing
The daylight world on his behalf
And managing the castle staff.
He has his secret tasks, like stocking
The cellars full of blood and wine,
Should Graf or guests desire to dine.
When night time comes, it finds him clocking
More hours as he’s occupied
With matters on the distaff side.
Although the Graf’s noblesse induced him
To faithful service from the start,
It was the Gräfin first seduced him,
And she’s the one who holds his heart.
About now she should be returning.
He pictures her, with new blood burning,
Alive like no one else he’s known,
And heading to her room alone.
Her perfume hanging in the hallways—
A blend of honey, cloves, and myrrh—
Compels him, draws him near to her.
She’s waiting for him, just like always.
Her smile is fire, her teeth are keen,
And he relates the things he’s seen.
“Our lord, your husband’s, had a visit.
One Kunigunde Heller’s been…”
“A Heller? Oh my God, then is it
Already time to bring her in?”
“They talk about his books for hours,”
Says Galen, while his mistress glowers,
“Just sitting in the library.”
She sniffs. “Well, better her than me.
And yet,” Amata says, “It’s funny,
Him cozy with the Heller spawn.
Why don’t you learn what’s going on?”
“Just how, pray tell? I’m not the one he
Would tell his secrets to.” “You’re right.
The Graf would not; the girl just might.”
The girl, to nobody’s surprise, is
Among the stacks and racks and stands.
In cotton gloves, she scrutinizes
The priceless codex in her hands.
The Graf observes her careful motions,
Engaging her insightful notions.
She asks him, as she pages through,
“How did this volume come to you?”
“From Isentrud,” he says, “My sister.
My human sister. Long ago.”
This startles her. “I didn’t know
That you had fam’ly. Do you miss her?”
Asks Kinge, feigning nonchalance.
“When I remember,” his response.
She turns a page, but her attention
Has wandered and will not return.
His sister? Just the passing mention
Reminds her she has much to learn.
She holds the codex out, and gently
He takes it from her, reverently
Replacing it within its case.
This should be just the time and place
For questions she would ask, addressing
His other fam’ly, former loves…
But slowly he pulls off her gloves
And with her hands in his, starts pressing
A line of kisses ’cross her palms
Which any question soon becalms.
An ornate mantel clock is chiming.
She shuts her eyes and counts the tones.
Eleven! Oh, what awful timing!
“It’s late. I have to go,” she groans.
Another kiss, as soft and thrilling.
He asks, “Tomorrow? If you’re willing.”
“I am. ’Til then, Your Exc’llency.”
He winces, just perceptibly.
And she thought she’d run out of blushes.
A little smile, he draws her near
And whispers, “Georg,” in her ear.
As he draws back, he lightly brushes
A finely wrought and sparkling strand
Of silver chain into her hand.
She lifts the chain before her, letting
Its length play out in graceful lines.
Appended in a simple setting
A flawless gemstone softly shines.
He says, “This is a tiny treasure,
But I thought one who shares my pleasure
In gazing at the starry dome
Might like a star she may take home.”
There’s silence. “Though, you needn’t wear it.
It’s old; perhaps it’s not your style.”
But Kinge still says nothing while
She hangs it ’round her neck, and there it
Sits glist’ning, rivalling the skies.
“It’s perfect, Georg,” she replies.
Outside the library, she’s waiting
For Timoch, who has yet to show,
When Kunigund’ hears someone stating,
“You’re out late, kid. Does Mother know?”
She flusters. “Galen, don’t surprise me!”
“It’s like you didn’t recognize me,”
Says Galen. “Oh, of course I did,”
She says, “And please don’t call me ‘kid.’”
Whenever Galen speaks, affecting
His roguish air, she plays along.
She hasn’t known him very long,
But cannot help herself correcting
His harmless shots. “She knows I’m out.
It’s nothing she’s concerned about.”
He grins. “Forgive my rude suggestions.”
She does, and almost instantly,
Because she has so many questions
She wants to ask, if only she
Could find the nerve. “This may be prying,”
He says, “I heard the Graf implying
That Oma’s coming back next week.”
And Kinge finds she cannot speak.
“That’s rough,” says Galen, “She is scary.
But look, your secret’s safe with me.”
He leans in confidentially.
“I know this isn’t customary,
But I can drive you home tonight.
