Two for tragedy. Volume 1
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Contrary to mortal opinion, we do not literally fly around the city. To my great regret. But we call all our movements around the city "flying". And once again I flew to the bridge that connects the districts of Prague and is located on two hills, stretching over the deep Nusle valley. This bridge was conveniently located in the neighbourhood of the Faculty of Physics and Mathematics where I studied.
The Czechs call the Nusle Bridge, forty-two metres high in the centre, the "Suicide Bridge". Seven other such bridges were built in the world using similar technology, but all of them, except Nusle, have faded into oblivion. In Soviet times, Nusle was considered a working class neighbourhood, although workers, hooligans and other people still live here. The spirit of the neighbourhood is depressing, and the concrete bridge has absorbed the same spirit. You look down and think about how easy it is to die. That's the thought of hundreds of suicides who come here to end their lives. There were so many suicides that the Czech government seriously thought about this phenomenon, so nowadays the bridge railings were iron partitions and bars. However, these pieces of iron do not stop the death-seekers: from time to time, opening the daily Prague newspaper, I once again learnt about new victims of the Nusle Bridge, this gloomy giant. A person flies a distance of forty-two meters, in free fall, in just three seconds, and then, at a speed of one hundred kilometers per hour, meets the asphalt. Suicidal people are reminded of the streetlamp under the bridge, which illuminates part of its tube and points upwards to illuminate the suicides' final path. And those who wish to commit suicide are many: their number approaches four hundred. In the history of the bridge there are only two known cases when those who jumped from it survived, however, one of them died in hospital seventeen days after the fatal jump. During the Soviet era, the media hushed up suicides on the Nusle Bridge, as nothing was to sully the name of the first "worker" president, Clement Gottwald, which the bridge bore until one thousand nine hundred and ninety-nine. Today, howevebr, the bridge is infamous worldwide as the "Suicide Bridge."
Not knowing what death was, I loved this place. I had a beautiful view from the bridge, and no bars prevented me from seeing it. I liked to meditate on it, to watch the sunset, and sometimes even to watch the dawn. Unlike my relatives, who came to the castle before dawn, I was not afraid to be here in the morning, and with the hood of my cloak over my head, I stayed until the first rays of the rising sun. Here I was not disturbed neither by the noise of the city nor by the noise of passing cars – I had long ago learnt to abstract myself from reality. And this time, after my conversation with my brother, I morally needed a long reflection. For some unknown reason, this time I felt inferior, an outcast, an outsider in my own family, in which everyone had a meaning in life. That meaning was their other halves. And I was like a person who didn't know what she wanted, or rather, didn't know what she lacked. But what do I lack? I have everything that mortals can accurately dream of: immortality, wealth, perfect physical disguise, a loving family, a vast store of knowledge. What is it that makes me feel inferior and alien when I have everything? I hoped to find the answer to that question. But how quickly would I find it? And, the worst part is that it could be months, years, or even centuries before the answer is found. But even then, I will be unsatisfied: each new guess gives birth to a dozen more questions. And this endless chain will never be broken. And all this time I will have to live with a feeling of mental emptiness. Will I be able to? I can't. I'm a vampire. Immortal.
When I arrived at the bridge, I parked my car in the small car park and headed for the high iron railing.
Whatever superstitious people might say, the Nusle Bridge was a work of art, filled with a special atmosphere of moral freedom and reflection on the mortality of life. Admiring the heavy clouds flying above me, the colour of a stormy sea, with thin veins of grey threads cutting through them, I thought a great deal. There were a few people on the bridge besides me, but they were just curious tourists, seduced by the bridge's terrible beauty. Banal: they would take pictures as a souvenir and soon leave, unable to withstand the aura of hundreds of suicides.
And so it happened, but my mind was visited by an unpleasant reminder of the beginning of the mid-term autumn exams, for which I had no point in preparing. I knew I would pass all the exams, after all, I had covered this material many times before. As I mentioned above, I have had the honour of studying at all American, Canadian and European universities, including Prague University, where I am studying again. I have studied here three times, in different eras, under different names, naturally without drawing undue attention to my identity.
Darkness descended on Prague. The city was lit up with thousands of multi-coloured lights and filled with the hum of evening fun. People got their long-awaited rest. What did that bode for me? I had only eaten two days ago, so I wasn't hungry, but Markus was out hunting tonight. Let him have his fun, perhaps even paired with the lady of his heart.
I leaned against the railing, closed my eyes, and stayed that way until I caught something unusual in the air that made me forget my thoughts and look in the direction the wind had brought me: a girl standing about fifty metres away. I couldn't have been mistaken, because a vampire's gaze was much more distinct than a human's. And despite the thickening darkness, I stared openly at the stranger.
The scent of her blood intoxicated me. This bouquet, never before heard by me, struck me with its beauty. The scent of fresh young human blood, filled with a touch of sea breeze and tart sweetness. To savour it, I breathed often and deeply, and my mind was involuntarily filled with strange questions. Who is this girl? What is she doing here? How had I not noticed her appearance on the bridge?
My interest in the stranger grew with every second, and I involuntarily just stared at her. Suddenly, as if sensing my frank gaze, the girl turned to me for a few seconds. But half a second was enough for me to reproduce her portrait in my mind. The first thing that caught my eye was her hair-dark, thick, falling in a waterfall down to her waist. The stranger's face was unusual, intriguing. The soft pale lips gave a slightly sharp contrast to her bright dark brown eyes. Her figure was slender, with no outlines of unhealthy thinness or starvation. The girl seemed mysterious and even beautiful to me. Her beauty was soft and expressive, like an autumn day that had not had time to cool down from the sun's rays, but already with the sun gone, sprinkling the sky with its farewell light.
For a moment our gazes crossed like swords. Suddenly the stranger took a quick step away from the bridge, as if fleeing from my unwilling, insistent attention. But I, as if mesmerised, looked after her, I just couldn't let her go. Let go of that magic.
Shit! What was I thinking?
I mentally berated myself for allowing myself to stare at some mortal, and, by an effort of will, albeit a hard one, I pushed the thought of her out of my head and remembered my immediate plans for the evening – to get away from the world and be in another reality for a while. But that memory brought back another, unwelcome memory-the scent of the stranger's blood, so tantalising. I would kill her and drink every last drop of that delicious blood.
No. Not this time.
I had principles I did not deviate from, even for the sake of such a unique flavour: killing girls and children was taboo for me. I hunted people who had already tasted life. The category of my victims started from the age of thirty to fifty, and I unmistakably felt the age of my victims, determining it by the smell of blood, and in the years of my life never made a single mistake. I felt that the girl I was interested in was still young, about twenty-two years old. Let her live. Maybe in eight years I'll find her and taste her blood.
With these thoughts I drove back to the castle. There, leaving the Toyota in the garage, I walked to the city.
In the morning several people were once again reported missing in Prague. When I heard this, I grinned: these were the hunting tracks of Markus and his fiancee. All the Prague newspapers wrote about these mysterious disappearances, including the cries of unhappy relatives and appeals for vigilance. The citizens of Prague discussed the news with bitter sighs. I, on the other hand, was filled only with indifference and derision.
CHAPTER 3
I passed the physics with flying colours: it was easy to tell what I had learnt long ago and knew like a proper name. And, although at this period of my life studying was a burden to me, being a part of modern universities was interesting to me at all times, and I was curious to see how education, its system, was changing, how every year new and new, unrepeatable faces appeared. At one time my hobby was people-watching, but this activity soon became nothing but a source of frustration and contempt for me.