"I found myself thinking about President William McKinley, the third American president to be assassinated. He lived for several days after he was shot, and towards the end, his wife started crying and screaming, "I want to go too! I want to go too!" And with his last measure of strength, McKinley turned to her and spoke his last words: "We are all going."---John Green, Looking For Alaska

30 décembre 1802
Roma, Italie

Dearest Journal-Friend

I must apologise for not having written for very long. I do have a very good excuse, my constant companion.

I am very much dead now.

Before that saddens you too much, you should also know that in a way, I am also alive. Michel tried to murder me. I should be angry about that, but in all fairness, I also tried to murder him. Now we are both dead, but I am the only one able to write to you.

The ordeal was painful and humiliating, one I think meant to break me. I never even knew what he was, Papa's friend and our neighbour. I thought he was simply a lonely middle-aged apothecary as lost as the rest of us. But he is something more, something different, and he made me that too.

It was not out of kindness. He wanted a beautiful and obedient wife, a doll that would be always alluring and cooperative, no matter what he asked. And so he made himself my Sire--my second father, my lover, my husband, my master. The bond between a Sire and his Childe forms into something so strange that somewhere along the line, saying no or rebelling against the Sire's wishes is almost an impossibility. As he was telling me this, what I was, what he had made me, I had only two thoughts.

The first was that I must get away before the bond took. The whole ordeal should have incapacitated us both for days, but I fought it. I am not a large-boned woman, but my mind is stronger than any realise. The coachman, Henri, he helped a good deal and I should not have survived without him. He traveled with me from Romano's estate and I suppose he figured there was no going back. It would have been better for him to leave me, but the state I was in, I may have killed him and not realised it. Either that, or there is honour amongst thieves. He helped me to take everything owed me from that house, my childhood home that became my final resting place. It was a long journey, but finally, he got us to Rome.

I left Odelie behind with Nathalie, her nursemaid. The woman has sense and will take good care of my daughter. With me, like this, the poor girl would never survive. I am certain to end up on some executioner's block somewhere. In the blur of a month, I have killed fifty-two people.

There will be a fifty-third. The man who made me this way to satisfy his every whim and deranged pleasure for eternity will never know eternity. He did not wish to give me life, he simply wished to own a treasure who could not break free. But I did. And now, that is the second thought, to punish the man who saved my life by torturing me and inflicting insults upon me that made me wish to die.

It was never my choice, not really. Something inside me is too strong to accept death, no matter the price of the alternative. Anyone who knows me well knows I do one thing better than anyone else: I survive.

I am safe now, thanks to good fortune and a wily criminal of a coachman. Almost as soon as I arrived to the city, thinking to seek sanctuary and a room to sleep and gather my thoughts, I met Lucretia.

She is a beautiful woman who is almost a porcelain doll, and speaks as if she has been someone important for a long time, though she could be no older than thirty. Lucretia Laila Aurelius, she called herself. It sounded like a name designed to be remembered.

As I looked at the beautiful Church, she grasped my hand and whispered, "The only sanctuary offered there is another death. Did no one teach you?". Instead, we ended up at Lucretia's beautiful home. She is teaching me everything I need to know about being what I am, and also about being a proper noblewoman in Rome. I still am a Duchesse, after all, even if the rumour is that I am dead. If the rumour is false, I am the sole heir to our estate after the untimely passing of my brother.

Here in Rome, they are kind and send looks of consolation, as I arrive in mourning for my husband and brother. I am covered by more clothing than I ever wear and it is itchy and unfashionable. There is a small cross around my neck. It turns out, that thing about crosses is just a rumour but the Church thing is very true. "Entering holy or sanctified ground will make it as if you never existed," Lucretia's voice had said.

She is taking great pains with me, treating me like a sister. She is a Contessa, though women participate little in politics or in anything, really. It is far from the lively Court I knew what seems like so long ago, or even life in Firenze, which had austerity but concealed laughter and debauchery.