It’s faster than a cab.” “All right.”
He glances in the rearview mirror
At Kinge’s lost and dreamy stare.
She’s lovestruck; that could not be clearer.
He’d know that half-smile anywhere.
He used to wear it. But this mission
Will take much more than intuition.
“You’re quite the little bookworm, you,”
He says, “What is it draws you to
Those dusty things?” “They’re fascinating,”
She answers, “Each one forms a link
To people—souls—long gone. I think
Just holding them’s exhilarating.”
He snickers at this florid hymn.
“Does that describe the books, or him?”
The nerve is touched, he sees, and nicely.
“You love him,” he says, “That, I get.”
“My Oma said you’re…” “What, precisely?”
“She says that you’re the Gräfin’s…” “Pet?”
She meekly cringes once he’s said it,
Which means he’s right. He says, “Forget it.
She’s called me worse. She doesn’t know
What being with them feels like, though.”
He checks the mirror, seeing whether
She’s felt that electricity.
She rubs her palms distractedly.
“How long have you two been together?”
She asks. He shifts to overdrive.
“For longer than you’ve been alive.”
She inches closer, slowly, questing,
Until she leans upon the seat
Beside his. Chin on fingers resting,
She asks him, “How did you two meet?”
Not hiding wicked glee, he chortles,
“The same way she meets many mortals.”
It takes a second, then an “Oh...”
Slips, awkward, from her lips. And so
It’s safe to say she’s not been bitten.
“If you could know the mess I was,”
He tells her. “I’m alive because
She saved me. I was young then, smitten
With her. Who wouldn’t be? God knows,
I’m lucky I’m the one she chose.”
He bites the last word off. Now why did
He tell her all of that? And will
It even work, as some misguided
Attempt to get the girl to spill?
She’s silent, then, “Has Georg ever...?”
“Stop. Georg?” Galen blurts. “I’ve never
Heard even Timoch call him that.”
“He told me to,” she answers, flat.
There’s something in this information
That bothers him; he can’t tell what.
He feels like he should warn her, but
They come upon their destination
And Kinge gasps as they arrive.
“That’s Oma’s car parked in the drive.”
So Galen taps the gas and glides them
Beyond the drive and over to
A little copse of trees, which hides them
Away from any Heller view.
They sit there, with the engine humming.
Says Kunigund’, “She wasn’t coming
Back home ’til Friday. I don’t know
What’s happening, but you should go.
Please tell…” She swallows, looking sickly.
“The Graf… I can’t… tomorrow night…”
“I’ll tell him. It’ll be all right,”
Says Galen. “Now go home, and quickly.”
With mumbled thanks she’s out the door.
He puts the pedal to the floor.
The car gone, Kinge stands regretting
She can’t go, too. She starts the trek
Toward her house, almost forgetting
To slip the pendant off her neck.
Once in, the rasp of conversation
Floats from the kitchen. There’s temptation
To duck upstairs, avoid a row.
No, better have it over now.
Like breadcrumbs, Kinge follows snatches
Of sound which louden bit by bit.
Her mother and Luzia sit
Discussing her, from what she catches
Until the latter notices.
Luzia smiles. “Well, there she is.”
The girl sees many things amiss here.
She must keep Oma off the scent.
“So how was Kisilova this year?”
Luzia answers, “Different.
Old Stepan quit, if you believe it.
Their finest hunter! Chose to leave it
To Luka, have him run the show.
My God, they’re all so soft and slow.”
She downs the kirsch that Eva pours her.
“At least their vampires are so few
That Luka’s meager hunts should do.”
She yawns, as though the subject bores her.
“I’m home now, and you both look stunned.
So where have you been, Kunigund’?”
The girl blinks back and swallows tightly,
While Eva pours herself a glass.
“The library,” says Kinge, lightly.
It’s not a lie, and might just pass
For truth. Luzia’s gaze is steely.
“The library, near midnight? Really?
I thought they were on summer break.”
But Eva snaps, “For heaven’s sake,
She finally made some friends. So why’re
You giving her the third degree?”
It troubles Kunigund’ to see
Her mother turned unwitting liar.
She’ll take the lifeline anyway.
“I’m off to bed, if that’s okay.”
