If I could go back and do it again, I would hit the gym for six months before I turned into a vampire… or maybe a year.  When one is basically immortal, changes come slowly, so shedding those extra pounds becomes a bit of a challenge. Of course, I didn’t expect to fall in love; maybe if I’d known that I’d develop a massive crush on the world’s greatest sorceress, I’d have been a bit more motivated.

It was a lovely midnight, with clouds covering the sky and misting rain in the air. There was truth in the stereotype of night creatures loving inclement weather, but it was a practical love. For vampires, it was mostly that dead skin doesn’t moisturize well. That’s another thing they don’t put in the vampire brochure: all the time you’ll spend lotioning your skin, even in a swamp like Arkansas. Bit of a giveaway that you’re not normal, having cracks in your skin that could give the Grand Canyon a run for its money.

The Bentonville conference hall had less than its fair share of the svelte, proper looking characters that fit the “sexy vampire” aesthetic. Surprisingly, they didn’t get invited on too many dates. If you complimented them on their lean figure, they’d become monumentally offended, and scream something like “I’d’v ayten un Anglishmin’f oy coulda got’my hans un one,” or, “Oh, sod off, you uncouth urchin.” Totally controlling the thirst for blood was something that used to take a thousand years to learn, and a thousand-year-old vampire was as cranky as a human of similar age would have been.

It surprised me to find there weren’t that many vampires. Not just here in Bentonville for the weekend; there weren’t many vampires anywhere. As it turns out, getting all your vitamins and minerals from blood and being unable to go out in broad daylight is a bit of an evolutionary dead end, all other things being equal.

Anyway, there was only one person I wanted to see that night, and she wasn’t a vampire.

Within ten minutes of arriving, I had regretted not drinking a bag of Synguine before heading out. I felt tired, like I was both malnourished and dehydrated, but in a dull, distant sort of way, as if a minor headache had navigated into my shoulders, pitched a tent, and invited some friends. It always seemed odd that I'd crave blood in the same mundane way I once needed coffee in the morning.

My idle musing stopped abruptly when I spotted who I came to see… and hopefully talk to this time.

Morgana Le Fay was surrounded by a gaggle of men in business suits. Politicians, I supposed; they made deals with us “devils” on the regular.

Oh, Morgana. She was a real Mythical. No one ever asked how old she was; there were some things that didn’t change when you transformed, and “don’t ask a woman her age” was apparently one of them. The rumor was that she was the Morgana, the one who had taken down Merlin (yes, that Merlin), but she never seemed interested in publicly clarifying that particular credential. That made her… fifth century? Sixth?

Fifth century would be… the year 500?

No, wait… 400. That would mean she was… 1500 years old? 1400? Does an extra hundred years mean anything when you live that long? I’m not even a hundred yet, so I really don’t know.

Her obliging laugh to one of the corpulent old men next to her snapped me out of my idle thoughts. This would be the day, I said to myself. I’d waltz right over to her and introduce myself. “Hi, I’m Norman McAvoy…”

No. No, no, no. She was a legendary enchantress, a literal legend, as in, she was in children’s books. That’s how you knew you’d reached legend status: when kids start learning about you in paperbacks. Morgana certainly wouldn’t be interested in my humdrum, awkward introduction. Even those old men had to have some sort of… I don’t know, secret handshake? Hand sign of Satanic allegiance? Dining club card?

Vaguely related: did she even speak modern English? The language had been more like German, or Gaelic, or something back in those times, and I hadn't brushed up on my Beowulf in decades.

With a long sigh, I descended into more self-loathing. This was the fifth of these boring conventions I’d attended just to have a chance to talk to her, but I'd never worked up the nerve to introduce myself. When she saw me, I thought, I was sure she’d think I was a stalker. Or… maybe she hadn’t seen me at all. I wasn’t sure which would be worse.

Then again, would a sorceress worry about a stalker? Or would that just be a free thrall, conveniently predisposed to do her bidding?

“Norman! Good to see you, son,” I heard a familiar voice say.

And that was the end of this trip, I thought. I smiled, closed my eyes, and shook my head in weary amusement.