There is a lot to know, but Lucretia is taking care of everything, including Henri. I have never seen a woman who so much desired attention and admiration. She is a proper lady who behaves like a courtesan and speaks like a sailor when no one is looking. Maybe that is what happens if you live such a dull existence as what Rome seems to be. However, it is safe, and that is of the utmost concern. When I have healed from the change and completed my mourning, she will help to cement my safety through marriage to a titled Catholic man. I think I remember asking if he could please be less than fifty and she laughed as if I'd told her a bawdy joke.

As a child, there were stories of what I am, immortal beings who relinquished their souls in exchange for eternal existence at whatever age they died. Some say they are monsters, surviving only by the blood of others, enjoying the pain and suffering they inflict. Others say they are merely legend.

I know the legends are true, for it is what I am now, an immortal Eleni. I have learned we are not all the same, there are bloodlines that run as deep as human bloodlines, each with their own strengths and disadvantages. I do not know as much as I should, but I know I am called  La Morte Enchantée--The Enchanted Dead. Those like me are made in the image of the goddess Astarte, daughter of the Egyptian deities Isis and Osiris. They become confident and awe-inspiring beings, like Lucretia. I cannot ever imagine being awe-inspiring.

It is said Astarte was so terrifyingly beautiful, mortals would end their lives in grief over having seen something so glorious that could never be possessed. Astarte was brought tributes, sacrifices, and had everything a beautiful young woman could want, except for one small thing. Astarte wished to be loved, not for the radiant masquerade that covered her and made so many die for longing of her, but for herself, in the way mortals do.

She tried and tried, but every love affair with a mortal broke her heart and ended a life. Her gift was also the thing that condemned her to never be truly happy, and so Astarte became often self-destructive. When she looked in the waters of the Nile, she did not see a beautiful goddess. She saw the face of a hideous and deformed monster unworthy of love.

Now, that is what I am. La Morte Enchantée.

It is something very strange to know that one day I shall die again. How many people are able to say they have lived and died twice?

Does that make you love me less, dearest Journal-Friend? Will the pages crumble to dust beneath my fingers if I touch them? I could not bear to hurt you.

Your recently deceased, but still loving,

Eleni

The walk in the rain from the Red Question to the police station was not a particularly long one, but when it was raining and water took up residence in everyone's shoes, a walk from anywhere to anywhere wasn't the most pleasant journey. Over the years, the Sheriff had tried everything from shower caps to his trusty bright yellow poncho to shower shoes to make feeling shriveled up and uncomfortable less of a problem.

While the rest of the Parish seemed content to simply wait for the rain to stop and run before it started again, Colton walked in his bright yellow poncho and black umbrella, constantly threatening to blow inside out. Today's look was topped off by a rain hat that looked like a child's fingerpainting had been turned into beachwear. It didn't fly off, but it looked as sad and droopy as the Sheriff's face.

Walking into the office, he shakes off the hat and pulls off the yellow poncho, throwing them all unceremoniously in the corner. As he eases into the chair, he pulls off his shoes. Either Colton or the chair makes a tired, creaking sound, and he's not sure which. For no particular reason, he hits the space bar and the screensaver pops up. It's a picture of a small collection of houses by the shores of a very white, almost green body of water.

Clicking on the "Want to know more?" icon, the Sheriff hmms. He does want to know more. Every day, the screen shows a beautiful place he's never been and he wonders what it would be like to live there. Today's tells him the name of a tiny town in Italy that was built near the edges of a now inactive volcano. That would definitely be an adventure.

The Sheriff would have no such adventures today. Brian had been left behind at the Red Question with the unenviable task of tracking down a woman who'd render the poor boy blushing and speechless. Colton laughs as he pulls of the wet socks. Someone did need to find the New Orleans socialite, but sending Brian was like mailing a "Get Out Of Jail Free" card if the woman was responsible. She'd probably talk him into driving the getaway car. Colton had given the boy the task partially to entertain himself.

Meanwhile, he had taken on the equally thankless job of making a phone call to Mira Zenkova. It was the last phone call he wanted to make, a condolence call to the widow of a man everyone knew and no one would miss.