She leaves the two alone to bicker
(Time later for apology)
But envies them at least the liquor;
A drop or two for her would be
Most welcome. Her room’s dark and lonely.
She sits and sighs and wishes only
To get a message to the Graf
With no clue how to pull it off.
There’s pen and paper; she could write it.
But mailing it might prove too hard,
With Oma always on her guard.
His number he has not provided,
And does an ancient vampire own,
Or know to use, a telephone?
Her palms still tingle where he kissed her;
It sends a thrumming to her core.
Delicious. Oh, but has she missed her
One chance of ever knowing more?
It hurts, just now, this separation.
Her eyes sting, and in desperation
She crosses to her window, throws
It open, leaning out. Suppose
She could but see the castle during
This exile, it might seem less long,
Except the house is angled wrong.
The stars would likewise be assuring.
She’d watch them, but by rotten chance
The heavy clouds obscure their dance.
While Kunigund’ the weather curses,
Her erstwhile driver takes the streets
Too fast, and in his mind rehearses
Just what he’ll say when next he meets
His lady. Could be a disaster.
But first things first. He finds his master
Within his study, drinking up
Red blood from out a silver cup.
The Graf reveals but scant emotion
As he receives the girl’s regrets.
And if the other news upsets
Him further, Galen has no notion.
To press would be to overplay
And give his lady’s game away.
Dismissed, but with a brief reminder
To check the larder, Galen seeks
The Gräfin, knowing he will find her
In his room, as they planned. She speaks:
“You’re back, my love. With news, I gather.
So will you tell, or would you rather
I guess?” He pauses, breathing in
The sultry perfume from her skin.
“The girl is quite infatuated,”
Says Galen. “Has that moony air.
She does like books, though, to be fair.”
“And is this crush reciprocated?”
The Gräfin asks, a touch too fast,
And Galen looks at her, aghast.
“My lady, are you jealous of her?
A goddess, and you fear the worst!
I’m sure the Graf has had his lovers.”
“Oh, no,” she tells him. “She’s the first.
The first since he and I were married,
The first since he the old Graf buried.
For decades, books are all he sees.
So answer me my question! Please.”
Bewildered by this, Galen mutters,
“The hell should I know? Honestly,
The girl said no such thing to me.”
Except, he thinks but never utters,
There is one fact belies this claim:
The Graf gave Kunigund’ his name.
He’s never seen his lady shiver,
Nor any kind of worry show.
He thinks what comfort he may give her
And pulls her close. “Here’s what I know:
Whatever those two have, it’s over,
Or will be soon, ’cause when I drove her
Back home tonight she got a scare.
It seems Luzia beat us there.”
“Luzia’s back?” “The one and only,”
Says Galen, nodding, “who, no doubt,
Would kill them if she caught them out.
So Kinge will resume her lonely
Existence under Oma’s thumb,
Perhaps from now ’til kingdom come.”
He waits for her to call his bluff, then
Her mouth finds his. Her lips are cold.
The feed before was not enough, then,
Her thirst not sated, just controlled.
Well, that makes anybody testy.
He laughs a bit, but softly, lest he
Lead her, mistakenly, to feel
That her thirst holds him no appeal.
“I missed you,” whispers Galen, “Driving
That silly human girl around—
Your eyes, your skin, and most, the sound
Of my name on your tongue. Depriving
Me so was cruel, and I’d be sore
But you, dear Amy, missed me more.”
He kisses her this time, just teasing
Her lips and teeth, then pulls away.
“Oh, Galen,” says the Gräfin, seizing
Him by the waist, “In ev’ry way.”
Strong arms enfold him, pressing, pinning.
He sighs at tingling warmth beginning
Beneath her kiss, which dulls the pain
When fang teeth pierce a favorite vein:
This time, a soft spot on his shoulder.
He’s not quite numb, but doesn’t care.
Enveloped in her scent and hair,
He brings his arms around to hold her
And breathes her name again. He sinks
Unconscious as the vampire drinks.
When Galen finally wakens, first he
Turns on the dim light by his bed.
His head throbs and, good God, he’s thirsty!
But by the lamp, a plate of bread,
Fresh fruit and meat in equal measure,
And sparkling water wait his pleasure.
She’s always so considerate,
But when did she deliver it?
He eats and thinks. It’s kind to feed him,
And normally he can’t complain.
