Vamparazzi

“He told me they were an ancient council of hereditary vampires who governed, er, vampire matters,” Max explained to me. “They also thwarted vampire epidemics by slaying the undead with prompt and merciless efficiency, as well as executing unruly made vampires.”

A middle-aged woman strolling near us in Washington Square Park on this sunny Sunday afternoon heard this and gave us an odd look. She also noticed my black eye, scraped cheek, and ravaged neck—all of which had alarmed Max when I’d first arrived at his bookstore earlier—and obviously drew her own conclusions about us.

At some point during Max’s account of his experiences as a vampire hunter in the Balkan provinces of the Habsburg empire, Nelli had made it known to us that she needed her walk—or, as Max called it, her habitual afternoon perambulation. (Much of Max’s syntax was still living in the Habsburg era.) So after attaching Nelli’s pink leather leash to her matching collar, we had brought her to the park while Max continued his story.

“All right, I follow how vampire victims became the undead, bloodthirsty monsters that you hunted and killed. Um, slayed. Slew?” I said, reviewing the key elements of Max’s terrible tale. “And based on what Jurgis Radvila told you, I also follow how a living person becomes a made vampire. And, by the way, how disgusting is that? No way am I ever drinking the blood of a stinking, drooling, decaying corpse just so I can have supersonic hearing or feel more robust!”

Tugging gently on Nelli’s leash to urge her away from the siren smell of some garbage that lay on the ground, Max noted, “You might want to keep your voice down, as well.”

I did so as I said with disgust, “If Bosko wanted improved vigor, he should have tried eating right and exercising more, rather than sucking on the marrow of the undead.”

“He lived in an impoverished village in eighteenth-century Serbia,” Max pointed out. “Eating right was seldom an option. Exercise consisted mostly of backbreaking work, relieved by sporadic intervals of feuding with other locals or fleeing from invading armies.”

“Well, yes, okay. I get that.” I took Max’s arm as we walked. I was stunned by the story he had told me. My considerable respect for what he had faced, endured, and conquered over the course of his long life had increased again today. “But what Bosko did was so extreme, Max. What was he thinking?”

“I never really had a chance to know him, obviously. And since we left Medvegia within two busy days of his demise, I also had little opportunity to learn much about him after his death. But it was obvious that he was respected and valued in the village. And I saw for myself that his friends were correct when they described him as a brave man. He stayed in the graveyard with me to battle the undead. He did not flee when attacked, nor even after we were outnumbered.” Max sighed sadly. “I have always believed that Bosko did what he did because he sought to absorb vampire power so that he could more effectively combat the undead and protect his village from those creatures.”

“He may have thought it was worth that sacrifice. Or perhaps he didn’t fully understand what would happen to him—what the transformation would entail. Radvila believed the latter to be the case, and he may well have been right. The beliefs, superstitions, and apotropaics of the region in that era were a complex muddle of partially accurate folklore, desperate measures, and uselessly bizarre fiction.”

Max stopped to let Nelli greet another dog, her tail wagging and her attitude playfully bouncy—which the other dog dealt with bravely, considering the difference in their sizes. This was apparently a friend whom she met regularly, since the other dog’s owner acknowledged Nelli by name. In response to the woman’s greeting to him, Max smiled and briefly lifted the white fedora he wore on his head. A chilly gust of wind whipped through the park, making his long duster flutter and flap in the breeze; the pale brown coat, a true relic of the Old West, had been bequeathed to him by a gunfighter.

As we continued walking again, he said, “Bosko must have learned—perhaps from a local wise woman or village elder, or possibly from remembered legends about a previous epidemic—that drinking vampire blood could enhance his physical prowess. He may have gone hunting a vampire with the goal of using its essence to turn himself into a more effective warrior. But I think it more likely that the decision was made on impulse after he managed to survive an attack and dispatch his adversary. When he saw the creature’s body lying at his feet ... I think Bosko believed he could make a difference, if he could just steel himself to do what was necessary.”

I heard remembered sorrow in Max’s voice again, and I squeezed his arm. “Oh, how terrible.” Realizing that the long-dead Serb deserved recognition as a fallen hero, I added, “It seems very cruel of Radvila to have killed him, if he had transformed himself so he could better protect the villagers.”

