"Ian Watson & Roberto Quaglia - Beloved Vampire of the Blood Comet" - читать интересную книгу автора (Watson Ian)

“Little dove, are you by any chance trying to poke holes in your bedtime story?”

“I’m just fascinated by the details.”

“Well, we had alchemical apparatus that stored solid air created earlier. You’d be amazed at how much
air you can solidify into something as small as a brick. The Impalement Drivers, as you call them, wore
bladders over their heads joined by tubes to the alchemical apparatus. Also, we used the drivers now
and then as food-animals, akin to the way the Martians behave in The War of the Worlds by H.G.
Wells. Do you realize that Orson Welles named his radio company the Mercury Theatre, and that Hg is
the chemical symbol for mercury?”

Seemingly I couldn’t fault Silviu on any detail!




“But what was the reason for this expedition?”

“To discover if our kind dwell on the Moon!”

Once again, how I envied and admired Silviu. He was undoubtedly a superior being. Admittedly he was
also dead—all vampires are dead—but Silviu only smelled slightly sweet in a nice way, like Parma
Violets. Didn’t Nietzsche say God is dead? Being dead may be why God is a superior being. The
crucifixion was a cunning plan.

“Will you ever make me into a vampire?” I asked wistfully.

“That would spoil our relationship, my pigeon. I like it as it is.”

You could call me a vampire-virgin. That’s because Silviu’s teeth never once pricked me. I was like a
pussy cat to him, to be stroked, or maybe more like a musical instrument, for when his skillful fingers
played with me I moaned melodiously; which he enjoyed. Better than Albinoni, he commented. Very
soothing, and melancholy in a delicious way. Mature vampires experience aesthetic and metaphysical
desires rather than physical ones. In the case of male vampires, I was led to believe, their penises never
stiffen with blood flow.

I first met Silviu while I was returning to my hotel on the Riva degli Sciavoni late at night. I had stared in
wonder at his beautiful white hair and the long black velvet cloak he wore over a harlequin costume. I,
Colombe Duval, had come to Venice from Paris with my camera for carnival time. I was in advertising
and was preparing a campaign for an expensive new mascara containing depleted uranium dust, called
Maskara, to give eyelids that heavy, sultry, radioactive look.

Silviu was wearing a minimal black mask, emphasizing his mesmeric gaze. I gazed, mesmerized. He also
gazed in admiration at my long red hair—and then in a trice he had collected me, in his very strong arms,
and he ran swiftly and effortlessly along the waterside promenade while I offered no resistance.

Did a maiden struggle when abducted by a Greek god? I think traditionally she did, fearing rough sex
followed by a dose of homeric herpes Zeustor. I didn’t struggle.

Soon my adoration for Silviu grew and grew. Forget about depleted uranium mascara! Forget about