But feeding her is such a drain.
Whatever. Castle duties need him.
It’s time to put the food away,
Unseal the curtains, greet the day.
A pretzel in his mouth, he braces
Himself for morning’s glaring light.
Instead he pulls the drapes and faces
The darkness of another night.
He checks his watch. Has he been lying
Abed for nineteen hours? Spying
And intrigue—not his kind of fun.
It wears him out; he’s glad it’s done.
Course now, he’s running late. He duly
Throws on some clothing, smooths his hair,
Steps out into the hall. And there
Stands Timoch, who regards him coolly,
Then says, “Awake and ready? You’ve
Been summoned to the study. Move.”
The study’s air is close, and smells of
Old candle smoke and…is that ink?
A pile of scribbled paper tells of
A vampire with too much to think.
The Graf sits in his desk chair, brooding.
Asks Galen, “Sire, am I intruding?”
His lord examines him a spell.
“Of course not, Galen. Slept you well?”
Embarrassed, Galen says, “You needed
Me at my work, I know, and I’m
Afraid that I lost track of time.
I’m sorry. It won’t be repeated.”
The Graf remarks, “Perhaps it should.
More rest, I think, might do you good.”
Might do us both, is Galen’s thinking.
He finds amid the paper pile
The cup from which the Graf was drinking.
It’s empty; has been for a while.
That would explain his master’s ashen
Complexion. Galen, with compassion,
Asks, “Were you up all day, my lord?
And have you fed?” But he’s ignored.
The Graf says, “Kunigunde Heller
Attends St. Paul’s at eight-fifteen.
Take her this letter. Don’t be seen.”
But Galen asks, “What does it tell her?”
The vampire’s eyes are sharp and stern.
“Is any of that your concern?”
The question’s fair, and though it greatly
Unnerves him, he may not demur.
“It’s not at all, my lord. But lately
I find myself concerned for her.”
The Graf sits back, the letter resting
Between his fingers. “Interesting,”
He says, his face a marble mask.
“Where is my wife, if I may ask?”
“Don’t know. I have no plans to see her,”
Says Galen. “Too much work to do:
Buy blood, deliver this for you…
Tomorrow night I may be freer.”
The Graf hands him the folded square.
“Then do get to it, and take care.”
He takes the note and his assignment—
His headache, too, which grows more grim—
And leaves the Graf to his confinement
While Timoch, quiet, watches him.
At any given moment, it is
Unclear just how much Timoch, in his
Cool silence, knows of anything.
A wise man figures: everything.
When Timoch says, “She’s looking for you,”
No points for guessing who is “she.”
Sighs Galen, “Know where she might be?”
A shrug. “She was upstairs, before you
Emerged. But now…?” “All right, all right.
Just…please make sure he feeds tonight.”
She’s sulking on a sofa when he
Arrives in the salon at last.
He says, “If I had wanted any
More vampire moping, I’d have passed
My ev’ning in the Graf’s location.
Or Timoch’s, for the conversation.”
She scowls. “Do watch your tone,” says she.
“I can’t. My head is killing me.”
She rolls her lovely eyes, but beckons
The man to join her sitting there.
Her fingers sinking in his hair
Massage his scalp. In only seconds
Her cool and graceful fingers take
The edge away and soothe the ache.
He pulls the letter from his jacket.
“This far will he in me confide:
To bring her this.” She eyes the packet
Like there’s a scorpion inside.
“So you were wrong. They haven’t broken.”
“We don’t know that,” he says, “This token
May sing of love that will not die
Or, just as likely, say goodbye.”
She’s not impressed with his acumen,
It seems. She says, “We’ll stop this, yet.”
“Oh, leave it, Lady. She’s no threat,”
He says. “She’s just a kid, a human
Who’ll lose whatever charm she’s got.”
She asks, “And what if she were not?”
Her meaning’s clear. In agitation,
He sits up. “But I thought he swore,
As part of that negotiation,
That he would not make any more
Immortals. Hellers won’t permit it.”
“The Hellers,” she says, “Can’t forbid it.
Their precious pact, in black and white,
Explicitly gives him the right
To make more as he likes, provided
Our total number stay below
A certain line. And years ago,
His vassal, Justin, suicided.
That fief stands empty still, and thus
There’s room for yet one more of us.”