“I would say ruthless rather than cruel,” Max said. “I admired Radvila. I grew to like and trust him. I am proud to say that we became friends, though we never met again after signing the Treaty of Gediminas. But he was quite ruthless. Then again, it was his duty to be so. The council had put him in charge of eliminating the vampire epidemic that was spreading through Eastern Europe. He did not have the right—as he subsequently told me—to leave alive a made vampire who lacked self-control. A vampire who might start killing to feed his hunger.”

Max made a little sound of regret and shook his head before he continued, “Bosko’s fate was sealed the moment he attacked me. I don’t believe he intended to hurt me, and I sincerely doubt he would have tried to kill me. His behavior in that moment was just instinctive. But once Radvila saw—agh!”

Max nearly fell over when Nelli, who weighed more than I did, suddenly lunged for the remains of a discarded hot dog that lay in the grass. As she gulped down her unsanitary treat, she pretended deafness, looking everywhere but at us and completely ignoring Max as he scolded her for her ill-mannered and ill-advised behavior.

Then Max smiled ruefully at me. “Instinct. Now that she has physical form, Nelli finds herself unable to control the canine impulses she experiences. After he transformed himself, Bosko also found himself unable to control his instinctual vampire cravings.”

When I saw him absently rub his shoulder, which Nelli’s sudden lunge had wrenched rather sharply, I said, “Here, give me the leash, Max. I’ll hold her for a while.”

I took the pink leash from him and gave Nelli a brisk tug, attempting to halt her frantic snuffling around in the grass as she searched for more processed-meat remains.

Watching her activities, Max said pensively, “Once the Lithuanian saw Bosko’s behavior, there was nothing else to be done. I grew to understand that. Radvila would never allow sentiment to persuade him to let an unstable and dangerous vampire remain alive and at large.”

“Not necessarily, but it is a serious risk and an all too common problem with made vampires. Which is why making a vampire is only allowed if the Council of Gediminas permits it after considering a formal petition. And they very rarely do permit it, precisely because whether the made vampire becomes a responsible individual or, instead, a violent hazard to society depends on too many complex variables.

“Nelli. Come on.” I gave the oversized familiar’s leash another sharp tug. She lifted her head from the grass, wagging her tail as she gazed innocently at me, and we finally moved on. “Well, I agree that character is complex and often unpredictable, Max. And given that the nature of vampire transformation consists of dining on a ravaged corpse, I’d say—”

“Oh, it doesn’t,” Max said. “Not usually, that is. That does occasionally happen, as it did in Bosko’s case. However, given how distasteful—indeed, almost unconquerably repulsive—imbibing from the undead is, it’s more common to achieve living transformation by ingesting the blood of a made or hereditary vampire.”

“By killing one?” I asked dubiously. Based on what Max had said about their strength and prowess in combat, that sounded suicidally risky.

“Well, one could, if one were so inclined—as well as heavily armed and very daring. But the more typical method is that the vampire voluntarily shares his or her blood. The practice is rigorously controlled by the Council of Gediminas, and the process is, I gather, very formal and ritualistic.” After a pause, he added, “A vampire who ignores the rules might choose to share blood with someone as a personal, private, unregulated matter, but this is strictly prohibited and the penalties can be severe. Indeed, both parties might be executed. Did I mention that Lithuanians can be ruthless?”

“Oh, goodness, no! Have I given that impression? How careless of me! Oh, dear.” He explained quickly, “No, no, vampirism is extremely rare among Lithuanians. And almost unknown among other peoples.”

Gediminas, the great fourteenth-century warrior king who founded of the city of Vilnius, was out hunting in the woods one day. The king’s favorite dog went missing, and Gediminas didn’t want to return to the castle without it. So he went searching for it, and thus wound up staying out too long. Darkness fell, and a swarm of undead vampires attacked him. Gediminas defeated them singlehandedly in fierce combat, during the course of which he accidentally imbibed enough of their blood to become a made vampire.

“A sip or two is certainly insufficient,” Max said. “A more substantial quantity of vampire blood is required to effect transformation.”

