It was the 10th of July in Paris, 1815.
Or, actually, as the extremely suspicious man in a hastily dyed Phrygian cap that had smuggled them into the country had explained, it was the twenty-second, but not of July, of ‘Messidor’, which Remi was sure in Spain was a man who fought bulls, but here was July, or it might’ve been June instead, but then it could be ‘Prairial’, which Rem knew to be the type of living of certain native tribes in the Americas, but here was like a month with 30 (or was it ninety...) days. But that was okay because there weren’t seven but ten days in a week, so the numbers evened out well enough, but that wasn’t a week anyway, but was a ‘semaine’, which was where you trained priests, but it wasn’t that anymore, it was a ‘duodi’ now, which was a sort of Scottish Meat, he thought, which is why it wasn’t ‘Wednesday’, but ‘Cumin’, which he assumed went well with Scottish Meats, though it certainly had no business being in whatever he’d ordered, especially in such vulgar quantities.
Remi did not trust the suspicious man who smuggled them into the country, and rather thought he was trying to get them killed, but his companion – who occasionally through it was 1794, which was the last time he had been in Paris – insisted they absorb local knowledge to better their cover.
He might have been trying to get them killed.
It was 1815, of that Remi was certain, at least; it was 1815 in Paris, and Remi was sitting on the bench of public house trying to reckon how much he’d actually had to drink.
There was a half-eaten plate of something that approximately, but not exactly, corresponded to food, though lacking bread (Remi had never had bread in France, even when he’d ordered it. He’d assumed bread was the sort of thing that one had with meals, like wine, but his experiences had proven him mistaken. Actually ordering bread, however, had not helped much. He’d learned the proper word and everything, which was difficult, and for which he thought he would warrant appreciation, but instead had yielded him no bread. Ever. He thought that maybe they were out). He wasn’t sure how old the food was, but it was very cold. He had noted, however, that in France, in addition to not serving bread, things you thought should be cold were often hot and hot things were often cold and they were meant to be served that way and you called it ‘ailment’ followed by being called a bunch of perfectly understandable insults. So really, the food was no help, to him or his stomach.
His pint, which was actually a jug, was only half-empty, and had been for some time, but that was really no indication of drunkenness. He could not be sure how many other bottles he’d secreted in his gullet, not trusting himself to not have smashed the bottles or otherwise hidden them like a squirrel with his winter nuts, especially if he was as drunk, in fact, as he thought he might be. Still, he was disinclined to ask the host, not only because of his (apparently) extremely limited French (oh, Memère, in the blessed hands of God rest her, would deny their shared blood! Again), but also because they seemed to dislike both Remi, and Remi’s French, very much.
Remi knew that he might have what one could call an exaggerated capacity for beverages, especially those of the wine variety. Remi also knew that said capacity, being exercised, usually led to the sorts of miscommunications that could only be exacerbated by his apparently sub-standard French. Remi was also well aware that it was entirely like him to completely forget his head and be far drunker than it seemed reasonable for him to be, even given the time in the afternoon he thought it was, and the feeling in his legs that he hadn’t been here long. So Remi, over the progress of the last few minutes and for the sake of the public good, decided he’d had quite enough, and needed to sit very still and figure out how long he’d really been here. Which was turning out to be quite a problem.
If he were sober, he could’ve used the simple expedient of clock to determine how long he’d been sitting, and thus, how long he’d been drinking. But he was either so drunk that he could no longer tell time, or someone had decided to smash all the clocks. It seemed unlikely that someone would smash all the clocks, but even the big ones were gone, which left him torn between admiration and puzzlement for whoever it was that had the gumption to get all the way up there and get them to not work properly, by whatever surely fiendish means they had done so. He could’ve attributed it to the supernatural monsters he was now commissioned to hunt, but as far as he understood it, the immortal undead weren’t generally concerned with the effective operations of public works, especially – and this made sense to him – things as innocent as chronometers.