“All right,” he says, not disagreeing,
“The Graf could, but, you realize,
He’s never turned a human being.
Why would he now?” “Enough!” she cries,
And grabs his arm. Her fingers tremble.
“I know you, Galen. You dissemble.
There’s something you’ve been holding back.
He loves her. Isn’t that a fact?”
His arm hurts. “Lady, you are clever,”
He says. “And it offends your pride
That he may soon put you aside.
But would that be the worst thing ever?
You don’t love him. You’re not his thrall.
Why did you marry him at all?”
At first, no answer does she tender,
But then she says, “To play a role.
A role which I will not surrender.
I think it’s time I took control.”
She drops his arm. “Give me the letter.”
He looks away. “Now, you know better
Than that. I can’t.” She nods at this,
And plants upon his cheek a kiss.
“I know, my dear. I think this matter
Requires another sort of guile.”
And wearing a carnassial smile,
She rises. Galen marvels at her
In silence as she leaves the room,
The air hung with her myrrh perfume.
The letter. There can be no doubt it
Was stupid, showing that to her.
But Galen, now he thinks about it,
Made his mistake much earlier.
There’s nothing for it now, he knows it,
But keep the letter safe. He stows it
Inside his jacket, heaves a sigh.
Now, doesn’t he have blood to buy?
For that, the night is unproductive
As one by one, his contacts all
Are out, or fail to take his call.
The city’s life proves more seductive
In any case. He finds he’s drawn
To walk its busy streets ’til dawn.
This was his city as a younger
And, doubtless, a more foolish man,
The site of ev’ry joy and hunger,
Each deep regret or brilliant plan.
And like a well-loved coat, it fit him.
There’s comfort in these streets. It hits him
That though his life’s no longer here,
His youth’s haunts did not disappear,
As if they waited for him. Flattered
By Time’s apparent kindness, he
Makes fleeting stops at two or three.
But old coats can be tight, or tattered,
And he’s outgrown his old life, too.
Is there a chance for something new?
The dawn turns dreary, demonstrating
A bluster more akin to Fall’s.
It buffets Galen as he’s waiting
Outside the narthex of St. Paul’s.
The music starts as mass is ending,
And soon the congregation, wending
Its way past Galen, down the stair,
Begins to scatter to the air.
Ah, there’s Luzia. Watch her scurry
To snag the priest in some debate.
There’s Eva right behind her. Great,
That buys him time. Still, Kinge, hurry!
She comes out. He moves quickly when
He sees her, taps her shoulder, then
Slips back into the church, not slowing
Until he’s at the left-most aisle.
Then Kinge enters, wide-eyed, glowing
From candles and a lovely smile
That warms his heart like breath on embers.
But then, of course, the man remembers
It’s not for him, but for the one
Who sent him. “Right, let’s get this done,”
He says aloud as she approaches.
“For you, from him. Now, need I say
I wasn’t here, and cannot stay?”
She takes the note, but his reproach is
Unheard, for as he turns to leave,
Her hand darts out and grips his sleeve.
“Is he all right?” she whispers, pleading.
“What did he say? What’s this about?”
He pulls his sleeve free. “You like reading.
You have the letter. Go find out.”
“Wait, Galen. Tell the Graf that after…”
He stops her with a bark of laughter,
“I don’t know what you think you’ve seen,
But I am not your go-between.”
She steps back, speechless, warm glow faded.
He takes a shot at being nice.
“It’s delicate right now. Advice?
I’m hoping you can be persuaded
To stay away from him—for now,”
He adds as worry marks her brow.
He says, “I know Luzia thwarted
Your plans. But school starts soon, and if
You take some time to get that sorted...”
“That could be weeks!” “I think you’ll live,”
He deadpans. “Which reminds me. You should
Keep distance from the Gräfin, too, should
You prize your safety.” She asks, “Why?”
“Oh, why d’you think? Be smart. Goodbye.”
With nothing else, he turns to leave her,
The letter safely in her hand.
He thinks she looks so thoughtful and
So sad. The note may yet relieve her.
A crying shame he can’t do more.
He exits through the transept door.
The girl resists the urge to open
The missive; now is not ideal.
She places all her love and hope in
The kiss she presses on its seal,
Then slips it in her purse discreetly.