“Hey, Vic,” I answered flatly, mentally waving farewell to Morgana. Vic had a tendency to ramble, and I had no ability to disengage from conversation. We would surely talk the whole night, like all the other conferences before.

“You’re looking well,” He said, loudly and jovially, “Is the injection site still inflamed?”

Victor DeSavage was my vampire sponsor, and the picture of the modern, inoffensive vampire. At one point, he had been merely my biology professor, but he had taken notice of my fervor for the subject, as well as my non-aggressive nature. That bit surprised me, as I'd fully bought into the stereotype of the vampire as a hungry land shark with a cape.

It made sense once I thought about it, but the underground legion of vampires and other Mythicals didn’t want a conquering army; they wanted members who wouldn’t stoke a Hunter crusade.

Vic had explained his rather martial-sounding name was a butchered combination of the last names of his French and Serbian parents, assigned to them by an imbecile at Ellis Island, and I was inclined to believe him. Like me, he didn't fit the vampire stereotype. He was a portly, jovial, well-moisturized man who had looked to be in his mid-50s since the late 18th century. Though he was as pale as any caucasian vampire, he looked more like Santa Claus than anything else, if Santa had shaved his beard to an inch in length and dyed every second strand of hair jet black. He was a testament to the successes of modern vampire nutritional science.

“Oh, yeah, it’s… it’s fine. The injection site wound went away after a few years. Just a little hole in my leg now,” I replied.

“Good to hear! Oh, it’s amazing what science has done for us. Can you believe that we used to bite people? And on the neck, no less!” Vic said, with the pleasant yet disgusted energy he always had when he said those exact words.

“Yeah. Crazy,” I said distantly. This was a common topic of discussion. It wasn’t an unpleasant thing to talk about; to the contrary, I always learned something new from him about how different our “underworld” was from what I expected.

“Glad there’s no more of that. I tell you, we’re living better than we ever have, my boy. The past was…well, you’ve heard my stories,” Vic said.

I was fairly sure he would tell another story, perhaps spoil another legend of vampires past with reality. Vic had a tendency of reminding me that, while we were both children of the 50s, he was from the 1750s.

“Yeah, you might have mentioned it once or twice,” I said flatly. Vic chuckled.

“I’m making an effort not to retread old ground, I assure you. Keep moving toward the future, put in the work… that’s what I say. You’ll know why it’s so important to me when you get to my age. It’s… difficult to change when you’re nearly 300 years old. You just sort of, well, give up on trying to keep abreast of it all, you know?” There was a touch of melancholy in the old man’s tone.

Despite his words, I wondered if he, too, was underwhelmed by modern living. He claimed to be constantly amazed by the progress of the “normal” world, but who really knew? That was the thing about eternity: you had forever to feel everything. I really couldn’t imagine that anything here - or anything that was yet to come, for that matter - was as interesting as what had already been consigned to history.

Anything that was yet to come. Consigned to history. Look at me, talking like an old fart.

“I’m prattling on already,” Vic chuckled to himself, “I won’t keep you from Lady Le Fay. Go on, then. She’s expecting you.”

The statement - that the woman I’d crushed on for decades was just expecting me - was so unbelievable that for a moment, my mind refused to entertain the idea that it could be true. Eventually, my face screwed into an expression I’m not actually sure a mortal human can make.

“Wh-what? You-you-you-” I stammered breathlessly, turning to gape at Vic. He beamed from ear to ear, like a father who had just given his son the 5-speed bike he wanted for his birthday, complete with a speedometer and wheel pegs.

If one could make a wall out of conflicting feelings, then I had just crashed into it headfirst and knocked out a few teeth, and was appropriately dazed by the impact. He couldn’t have. He didn’t. Did he seriously…?

“Oh, go on, lad. Talk to her,” He said, gesturing towards her so dramatically that there was no way she didn’t see it. “But do hurry. The keynote is in fifteen minutes, and I can’t say where she’ll be when it’s done.”

His smile faded from beatific to encouraging, like the same father from earlier, now encouraging his son to give his new bicycle a spin. I couldn’t believe he’d done this. It was so wonderful and terrifying at the same time, like being handed a gold-painted Gulfstream jet and being told to immediately hop into the cockpit and line it up for takeoff. The questions, objections, and self-doubt took turns confounding my ability to speak.