If visiting widows and children face-to-face to inform them of a man's death was awkward, emotional, and sometimes volatile, the phone didn't make things a bit easier. On top of it, he just assumed the woman was Russian. Colton didn't know a word of that, but the snowy weather might make a nice change from the constant humidity of Aubrey Parish. It wasn't as if he had no experience with wet boots.

Looking at the contact information, the Sheriff sighs. Victor had spent years telling stories about his life with Mira, how beautiful she and the kids were. He only had one picture, which made him feel a pang of sympathy for the club owner. He was no role model as a father, certainly no one's idea of a perfect husband. Victor always said it was better for the kids he didn't visit. He was probably right, but every man deserved pictures of his wife and kids for his wallet.

Colton Ormond had missed the part of life where that was possible, days moving by in such a way he never noticed anything much missing from his life. When it finally occurred to him what was, it was too late. He wouldn't be the Sheriff forever. The only woman he ever really cared too much for would be gone. She was never his to begin with. He had just been lucky enough to borrow her.

Eventually, the days would grow empty, as they always do for men of a certain age. Some, like Victor Zenkova, would try to stay young as long as possible. Others embraced the loneliness of life well-lived, regrets tucked away, and confusion over what to do with life's remaining decades. Still others left town when there was nothing left to keep them but memories.

The Sheriff of Aubrey Parish assumed he'd fall into the last category. The screensaver, the stack of travel magazines hidden under a plant that no one notices, the empty suitcase gathering cobwebs on the top shelf of his closet all reeked of wanderlust.  Daydreams, he told himself. It was harder to admit what they truly were, plans for when no one needed him anymore.

Colton stretches and dawdles before picking up the phone. Aubrey Parish was a place that seemed ageless, and part of that stemmed from the fact that technology was always a good twenty years behind. Each building, every home, every store still had an old-fashioned phone with a squiggly cord and buttons that beep in different tones. The cord in Colton's office was perpetually and inexplicably knotted and the "7" key just whimpered a pathetic cry for help.

The Parish still sent out a phone book, which people actually put to use. Dialing "0" still would connect to an operator.

Television didn't come in 300-channel packages, and some people still watched on their reliable 50-pound square boxes. Coming across an old person with a black and white TV was not unique. Strangers didn't understand, but Aubrey Parish was a strange town where no one threw anything away and things didn't come in and out of town so easily.

The Parish was a place of nostalgia. As much as Colton daydreamed, he didn't know what it would be like to spend his days anywhere else. Maybe that was the definition of home.

After pulling himself out of his thoughts, and popping a piece of wintergreen gum in his mouth, the Sheriff decided it was time to make the call. After all, there really was no "best" time for bad news.

It was 2 PM in Aubrey Parish when Colton reached out to Mira Zenkova, in New Something-Or-Other. He was instantly surprised when he heard her voice say hello. It was a strong and beautiful sound. He knew right away it had to be Mira's voice because it reminded him of the picture, a beautiful woman who didn't know she was beautiful. "May I please speak with Mrs. Mira Zenkova?"

The polite inquiry was meant with a moment of silence. It was the silence that always displays a skepticism about answering a number the caller ID doesn't know. Aubrey Parish didn't have that problem, but Mira was part of a larger, faster world. "Yes. This is Mira, though not Mira Zenkova for long while. Who is this I am speaking to?"

Colton couldn't help but smile at the delightfully harsh accent. He shouldn't, and he felt badly, but the voice was both charming and demanding and wanted to get a chuckle from him. He didn't know Mira's maiden name, so had no clue what to call her. "Ma'am, my name is Colton Ormond. I'm the Chief Of Police down here in Aubrey Parish, Louisiana. I'm afraid I'm callin' today on account of some upsettin' news." The words drawled into the phone were firm and confident.

"You call me to tell bad news? What is bad news?" Mira's voice was the sort that punctuated every sentence with an unseen exclamation mark.