She’ll read it when she’s next completely
Alone, tonight. That’s if she’s strong
Enough inside to wait so long.
Outside, with their palaver finished,
Luzia, smug, farewells the priest.
He seems quite glad to be released,
Though maybe just a tad diminished
In dignity as he repairs
Past Kunigunde up the stairs.
She looks from Oma to her mother,
Who lifts her eyebrows in a shrug.
They share half-smiles with one another
Then join together in a hug.
Conspiracy between these two has
The past two days begun anew, as
Luzia’s kept them in her sight
Since her return on Friday night.
Deep down does Kunigund’ suspect that
While she was out and having fun
Her mother might the same have done,
And who is she to disrespect that?
They ask no questions, which is wise.
If neither asks, then neither lies.
“Please come here, Kinge,” calls Luzia.
The girl, as usual, obeys.
“Now tell me, sweetheart, do you see the
Sedan parked up the road a ways?”
The distance, angle, make it nearly
Impossible to make out clearly.
Alas, she knows it even so;
She rode inside two nights ago.
“It’s Galen’s car,” says Kinge, keeping
Her voice low. “Must be here to search
For us,” says Oma, darkly. “Church
Is not his place. The vampire’s sleeping,
But sent his man our steps to haunt.
So what does that cold bastard want?”
“Don’t call him ‘cold,’” says Kunigunde.
She feels a tremor in her jaw
And hears what might be distant thunder.
But she stands straight, does not withdraw,
Nor look for Eva’s intercession.
Luzia, with a dark expression,
Looks Kunigunde in the eye,
And says to her, “Why shouldn’t I?”
But Kinge, knowing there’s a chance her
Next words may trap her, merely waits.
Her Oma scowls. “Go on,” she baits.
Too late. The girl thinks up an answer.
She says, “I simply think that word
May sound unfair, if overheard.”
Luzia says, “Oh, let him hear me.
The Graf—so dangerous, and yet
He knows that he has cause to fear me
And I to hate him. Don’t forget,
Not ever, how the Graf disrupted
Our fam’ly, first when he corrupted
My mother, later when he killed
Her father. Once our blood was spilled,
He bound us in this fool’s arrangement.
In training you, I’ve kept you far
From him, and so I think you are
Naïve because of that estrangement.
But I have known the Graf of old,
And happily I call him ‘cold.’”
How many times has Kinge heard her
Repeat this story? Who can say?
Maria’s treachery, the murder,
Have always seemed so far away.
But this time, Kinge ponders, silent,
How both sides in the tale claim violent
Revenge. She can’t tell which is worse.
Then there’s the letter in her purse…
“So, breakfast?” Eva says, from nowhere.
She’s smiling, as if to defy
The tension in the air. “Let’s try
The Waldcafe. We never go there.”
“We’re going home,” says Oma, “You
Know Kunigund’ has chores to do.”
But Eva only smiles the wider.
“Luzia, really, I insist.
Such special meals draw families tighter;
Once school begins, they will be missed.
If Galen follows us, we’ll lose him.
We’ll take the long way home, confuse him
With back roads. And I have a hunch
He doesn’t care about our brunch.”
At this, Luzia seems to soften.
She says, “Then let’s get on with it,
Or they’ll have nowhere left to sit.”
Surprising, that. It isn’t often
That Eva wins. They rush to find
Their car, lest Oma change her mind.
The Waldcafe was, sadly, wasted
On Kinge, who mechanically
Ate kaiserschmarrn but didn’t taste it.
Her mother, grandmother, and she
Discussed: her start at higher schooling,
What courses on her list look grueling,
And how the summer’s far too brief—
Not vampires, to her great relief.
Now in her room alone, eluding
Her grandmother, who dogs her more
Than normal, Kinge locks the door
Against her possibly intruding.
She takes a breath to still her heart
And breaks the letter’s seal apart.
The first time, she devours the writing
In one go, at a breathless pace.
She reads again, more slowly, lighting
On passages of certain grace.
A third pass brings her close to weeping.
She rails against the forces keeping
Her from his side. She looks again,
Rememb’ring Oma’s stories, then
She feels a burst of indignation.
In all this, is she being used?
By whom? For what? She’s so confused.
The note’s no salve for her frustration.
If she wants answers, she must by
Herself go seek them where they lie.