“Don’t be nervous,” Vic said calmly, patting me on the shoulder, “She’s really quite lovely, very charming. Go, see for yourself,” He said, nodding reassuringly and giving a gentle “go forth” gesture with his other hand.

His seeming familiarity with her presented more questions, but I couldn't stammer those out, either. Still utterly bewildered, I took my first uneasy steps her way. It seemed like the floor was extending out in front of me, taking her further away with every step forward, but I forced myself to put one unsteady foot in front of the other.

The irony was not lost on me that this was exactly what I'd wanted. I suddenly felt like an awkward teenager, hormones freshly awakened and staggering aimlessly through the halls of infatuation, knocking down every painting on the wall. What was I even going to say to her? “Hi, my sponsor set me up to talk to you. I think you’re very pretty.” No, I couldn’t say that.

I had nothing. No flowers, no chocolate… what had Vic been thinking? I couldn’t do this. One does not simply stroll over to the most beautiful woman in the world empty-handed.

If I’d been more lucid at that moment, I might have wondered if vampires went through puberty again. This was ridiculous.

At the very least, I needed something to talk about with her… common ground, or… something. I tried to think of what I’d heard about her. King Arthur’s half-sister, magician, enchantress… that last one seemed like it might not be good to mention. I didn’t want her to think I was judging her for any sexual proclivities… or asking her to indulge in them.

Then I remembered that she probably wasn’t the Morgana from legend, and doubled back on the reality that I really did have nothing…

Gods, what had Vic been thinking when he set this up?

******

She saved me from my own cascading thoughts, in her way. I was halfway to her when she raised her hand to wave at me, a radiant smile forming on her lips.

“Ah, Mr. McAvoy!” Morgana locked eyes as she greeted me. Her expression suggested I was an old friend she was relieved and overjoyed to be reunited with. The rich, warm tone of her voice surprised me, and I felt my brain begin to turn to lovestruck mush. I waved sheepishly, immediately feeling embarrassed by my childish gesture, though she had been the one to wave first. When she did it, it seemed regal and dignified. Me, on the other hand…

The politicians who had been vying for her attention gave me sidelong glares, clearly angry for my intrusion. Something unexpected triggered inside of me as I glanced at each of them in passing.

This was an odd time to start feeling like a “real vampire.” In the air, a scent like cigarette smoke and WD-40 breezed past my nostrils, and it made me shiver in anticipation. I’d never taken real blood before - Synguine was better for vampires anyhow - but I knew somehow that their blood was the source of the odor. They were plump, ripe with more nutrients than their bodies could use in two lifetimes. 

There was a time when I would have been expected to punish or kill them for their insolence… or something. It was an appealing thought…

…until my gaze turned back to Morgana. Her grin had settled into a resting smile, the sight of which set me to a bit of shame. Releasing the thought - and hoping she couldn’t read minds, like some said she could - I finished the interminable stroll. It was the longest fifty feet I’d ever walked.

“Gentlemen, if you’ll excuse me. I’ve promised my friend a moment of my time,” She said magnanimously, gesturing for me to walk with her with a nod of her head. The corpulent old men seemed to ooze lower into their expensive suits, like they were inflatable statues from a car lot, and their pumps had just been turned off.

“Kings, emperors, presidents, senators…whatever you call them, I can tell you they haven't changed in the two thousand years I've been here,” Morgana said, putting that particular mystery to rest.

“So the rumors are true?” I asked quietly, like I was Indiana Jones discussing an ancient secret, when in reality I was just poorly informed.

“Only that one,” She said, waving dismissively and pointing to a booth with a trifold display, “The others… mostly just garden variety myths, mostly made by men. No offense, of course.”

It didn’t even occur to me to be offended. If my relatively short six decades as a vampire had taught me anything, it was that we were just as prone to exaggeration and misogyny as any normal human.

I wanted to ask more. From a distance, her wavy red hair, her lithe, tall figure, and her distinguished, yet understated purple dress were already bewitching. Now that I knew I was talking to a being of unbelievable age, there was a feeling of profound wonder.

“That's not what I wanted to talk about, though,” She said.