Contributing to his rampant drunkenness theory, was the fact that the clocks that were up didn’t seem to tell time, per se, but rather your weight, the length of a mile, and various and sundry other datums as their mechanisms ticked away, not seconds, as was common, but something like particles of ether. Possibly because France was a very educated place full of very educated people who didn’t need to know the time, but rather, how many particles of ether had passed through their cold Scottish Meats on this fine and sunny Cumin.
“Come, Mozzzuir, surely she is the prettiest little ‘ore you have ever seen in your life?”
Not a single educated person was in sight, so Remi had thought perhaps, someone, somewhere, would have a decent clock, or at least, could tell him whether he was drunk or not. He was either very, very drunk, which seemed improbable, though not unlikely, or the world, or at least this part, was a very, very confusing place.
“Eh? Eh? Isn’t that right me wee petty-shoe?”
Remi had to hold very, very still, not only because the whore on his companion’s lap was perilously close to flowing (yes, ‘flowing’) onto his own lap as well, but also because the crawling feeling that was now traveling uncomfortably up his left arm was usually the one he got right before staking a particularly nasty carrion-eater. His companion would likely jab his dinner knife into Remi’s eye if he even looked like he was reaching for a weapon, and, as a matter of fact, probably would even if he didn’t. Slayers were a jumpy sort of crowd like that.
Now, Remi was in France, but Remi was not French except by distant extraction, a fact which had grieved his aged grandmother to no end back home, as she thought that everyone in her family ought to be French, not matter how long they’d lived somewhere else. She insisted she could remember [being told about] the halcyon days of the family when they all lived in France under the divine rule of prosperity and good fortune of one Louis or another. When pressed about these stories, she sometimes would most grumpily admit that she’d only heard about them, but sometimes took to describing France, which looked exactly like Nova Scotia, except with elephants and hippopotami and random historical figures renamed appropriately, like Pierre Khan or Louis Caesar.
The fact was Remi’s grandparents had carried (the idea of) his father out of his true (in its more proximal location to France) homeland when he was only boy, in an event called the Great Derangement, where everyone apparently went mad and south at the same time (where they got better, except for being less French). It was on the spirituous advice of his priest, and the insistent and precise encouragement of his parents (Remi couldn’t help but think the two orations were related... and couldn’t help but think he knew what they were related to), he had taken the journey to the (supposed) homeland of his ancestors as a sort of interminable right of passage from which they hoped he’d never return.
It was also on his priest’s unwavering ‘advice’ that he’d become a hunter of evil, hoping to clear the impossible to erase black stains from his soul. So he’d been introduced to the European Chapter of the Brotherhood of Slayers, and they’d been kind enough to provide him with a guide.
His guide was now buried ears deep in two heaving, black-marked, snuff-shedding bosoms making gurgling, mewing sounds, like a drowning ocelot. Remi didn’t know if ocelots made noise. He was pretty sure that ‘Ocelot’ was the upcoming Thursday. He was pretty sure he needed to be drunker than he thought he was, but wasn’t sure where one might procure such profuse amounts of wine. A few more innocent prods in the kidneys from yon maiden’s pointed shoes being kicked up in delight prompted him to venture odds on the innkeeper. He tried, as surreptitiously as he could despite his companion’s mammary-induced incapacitation, to catch the host’s eye. The host examined the ceiling.
Remi’s companion surfaced for air, leering so forcefully at him that the strumpet almost toppled from his lap. This was funny to her, as had been most everything else so far.
“Well, well? Tell me she is the most beautiful woman you’ve ever seen.”
This was a problem. His companion could surely have no idea, but the thoughts and feelings that coursed through Remi at this question ranged from mild stomach pains to despair of his immortal soul with a quick, almost uniform, succession. And yet, though Remi often found that the beauty of women was a problem for him (a problem surely never to be solved in his life), he could say with some certainty that in this occasion, it wasn’t just him. That should’ve been a relief. Instead, Remi found more pressing conflict than the one occurring in his undying spirit developing in the general vicinity of his vulgar flesh, which was prone to dying at the slightest provocation. This was probably due to his companion’s rapidly glowering expression, and the number of times Remi had seen this expression end poorly for a number of seemingly innocent plants, animals and people.