"Yes, ma'am. This mornin', police found the body of a man died as the result of a street robbery last night. People 'round these parts know him and fingerprints identify the man who died as your husband, Victor Zenkova. Ma'am, I'm wantin' to tell you how sorry we all are to have to tell you this and that the Parish will surely miss your husband." Colton didn't know how true that really was, but it seemed the right thing to say.

There is a silence on the other end of the phone. Colton waits for a minute in respect, head lowered for a moment of silence for Victor Zenkova. He'd never been Brian's sort of prayin' type, no. A man still deserved thoughts and wishes as his soul journeyed to the other side.

"Mira? Mrs. Zenkova? I know it's a big shock, but if there's anythin' at all you need, just ask. Victor spoke so highly of you and the kids. He wasn't the most perfect of men, but he had lots of love in his way. I'm sorry for his passing."

He is unprepared and yet not surprised for the sharp, almost bitter laugh on the other end of the phone. "Sorry? Why is it you are sorry when Victor is one dead? Victor was asshole, plain and simple. He always knew better, ways we would be rich and live the easy life. Victor was criminal, that's what he was. And he cheated with whores and strippers and wives of other men and called this "business."

Mira's Russian accent is punctuated with a tone that is not forgiving. However much Victor had loved Mira and his three boys, it was not a reciprocal feeling. Suddenly, Colton understood why he never had a letter, never had a new picture of Mira and the kids.

"This is what I want to know from you." Mira's voice was not wavering, almost angry in her responses. Colton didn't know why but he'd expected her to be a sweeter sort of lady. "Why do you call me now to talk about Victor? He has been gone a long time. Kids are all grown up, having kids of their own. I have new husband, better man, for long time. Why talk about Victor now?"

Colton sat back in his chair, resisting the urge to bang his head against his desk. She hadn't understood the point. Eyebrows push together when she mentions that she had remarried. Either these people didn't understand the legal necessity of divorce, or Victor had been paying alimony and support to Mira far longer than was necessary . He's slightly relieved to not have to explain the legal documents suggesting Victors impending nuptials. Mira had already moved on too. It would be nice if people told the truth about their life before they died, Colton muses to himself.

"Mrs. Zenkova." He pauses, as it dawns on him he doesn't know her name now. She wouldn't be Mrs. Zenkova anymore. "Mira. I'm calling because there was an accident. Victor was killed on the street this morning in front of his place of business. He was closing up and taking the night's profits to the bank, when he was attacked. It was a robbery and no fault of Mr. Zenkova's. Sometimes, these things, we can't keep 'em from happenin' and I'm really sorry. You understand, Mira?" He held his breath, not wanting to repeat it a third time. "Victor had his problems but he was a decent man. I'm sorry. When did you and Mr. Zenkova get divorced?"

"Do not speak to me in patronising tone, like I am child. I am not child. Of course I understand. Victor was criminal, business of criminal gets men killed. Divorce, no. No need for divorce when man dies. Met man from home country, sweet man, not criminal. Not rich, builds and makes houses, always home in time for family. Not all men are bad men." Mira clicks her tongue, sounding slightly annoyed. Colton's head drops closer to the desk. "Question is only this: why do you call to say sorry and say what happened to Victor? This already happened."

Colton Ormond is a patient man, but Mira makes him feel like he's conversing with a brick wall while watching paint dry. "It is policy. It is a thing we do when someone dies, we notify their next of kin. You were listed as his spouse, I t says here you have three children together." Colton tries to keep his tone patient, as he says. "I didn't know you were divorced. This is delicate to say, but we found some evidence that Mr. Zenkova planned to get married again. Now that makes more sense. He always spoke of you and the children fondly, Mira."

She laughs, almost a shrill sound. "Married again? This is not a possibility. No, Victor was only my husband. He kept whores and women you would call mistress, but only married to me. I am not divorced. Divorce is sin in eyes of God, even when husband is criminal asshole."

"I think you're misunderstandin' my meaning, ma'am. You could not have legally married again without divorcin' Victor. If you did, that is a crime. I don't want to upset you with all of that, but you need to be divorced before you can be married again."

