The vampire in literature is ancient.
I think that reporter might be a little older than I am. I’d have to ask, but why give away my curiosity?
Maybe if I were equally ancient, I’d think differently about it. But right now, I think it’s a tragedy to be so old and unchanging.
Who could look at the problems of the world, and the struggles of its people, and not want to become better?
Over and over, the Motherland drains its people of hope and happiness. The citizens rise up to throw off the czars, then follow tyrants who announce themselves as the high priests of the religion of the state. When the tyrants fail, the oligarchs who grew prosperous from their crimes take control. And the people - the people! They’ve been taught their power, through the stories of the Revolution. Yet they cannot accept that they have it. And so they bare their necks to the vampires who rule them.
Mine was a family of vampires before I ever changed. From their manor house, they would reach out for serfs, servants, and workers - the labels are immaterial, their function was the same. They would drain them of their life and dignity. And for what? Not to live as people, but to exist as moths, drawn to the light of aristocracy.
I’d never been to Moscow as a mortal. I’m sure these Americans haven’t visited their own capital either. But now, here I am.
I walked past the forces studying the problem from outside. Russian scientists, Russian superhumans. I walked unseen past their attempts to break past the Eigendrake’s defenses, and I watched as they were repulsed as strongly as we were.
I saw the Cathedral, where the priests would preach promises to the penitent. I passed the Exhibition of Achievements of National Economy, which Stalin and Khrushchev kept closed because exhibits could not be found. I strode past the Bolshoi Theatre, where Russia seeks to convince the West - “Behold! We too have art! We can be like you!”
The Motherland presents its geniuses to the outside world for their creative thinking, then rewards them with the gulag for daring to dissent. Inside the city, monuments to Russian greatness are built. Outside, the people starve and suffer, to atone for the crime of being Russian.
Russia is a vampire. Moscow is a testament to its endless victims. It was like this before the oligarchs, before the Party. This predation is ancient.
Right now, there is a dragon made of yellow lightning coiled around the city.
Right now, I can see the people of Moscow caught up in a charade. They act out dreams and echoes of lives not their own.
Right now, I realize the Eigendrake is a vampire.
How long has it been traveling?
A vampire’s existence is itself a lie. To tell this Eigendrake that I am not really here is a relatively simple falsehood by comparison. It must believe me. And it does.
The suit is encumbering me. It hinders my senses. There is no daylight here, and in Moscow there is certainly no purity. So I remove the suit.
The others must not know I can do this. Not yet.
I drape the suit over the bronze feet of Lenin, and make a note of where I left it. There are too many Lenin statues in the city to simply remember it as “the statue”.
If the Eigendrake is a vampire, where will it be? Where is the hunger in this city?
I walk, and I walk, and I find myself before Tsaritsyno Palace.
Of course. The home of Catherine, and a museum now. Where else would the strongest memories of Moscow reside?
I walk the grassy grounds, and behold the buildings. A hungry village could have lived here, and fed itself by farming the soil inside the walls.
I walk past people in thrall to memories not their own. They play out long-dead dramas, and I think bitterly and humorously: shouldn’t this be happening at the Bolshoi?
Here it is - the Grand Hall, with Catherine’s statue on one fenced-off side.
The core of the Eigendrake hovers here. It sparks, it glows, it floats. It is like a lightning storm wrapped up in a light bulb, the size of a large truck.
What are you hungering for? I ask it silently. What are you feasting on?
Because what the Eigendrake wants is not what these memories want. They’ve taken up residence in the minds of Muscovites. They want to be remembered. Their wants are being satisfied.
What does this entity get out of enabling them to live on? They are the passengers. But what of the train engineer? What of the bus driver?
There is a lie I tell myself as a vampire. There is a truth I’m not allowed to glimpse. But I can get hints of it when I look at others. And it makes me ask a question.
When someone dies, their soul moves to the afterlife. Their memories drift to new destinations.
Why haven’t these memories found an afterlife where they can dwell?
Or perhaps they did. In that case, what happened to it?
What could destroy an afterlife?