“Actually,” Max said, “I find that part of the legend easier to believe than the claim that a normal man, even one very skilled in combat, singlehandedly vanquished multiple vampires who set upon him in a frenzy.”

Well, what with warring factions in his own land, marauding bands of unemployed knights from the south coming north to burn and loot in Lithuania, a land-hungry Polish kingdom on one side of him, and various Cossacks and Mongols on the other side, Gediminas really had a lot on his plate. However, he soon found that his vampire transformation made it easier to cope with the heavy demands of being a beleaguered warrior king. Eventually, through energetic conquests (as well as shrewd alliances), he created an empire.

It occurred to him at some point along the way that it would be advantageous for the future of his kingdom and the success of his progeny if he could pass on his acquired gift of vampirism to his heirs. He consulted various scholars, magicians, physicians, and prophets, both foreign and domestic. After a number of disappointments, he finally found someone who subjected him to an effective mystical ritual which achieved his goal; the progeny he sired thereafter, with Mrs. Gediminas and with other women, were born with the hereditary gift of his vampirism.

“The results, however, were probably not what Gediminas envisioned,” Max said. “His various heirs fought over the throne, and his unified empire did not long survive his death.”

“Nonetheless, vampirism did, through Gediminas’ efforts, become a hereditary trait among a very small percentage of Lithuanian males—”

“I agree. But Gediminas was interested in securing the succession and protecting his empire,” Max explained. “Not gender equality.”

“Before dying, he founded the Council of Gediminas in Vilnius, which is still the regulatory body governing vampires to this day,” he said. “Established by a ruler seeking to maintain political stability through vampirism, the object of the council has always been to ensure that hereditary vampires are valuable members of society, rather than bloodthirsty murderers. Thus the members of the council—and, indeed, Lithuanian vampires, in general—have occupied an utterly unique position in vampire phenomenology for centuries.”

“There aren’t many other vampires. Vampirism is only hereditary among Lithuanians. In all other instances worldwide, vampires are undead or made. The undead, for obvious reasons, must be fought and dispatched as soon as they emerge,” he said. “Made vampires are very rare, and it’s often necessary to execute them, as Radvila did, in order to prevent them from killing to quench their thirst.”

“I suppose this is a trivial point, all things considered, but doesn’t this mean that John Polidori and Bram Stoker could have based their suave, articulate vampires on Lithuanians?”

“No, the aristocratic vampires in their fiction are undead, as you may recall,” Max said. “And that’s just one of their irresponsible inaccuracies!”

“Forget I spoke. So let me make sure I’ve got this straight,” I said. “There are three kinds of vampires: monsters, loose cannons, and Lithuanians.”

“And Lithuanians are the responsible citizens of the vampire world, making sure that their dangerous relatives don’t cause trouble.”

“Precisely,” he said. “The Lithuanian vampires I knew and fought beside in Serbia were honorable men who believed deeply in their moral duty to protect people from the undead and, er, loose cannons. But Radvila readily admitted that there were also practical reasons for their actions.”

Nelli decided this was a propitious moment to roll on her back in the grass. Her long legs stuck up in the air and her big pink tongue hung out of the side of her mouth as she frolicked and made sounds of cheerful pleasure. It was impossible not to smile as we watched her.

Then Max continued, “Traditionally, the council policed vampirism within Lithuania, because if unruly vampires became a local pestilence, then the peaceful existence of law-abiding hereditary vampires would ultimately be threatened by mob hysteria.”

In a voice that was again filled with regrets, he said, “It was the Serbian vampire epidemic that convinced the council that their protection of the innocent must move beyond their borders and become international. The Magnum Collegium and the Austrian government were unable to control the spread of the contagion. If vampirism menaced Europe on a large scale, the council realized, it was only a matter of time before all vampires everywhere—including law-abiding Lithuanian vampires who held government office, gave to charity, and had never harmed anyone—would be hunted and slaughtered like wild beasts.”

Nelli hopped to her feet, gave herself a thorough shake, and greeted a couple of passing children. Then she started sniffing purposefully around a nearby bush.