Mira's voice is stubborn in its reply. "You are wrong. I would not commit sin of divorce, but is not sin when husband is dead. This, you do not understand. Woman with dead husband is called widow. It is not sin for widow to take new husband, better husband. Is smart thing, not mistake. "

A puff of air leaves Colton's lips. This was even rougher than he planned on it being. He'd take crying over stubbornly having two different conversations any day of the week. "Mira, Victor was killed just last night. Would you please verify for me that I have the right person?" Colton pauses, flipping through Victor's file.

"Victor Sergei Zenkova, late 40's, 6'2" inches tall, 195 pounds. He was tall but not overweight. He worked out a lot to keep in shape, a strong man for his age, spoke with a British kind of accent. Black hair, peach-colored eyes, a large beard. We're gonna be sendin' some samples to the lab in New Orleans to confirm everythin', but he was fingerprinted. Like you said, he had been arrested before. It made it easier to tell who he was. He was well-known here. Is this your husband Victor, the man I'm describin' here?"

There is an awkward pause on the line. "Mostly, this sounds like Victor, yes. Victor always had beard, scars from fighting, muscles from weights. I do not remember him being so old, but I do not remember me being so old either. Time has gone fast." Mira's voice softens, and sadness creeps into her voice. Colton breathes a sigh of relief. He knows he has broken through the wall. "Oldest son is same age now when I married Victor. Handsome boy. There is thing you did not get right. Who has eyes like peaches? That is fruit, not eyes. Victor had eyes brown, changed from light to dark depending on the day."

Colton resists the urge to chuckle. He didn't know anyone less vain or pretentious than Victor Zenkova but the man chose contacts to lighten his eyes. People are full of little surprises like that. The Sheriff himself has scented Chapstick in his pocket.

"I understand, ma'am. Lots of people change the colour of their eyes with contact lenses these days. I'm sure once they're removed, he will have brown eyes. I'm very sorry about Victor's passin', Mira. I am sure his lawyers will get in touch with you soon."

Mira says into the phone, in a clear and commanding voice,"Wait! Do not hang up phone!"

Colton moves his finger away from the button. He'd come so close. "Anything else I can do for you, Mira?"

"I am not understanding why you wish to say sorry now. Victor was husband a lifetime ago, not now. Now, I have new life. Your sorry is very, very late and has been upsetting."

The Sheriff taps his finger, trying to avoid the slight annoyance that crept through him. Mira Zenkova was obviously a good mother. Colton wanted to get her off the phone and storm to his room so he could slam the door. "The last thing I want is to upset you, ma'am. I know you had not seen Victor in many years and now I am gettin' you both moved on. He still talked a lot about you."

"Dead men do not talk." The statement is simple, affect-free.

"Before he died, Mira, that's what I mean. Maybe you got divorced and Victor never mentioned that part, but he thought the world of you and then some. I knew the man for close to twenty years now. He never stopped loving you and his kids. There was an old picture in his wallet of you, with three young boys. "

Colton can hear Mira's voice crack, becoming as frustrated as his own must sound. "You are back to making no sense. You were childhood friend of Victor? Why not say sorry when he died, not now, when someone else died. Sorry is very, very late. Four boys now, not three.  Also, a thing that is wrong in story you tell is why British-like accent? Victor was proud Russian man, so why not speak like one? This is wrong."

The Sheriff sits up in his chair, his posture straight instead of slouching.  "I met Victor here in Aubrey Parish, Louisiana. Like I said to you when I called, I'm the Sheriff here. He was a local--business owner for as long as I've been working with the police. I never did know why a man with a Russian name had an English accent. Maybe he picked it up in prison, on the ship?" His pen taps idly against the desk. "I'm sorry I didn't know about the fourth boy. The only picture I saw had three sons. I called you as soon as I knew for sure it was him with my own eyes. He was killed early this morning.

