by Abby Keeler

Each life makes it own imitation of immortality. – Stephen King

Immortality is a painful existence for those who don’t know how to utilize it properly. Resistance to change, hatred of the mortals and a disgusting Victorian accent tend to make it difficult for most. One might argue that a vampire should spend all their time in the shadows, sleeping in coffins and hiding from existence. They must only appear in the dark hours of the night to claim their unsuspecting victims. Fairies must hide in endless forests, guiding simple humans to their doom, and demons masquerade as humans, leading them to lives of sin and unforgiveness. There are certain ways certain immortals should spend their eternal lives, and most do adhere to these standards. Most. But some like Alexander and Elias, do not care at all about their species’s social standards.

The sun shone through the large windows of the London Museum, reflecting beautifully on the many paintings hung on the walls. It made the long hallway look incredibly serene, like something out of a dream. As the visitors walked through each room, admiring the artwork, only one man remained – dark hair styled elegantly, perfectly framing his flawless face. He stood in front of a painting, staring into the unusual tones of red in lips and dress.

A voice sounded near him. “Alex!” A young-looking man who appeared from the shadows called out.

Alexander turned his head in the man’s direction and grinned at seeing unexpectedly his friend after so many years. “Elias, it’s been far too long,” he said, embracing him warmly, then pulling away to study him. His brown hair had been barely past his ears when Alexander last saw him, but now it was resting on his shoulders. He had tied his bangs back off of his face, making him look much more refined than he actually was. “What brings you here, old friend?”

“An ancient artifact brought here five thousand years ago and buried somewhere beneath the museum. I picked up the faint scent of volcanic ash – sulphur dioxide – from the Minoan eruption on Santorini, and knew you’d be here.

“And you found me,” Alex said, transfixed by the painting.

“Alex, what is it about this painting you’ve been staring at for almost an hour now?” Elias asked, turning his attention to the work on the wall. “Besides being so beautiful.”

Portrait of a Girl. Look at the signature,” Alexander spoke, entranced by the name.

“Florence Carlyle? Florence painted this? Didn’t you call her….?” “Bird,” he interrupted Elias, nodding his head slightly. “Bird, because she flew into my life at a moment when light was not an option until she arrived. Let’s chat elsewhere.”

They traded the calm and peace of the museum for a loud, rambunctious bar. People played pool and joked around with drinks in hand, and some were heavy into gambling away their hard-earned money. Elias and Alexander sat in the back, laughing fondly at memories they had with one another, memories that spanned hundreds of years through different lifetimes. Neither regretted a single moment, including the time they had spent with Florence Carlyle in magical Paris.

“Elias, you remember that night you found us in Paris?” “Of course I do. You and Bird…”

“It was as though she channelled the city’s energy into her every move, into her every word and smile.”

“I remember,” said Elias, watching his friend sink into memory, powerful like quicksand, pulling him into that time of lights and love.

Alexander remembered how Bird had caught his curiosity one night as she emerged from the artist’s academy, and he moved quietly through the night shadows, following her down streets and watching her wonderment of the city’s attractions – especially the Eiffel Tower. And he remembered watching her take flight into the Louvre one dark, late afternoon, and he waited for her to emerge. It was in the darkness, under cloud cover, he approached her, as tall and handsome as he could possibly present himself to be for this first meeting.

He remembered how she studied him, like a model for one of her paintings. They introduced themselves, and he asked if she’d accompany him to the Eiffel. When she wrapped her arm through his, he knew something unexplained happened. Some never-to-be-broken trust and belief in the unbelievable, the impossible.

Standing at the base of the tower, Florence looked up. “Oh Alex, isn’t it absolutely gorgeous at night?” she asked gleefully, wrapping her arm tightly around him.

Smiling calmly, Alex knew this would be the moment of revelation that Bird would never forget. “It’s very lovely, Florence,” he said, drawing his cloak around her and floating her from the base of the icon to its pinnacle where for a moment she could see the entire city below its cloud cover. And fearlessly, she saw him, knew him as his life flashed through her.

For many evenings after, they shared the wonderment of the city together with a heightened sense of true beauty. “Though, I’m sure,” she remarked, “you’ve seen much prettier things in your lifetime, than Paris. I mean, you are hundreds of years old!”

Alexander’s eternal beauty drew her to him more than anything had. “I’d like to know all about the things you’ve seen; surely, Paris cannot compare.” “Bird,” he said tenderly, “you cannot compare one with another. They are each beautiful in their own way. An emerald is not more beautiful than a sapphire? A sunrise is as divine as a sunset?”

Alex turned back to Elias. “Then you arrived. Do you remember that night?”

“I remember complimenting you about being a poet. I think she made a poet out of you.” And I remember Florence pulling us close, embracing the two of us and laughing as if she’d discovered buried treasures.”

She teased us. “Best friends reunited in the city of love. Isn’t this just so romantic?” She began running down the street begging us to chase her. And we did; but, did we ever understand why we laughed so much, why we danced and twirled through the streets so much?” Alex grew quiet. “We knew our time with this goddess was limited, but we didn’t care. We carried the weight of hundreds of lifetimes on our shoulders, but my time with her was the best of all times, until she stopped being, and we left.”

“So, tell me, Alex, what does this Portrait of a Girl mean to you?”

Alexander smiled. “It’s mine. It belongs to me. She gifted it to me. A certain rogue, Donald Routledge, accidentally stumbled upon my sanctuary, and while I was napping…”

“Napping? Have you really become one of those stereotypical vampires who naps in abandoned places and won’t swim in running water? That’s funny!”

Alexander tried to look unamused, but managed to grin unapologetically. “Well, this creep, Routledge, saw the painting and my priceless collection and stole everything. The painting is the only piece of art he donated to the museum.”

“And that’s a bad thing?” Elias asked. “Now everyone can enjoy it.”

Alex glanced into Elias’s eyes. “I want my painting back. It’s the only thing I have to remember her by. Besides it has a secret.”

“What secret?” Elias asked.

“Draw closer.” Elias obeyed. “Do you smell it?” asked Alex.

Elias drew close and ran his nose over the surface of her face, lingering on her lips. “There a faint mixture of Venetian red oil paint..and..and..” He looked at Alex.

“Yes. We both made a small cut in our hands and drew a modest amount of blood from them which we mixed with the paint. Bird painted the woman’s lips with it. Her lips look dangerous, do they not?” Alex asked.

“Yes, especially dangerous to anyone who dares to kiss them. So. what’s the plan? Sneak in…”

“ ..grab the painting, and get out?” Alex added.

“So, there is no plan. Well, let’s go get your painting. We’re two incredibly old vampires, one of whom never stopped loving a woman. We got this.”