“I will not either confirm or deny this proposition, Basil, for surely you would stab me in the face no matter what I said.”
The whore giggled uncontrollably at this point, while Remi held his breath (and his dagger). Basil burst into violently-fumed laughter. Remi used the opportunity to fit much more wine into himself.
Basil slapped him on the shoulder, rather hard, “That’s true, laddie, that’s true! What a clever little lad you turn out to be, m’boy.”
Remi tried to nod along and feel assured, but before the feeling could take root, Basil exploded upward, tossing whore, food, wine, and stool onto the floor, bellowing out, “You must be WARY AT ALL TIMES of the EVIL that PERVADES mankind, young man, LEST ye be BURNED to the QUICK OF YOUR IMMORTAL SOUL by the FLAMES of HELL GROWN too HIGH for that DARK PIT of ETERNAL PUNISHMENT, now LICKING at the very BOOTHEELS of MEN ON EARTH in these WICKED AND DISSOLUTE DAYS of SIN.”
Remi had heard such outbursts before and, while generally aware and in agreement of the wickedness and sin, was a proponent of more quiet delivery of redemptive discourse, at least in regards to public places, where one was apt to be hauled off to preach to the even more dissolute who occupied the various gaols and dungeons of the world. It was also in times like these (in Basil’s company the discourse tended to linger on quite a bit – as a matter of fact, he was still going presently) that Remi got to contemplate the benefits of the life of celibacy he was doomed to by his inherently sinful nature. Perhaps it was the edifying nature of the reminders of the pains of hellfire and damnation. Or perhaps it was Basil’s tendency to scream into his audience’s face, which allowed Remi to view more minutely the creeping venereal rot that promised one day to take his nose.
And yet again, Remi had to admit, it might even be because Basil was fucking nuts.
Remi was jumpy, perhaps off-kilter (it had been suggested), and definitely drawing off the queer side of the river, but Basil had assuredly lost his goddamn mind.
Basil was also now storming out the door, still raving. Remi slid off his stool and regretted that he’d never found a watch that would tell him how drunk he was. He looked to see if his tab needed to be paid before he chased a madman down the street, but the innkeeper was now stolidly staring into the high corner, knocking over bottles as he groped for something to clean. Remi took up his sword and traveling gear (he’d been robbed of it twice so far, and, now, it appeared, for a third time its contents had been burgled. At least it was lighter now). Trying not to trip over the voluminous folds of the toppled (and apparently perfectly sanguine with development) whore’s dress, he stumbled out into the street to perhaps prevent a mass murder.
Remi was forced to appreciate the grand design of the streets of Paris, which made the Champs-Elysees a toweringly crowded, exceedingly long rue for large masses of the relatively innocent to wander down, or perhaps run about on, was they were pursued by a syphilis-crazed vampire hunter who was, for the love of God, actually stripping off his clothing, and was this all really necessary? He felt his heart sink.
“My word, Remi, is that you?”
Remi turned, and found himself staring at the striking figure of a vampire named Harry. He’d somehow managed to meet Harry in England, where, for some odd reason, the circumstances of which were extremely fuzzy, he’d decided not to kill him. Harry had proved subsequently useful, and their paths also oddly parallel. His presence here was strange but not unexpected, as, if Remi could be quite frank, he suspicioned Harry to be a bit of a dandy. Paris was, after all, a fashionable place.
“Is that half-nude man running down the street with all the stakes a friend of yours?”
Remi turned to see that, yes, Basil’s undershirt had finally come off, revealing an impressive double bandoleer of stakes, which he now brandished at ladies and children with abandon. Remi sighed and started to strap on his sword. Harry took off his coat and rolled up his sleeves, displaying an impressive set of supernaturally pale, but finely muscled forearms.
“I do believe you could use some assistance.”