If it's possible to picture someone folding her arms and glaring on the other end of a phone, the tone in Mira's voice let Colton do just that. He was thankful the signal in the Parish tended to be too spotty for video chat. She answers sharply, "I told you this already, Victor Zenkova was asshole criminal. He died before knowing all children, all boys. This he would have liked.  You cannot kill a man already dead. You cannot tell him of sons. This happened long ago. "

Colton pulls a pen and paper in front of him, scrawling notes. He is less annoyed than confused. "Mira, are you tellin' me it's not Victor we found this morning? You sure you're not upset and confused because Victor passed this mornin', or pullin' my leg with this?"

"Upset, yes. This morning, no. I know not what leg pulling is. Victor died in prison, sentence for hard labour on prison ship for breaking law. Russian prisons are not so nice as American prisons. Prison is not building always, but places no one wants to go and no one visits. Siberian work camp, prison ship, underwater submarine. Is important there is no escape like American prisons have. Russians are not weak, men survive these things. Come home, still asshole criminals who teach sons to be asshole criminals. I tell Victor no to this. Upset that he is dead, yes, but time has passed now. Upset gets easier. "

Colton shakes his head. It was the widows who were the hardest to take, especially ones whose stories didn't line up with scientific evidence. "The problem is this, Mira. We got a man passed on this mornin'. This man is one I knew named Victor Zenkova and he looks mostly like the one you married long ago."

The pen taps the paper, and the Sheriff's face is one of confusion. Nothing was making sense anymore, and the more he spoke to Mira, the more puzzled he was becoming. "Now, I could believe two men with the same name is causin' this confusion except this one had a picture of you and your boys. He talked about all of you the whole time I knew him. How did your husband pass, Mira? And when? I'm sorry for upsettin' you, I truly am. This is very important."

There is silence, but the woman's voice returns. The sound tells the Sheriff she is growing agitated to the point of hanging up.  "I do not know of man died this morning, though this is sad. It is not same Victor, no. Victor died because of prison ship. Outbreak of disease killed all men, nearly one hundred and fifty men on ship. Prisoners and guards too. Ship threw dying men overboard, but too late for all. Ship ends up sinking in ocean. Where, they do not say. No one ever says these things." 

Mira makes a soft hmm, as if she is trying to remember. "Year was nineteen hundred and ninety-two. Four boys, no husband, no sin of divorce. This is when I came to United States. Governments help when they say sorry. So you see now? Men do not die twice."

Colton stands up, beginning to pace around the room. "I do see, Mira. I'm not sure how to explain the mistake that happened today. Men can't die twice but this one looked just like your husband and went by the very same name, even the middle name. Did Victor have any brothers, maybe any cousins who look just like him?"

Mira laughs, telling the Sheriff he's asked a stupid question. "Of course. Victor had large family. Russian families, all large families. Brothers, yes. Cousins, yes. No--what is the word I mean? None born at the same time and looking alike." Mira pauses and says, "I am sorry for woman whose husband was killed today, yes. But sorry for Victor was very long time ago. You do not call again about Victor, please? This part of life, I have already mourned."

The phone line clicks, and Mira Zenkova's voice disappears, becoming a faint whisper washed out to sea.

Colton sits back in his chair, tapping the pen against the notepad in annoyance. This was a simple open and shut case if there ever was one. A man he'd known nearly two decades had died. Unfortunate, but simple.

It was less simple when the widow claimed the man was dead before Colton ever met him, the victim of a diseased prison ship that left no survivors. While Victor Zenkova looked like the sort of man to survive a prison ship sinking, Aubrey Parish wasn't its likely destination.

Colton thinks idly how little he actually knew about Victor. He just assumed he was an ex-con, a Mafia lifer who found a safe little town to call home where no one would murder him.

Except, someone had murdered him, and Colton wasn't even sure if Victor was ever Victor.

Whether it was a day or two decades ago, somewhere along the line, the ultimate crime happened. A man named Victor Zenkova had faked his own life, and death.

Hurriedly, Colton pulls out his cell phone and dashes a text to Brian. "ID on victim Victor Sergei Zenkova needs confirmation. Long story. No need to track down the girl in case she runs."

Mira was wrong, dead wrong.

By some extraordinary feat of nature, the owner of the Red Question had managed to die twice.