He'd moved on to compact discs, streaming, and the like and so forth, and so putting his iPhone into the little Bose dock that would amplify its music, he flooded the villa with the "Ride of the Valkyries" and prayed the Voice would go away.
No such luck. The imbecilic, bad-tempered, and childish little monster continued to invade his thoughts.
"You are not going to persuade me to burn anyone, you idiot!" Everard snarled with exasperation.
"I will punish you for this. You are young and weak and stupid," said the Voice. "And when I do accomplish my purpose I will send an ancient one to destroy you for your disobedience."
"Oh, stuff it up your chimney, you vain little nuisance," said Everard. "If you are so high and mighty and capable of doing this, why are you talking to me at all? And why aren't you blasting all the blood drinker tramps of Rome on your own?"
Who was this fool, some ancient one buried deep underground or walled up in some ruin somewhere desperately trying to control others and ultimately draw them to his prison? Well, he was doing a very bad job of it with all this incitement to war and idle threats.
"I shall make you suffer," said the Voice, "and turn off that infernal music!"
Everard laughed. He turned the volume higher, took the iPhone out of the dock, put it in his pocket, connected the earpiece, and went out for a walk.
The Voice fumed but he could hardly hear it.
It was a lovely route he took downhill to the walled city of Siena. And how Everard loved the place, with its tiny winding medieval streets that made him feel safe, made him think of his Paris.
The Paris of today terrified him.
He even loved the bright-faced and gentle tourists who flooded Siena, pretty much enjoying what Everard enjoyed--wandering, gazing into shopwindows, and sitting in the wine bars.
Everard liked the shops and wished more were open after dark. He often sent his mortal servants down to purchase stationery for him, on which to write his occasional poems, which he then framed and hung on his walls. And he purchased scented candles and bright silk neckties.
Like many of the old ones made in the Middle Ages, he favored ornate and big-sleeved shirts, tight-fitting pants that were almost like leggings, and fancy mostly velvet coats. And these things he ordered online with his big dazzling Mac computer. But the town had fine men's gloves, and golden cuff links and such. Lots of glittering accoutrements.
He had a lot of money, accumulated over the centuries in many ways. He wasn't hungry. He'd fed in Florence the night before, and it had been a long slow delicious feast.
And so on this cool and mild evening, under the Tuscan stars, he was happy even though the Voice grumbled in his ear.
He entered the town with a nod to the few people he actually knew who gave him a wave as he passed--"the gaunt one with the big bones"--and followed the narrow street in the direction of the Cathedral.
Soon he came to the cafe he liked the most. It sold newspapers and magazines, and had a few tables set out on the street. Most of the patrons were inside tonight, as it was just a little chilly for them, but for a vampire the weather was perfect. Everard sat down, switching the music feed from Wagner to Vivaldi, whom he liked much better, and waited for the waiter to bring him his usual, a cup of hot American coffee which of course he could not and would not drink.
Years ago, he used to go to great lengths to make it appear that he ate and drank. Now he knew it was a waste of time. In a world such as this where people consumed food and drink for amusement as well as nourishment, nobody cared if he left a mug full of coffee on a cafe table so long as he left a generous tip. He left huge tips.
He settled back in the little iron chair which was likely made of aluminum and began to hum with the Vivaldi violin music as his eyes passed over the darkly stained old facades that surrounded him, the eternal architecture of Italy that had survived so many changes, just as he had.
Quite suddenly his heart stopped.
In the cafe across from him, seated at an outdoor table with their backs to the tall building behind them, sat an ancient vampire and what appeared to be two ghosts.
Everard was too terrified to even take a breath. At once, he thought of the threat of the Voice.
And here sat this ancient one not fifty feet from him, the color of waxen gardenias with bright deep-set black eyes and short well-groomed snow-white hair, looking directly at Everard as if he knew him, and beside him these two ghosts, clothed in bodies of particles, though how he knew not, both staring at him too. These creatures appeared friendly. What was the chance of that?
These ghosts were magnificent. No doubt about that. Their bodies appeared wondrously solid, and appeared to be breathing. He could even hear their hearts. And they wore real clothes, these ghosts. So very clever.
But ghosts had been getting better and better at passing for human for centuries. Everard had been seeing them in one form or another ever since he was born. Few had been able to form particle bodies for themselves in those long-ago days, but now it was fairly common. He frequently glimpsed them in Rome in particular.
But of all the modern apparitions he'd seen on city streets throughout Europe, these two were absolutely the best.
One ghost, the nearest to the ancient vampire, appeared to be a man of perhaps fifty with wavy iron-gray hair and a somewhat-noble face. His bright eyes were crinkled with a friendly expression and he had an agreeable almost pretty mouth. Beside him sat the illusion of a man in his prime with short well-groomed ashen hair and gray eyes. All were neatly dressed in what anyone in this day and age would call fine and respectable clothes. The younger male ghost had a proud bearing and actually turned his head and looked about him as if he were enjoying these moments in the busy little street no matter why the trio had come here.
The vampire with the full well-groomed white hair gave a little nod to Everard, and Everard went silently crazy.
He sent the telepathic message, Well, damn you, blast me if you intend to do it. I'm too frightened to be civil. Get on with it but first, first, I demand that you tell me why.