4

TWO

ROWAN

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“Celestia, you look radiant this evening,” I murmured, extending the bouquet I was holding toward the mirror.

No, far too stiff, I mentally chided before trying again. And too focused on her looks. Any Casanova can see she’s beautiful, compliment something that actually reflects her!

“Celestia, these are for you. I thought perhaps you could use them in one of your amazing artworks.”

Yes, that was it. Celestia was a painter, a sculptor, and enjoyed working with mixed mediums. In the year or so that we’d been talking, she’d gone on numerous tangents about the different uses of organic and non-organic found materials that could tell a story within a piece, and I swore she glowed every time.

That was probably just my perception, however, as I always got a bit caught up when I saw someone being passionate about something they loved. It was like a siren song to me, and I had yet to find a reason to resist the call. There was so much joy in creation, and although I wasn’t particularly creative myself, that didn’t stop me from revering all the wonders of the arts.

“There’s a new gallery opening on the next new moon,” I continued, lowering the bouquet slightly. Hopefully, when this situation actually played out, Celestia would have already taken it, and I wouldn’t be left holding the combination of red, black, and dark blue roses. The dramatic mix was one of Celestia’s favorites. “I would love for you to accompany me to…” I trailed off, because I knew that wasn’t it. While Celestia was always regal, always poised, she was quite a bit younger than me, and I didn’t want to sound like an old fogie.

“What do you think, Brahm? Am I overthinking everything?” I asked, looking over to my exceedingly fluffy, orange cat half-draped over the top basket of the cat-tree, his head upside down the way he prefurred it. (Get it, furred? Because… never mind.)

“Mrrr!” he answered in that absolute way only a cat could.

“You’re right.” I sighed, setting the bouquet down and straightening my collar. “And why am I practicing this in front of a mirror anyway?” It wasn’t like I could see anything other than my clothes, being a vampire and all.

“You’d think that being over a hundred years old would make all of this old hat by now.”

“Meeeerrrrp!”

“What’s wrong with a bowtie? It’s classic!”

“Brrrrllp.”

“Hmm…”

I didn’t know what to think of that. While Brahm was wise beyond the singular brain cell he was supposed to have as a feline of the ochre variety, that didn’t mean he was enlightened when it came to fashion. I was the one who was over a hundred years old; he was barely seven.

Then again, he hadn’t led me wrong so far.

“Right, Celestia is only in her sixties. She might think this is a bit old-fashioned. I’ll go change.”

Although, whenever I saw the delightful artist, she was almost always in some long, gothic gown that harkened back to different eras of Europe, from Medieval to Renaissance to Regency, as most vampires in the coven seemed to favor. Maybe I was being a bit too nouveau with my soft button-up, even softer cardigan, and corduroy dress pants. I wanted to look nice, but not like I was trying too hard—apathy was the latest trend. It went completely against my nature, but eh, hadn’t I been told for nearly eighty years that my nature was half the problem?

Better not to think of that. No need to get myself down while I was trying to build myself up. Maybe she’d say no, maybe she’d say yes, but the most important thing was that I tried and was as honest as I could be. I always aimed for truth no matter what, even if it was hard.

“What to wear, what to wear?” I murmured as I opened my closet and flicked the light on. Although I could see just fine in the dark, being one of the undead and all that, it was cozier to have the butter-yellow light among my collection of tweeds, linens, wool, and other soft-material items. No leather. No latex.

Still, as I stared at the array of knits and comfortable yet stylish (in my opinion) clothing, I couldn’t help but feel a bit overwhelmed.

It’s times like these I miss Ibrahim.

It had been thirty years since my maker had walked into the sun at three-hundred-and-forty years old, having decided he was done with his journey in this life. I still missed him terribly, and it was hard not to feel entirely alone. Even though I had joined the coven about five years earlier, so often I felt more like a visitor on the fringe of it rather than a real member.

Probably just my insecurities.

“Enough of that,” I murmured to myself. “This is a joyous night, and I will treat it as such.” Shaking my head, I pulled out a soft, silk-velvet burgundy sherwani that had been an antique when I’d bought it in the sixties. It was truly a beautiful piece, and after I’d had it restored by a professional, I only wore it on special occasions. We’d done a bit of a trade—he returned the garment to its proper glory, and I’d done a complete refurbishment on the extremely old pair of Buzuqs he had. It was rare for me to get my hands on traditional instruments that were older than me and had stood the test of time, so really, it was like I was getting paid twice.

Obviously, my corduroy trousers weren’t going to cut it, so I switched to breeches made of a dark twill. They weren’t flashy, but they weren’t meant to be. They were the supporting team for my sherwani.

Once I was dressed in my new getup, I put my phone on my dresser and set the timer to take a picture. While we vamps didn’t appear in mirrors, modern technology had advanced far enough for us to at least get pictures of ourselves. In fact, the moment selfies first became possible, nearly every vampire’s smart phone storage was instantly maxed out with shots of their own face—and I certainly hadn’t been immune to the craze. Perhaps a predictable consequence of not being able to see one’s self for decades upon decades.

Well, at least not at first. But after I looked through the first twenty blurry shots of myself back in 2008, I’d realized selfies weren’t my thing.

The phone flash brought me back to reality, and I rushed over to see how I looked. My outfit was rather dashing, if I did say so myself. A little more high-falutin’ than I would normally dress, but Celestia deserved a little pomp and circumstance.

“All right, Brahm, I think we cracked the code. I’m going out. Don’t look for me until morning.”

“Mrrrow?”

“My thoughts exactly.”