Reluctant as he was, and he certainly doubted Basil would approve, Remi nodded. He finished buckling his sword on, just as a dazed looking prostitute stumbled out of the alley behind Harry, clutching her neck. He glared at Harry, but the vampire didn’t seem to have noticed. Remi set his jaw and turned back to the madman streaking down the Champs-Elysees. He had more pressing things to attend to.
Night had fallen, and Basil was dead. Remi had lost his neckerchief, a half-dozen six-inch stakes, the neatness of his finely combed queue and most of his innocence in regards to the conjoining of male and female anatomy. Harry, except for similarly tousled hair and clothes and rather quick breaths had fared much better, which Remi blamed on another vampiric trait that he was as yet unaware of. He was eying the vampire jealously as a few quick adjustments of his cravat returned him to something like dignity.
They had returned to the inn, necessarily lugging Basil’s fat corpse with them, as the keeper of the stable hadn’t appreciated Basil’s treatment of the horses. Apparently he didn’t believe in vampiric horses, or wereanimals, or hippo-succubi. Remi had been unaware of these particular demons, but had them marked in his memory now, really whether he wanted it so or not. The whore, with Basil cradled in, presumably, his favorite position, (mostly naked between her breasts,) was wailing over her hero with all the power her corset would allow her. Remi was finding it hard to muster sympathy. She hadn’t had to prevent Basil from murdering half the guests of that bakery/whorehouse they’d crashed into, and then partake of items for sale. Remi wondered if physical love of bread dough was as damaging to a soul as his own sin.
He was sure that witnessing it was.
He’d also lost his pack again.
It was not a pleasant night.
The only consolation was that, in spite of his traumatization, he was still drunk. Harry cleared his throat with a minute cough and gave Remi a Significant glance. Following his cue, Remi backed out of the inn onto the street. He tried not to look down the thoroughly dark grand thoroughfare, but there really wasn’t a point. The night sky held too much to see, anyway, as the trees and illegal balconies parted for a bright array of stars, winking in and out of the foliage as the breeze rustled the laundry and the leaves. The destruction on the street had mostly been hidden away already, and the denizens of the city began to wander out again, placidity and beauty overtaking such sudden and widespread violence as easily as the passing of a day.
A great flash of color arose in the sky, streaming sparks like a fiery bird, and burst into a hail of glittering sparks. Remi put his hastily seized stake away when the first was followed by another of red, and then of green, and then by gold and silver jets of flame. Harry, standing next to him, smiled at Remi’s amazement; Remi had never seen fireworks before.
“The King has returned,” Harry said.
Remi watched the street, alight with the flickering colors and sparks, people turned to spectral flashes, ladies in their dresses and fellows in their coats bright dots of frosted color, all staring with happy wonder at the display in the skies. He turned to Harry only to find there was no place to turn; Harry was there, arm around Remi’s waist, hand cradling his neck, bending him into a sway until his eyes closed and lip met lip, in a kiss.
“Happy New Year,” the vampire whispered.
The sky was bursting apart. Breaking into the thundering fireworks came the shrill shrieks of a woman. The whore came screaming out of the inn, wild with grief (and syphilis), shouting about the death of a great hero, while the innkeeper burst after her calling for the people to notice the death of a great man (in his inn). Remi was upright, eyes open, a deeper cold filling the void than that of an abnormally chill body against his own. Crowds were gathering, eager to hear of a monster-slayer, their eyes more unnaturally bright with the flashing colors above, ears eager to hear of the defeat of the undead.
Harry needed to get away from this place. He tried to speak, but the vampire was already melting away into the crowd, sly smile on his face. At once, the whore’s eager French turned on Remi:
“Vous! Vous! Vous l’avez vu!”
Remi found a dozen eyes staring at him eagerly. He was confused.
“You, ze Anglais,” the innkeeper pointed to Remi’s chest (and yet again wounding his ancestral pride), “you are un tueur de vampire, aussi.”
They all waited with bated breath. Remi looked down at his chest, where there was a stake clutched tightly in his hand. He hadn’t realized he’d drawn one, but there it was, standing, pointing outward, over his heart.
Remi gave a nervous laugh. “Parlez-vous anglais?”