“Therefore, the council sent Radvila and his companions to the Balkans. More Lithuanians soon arrived in the region, and they were extraordinarily effective. But there were conditions for their involvement in ending the crisis. Conditions which they saw as essential to their own survival, and which I soon realized were realistic and reasonable. I had no authority to negotiate officially on behalf of the Austrian government or the Magnum Collegium, but Radvila and I made an unofficial agreement in good faith.”

He continued, “Then as winter descended, the Lithuanians remained in the region, fighting vampires and ending the epidemic, while I returned to Vienna to propose Radvila’s terms—the treaty terms of the Council of Gediminas—to the Austrian government and to my colleagues in the Collegium.”

He nodded. “As it turned out, negotiating with government officials was almost as dreadful as battling vampires,” Max said with a shudder. “Meanwhile, the Magnum Collegium was uneasy about the proposed terms and indecisive for some weeks, despite my exhortations. They didn’t truly understand how dire conditions were in Serbia, and they were also uneasy about signing a treaty with vampires. So you see, I was asking both the Collegium and His Majesty’s government to place a great deal of faith in my judgment.”

“More or less. In early spring, by which time the vampire epidemic had been conquered, I returned to Serbia with authorization to ratify the Treaty of Gediminas.”

Having found a satisfactory spot, Nelli relieved herself. I scooped up her leavings with a plastic bag, which I carried over to a waste receptacle.

“Given the size and urgency of the problem,” I said, “you’d think everyone would be relieved that the Lithuanians were there to solve it. I don’t understand, Max. What was in this treaty that made it so controversial?”

“It stipulated that, from that day forward, all vampire matters, wherever they occurred, would come strictly under the authority of the Council of Gediminas. No other party to the treaty could intrude or interfere. Similarly, Lithuanian vampires undertook never to engage in or interfere with any non-vampire concerns of the other parties.”

“The Lithuanians thought it was our fault that this one had become such a catastrophe. They felt we should just stay out of their way in future. They asserted that our failures—my failures—had indirectly put them at risk, and they couldn’t allow that to happen again.”

“No, their viewpoint had merit, Esther,” Max said wearily. “Although I threw myself into my mission, I was not a particularly effective vampire hunter. I realized after seeing Lithuanians hunt and destroy the undead that it really was work best left to vampires.”

“No. Given the nature of the subject matter, it was something of a secret treaty,” he said. “The Austrians and the Collegium both found it potentially embarrassing, albeit for different reasons.”

“Ah.” After a moment, I said, “But the Habsburg monarchy doesn’t exist anymore. They fell from power and their empire crumbled at the end of World War One.”

“True. The Magnum Collegium does still exist, however, as does the Council of Gediminas. And both parties continue to honor the treaty.”

“Yes. It’s prohibited for Lithuanians—well, Lithuanian vampires, to be specific—to get involved in my work.” He added a little anxiously, “Similarly, I cannot get directly involved in a vampire matter, Esther.”

“But I am very puzzled. Even alarmed,” Max said. “Given that there have been three—possibly four—local murder victims whose blood has been drained, there should be a Lithuanian involved in this situation by now.”

As I patted her head, a thought occurred to me. “This may be irresponsibly inaccurate, too,” I said slowly, “but I’ve read that animals can detect vampires. Or are sensitive to their presence. Is that true?”

“Certainly in the case of the undead, it’s true,” Max said. “But I never observed any such phenomenon in relation to living vampires. In fact, Radvila was very good with horses. However . . .” He retrieved Nelli’s leash from me as he gazed at her thoughtfully. “Nelli is only in the form of an animal. In reality, she is a mystical being. We have had previous experience—albeit, somewhat confusing at times—with her demonstrating sensitivity to other mystical entities. It may be that she could sense a living vampire if she encountered one.”

Nelli noticed another dog approaching us, and she whined a little with friendly interest, her floppy ears perked alertly, and her long, bony tail whipped back and forth so furiously that it probably could have beheaded an unwary vampire.

I checked my watch. “I have to go to work, Max. Instead of waiting until performance time, why don’t you come with me and bring Nelli? I don’t think the undead would pass unnoticed at the Hamburg, not even among the vamparazzi, but it sounds as if a loose cannon could. If it wouldn’t violate the Treaty of Gediminas, maybe you and Nelli could try to determine whether there’s a vampire lurking around the theater?”