When I hear someone say that, it gives me a thrill.
I imagine I’m at something like a cotillion taking place in San Francisco’s city hall. My debut into undead society, if you will. I’m wearing a Vera Wang wedding gown to represent my purity (having never before been with a vampire) and my humanness. I descend the stairs to Tchaikovsky’s 1st piano concerto while everyone in their white tie finery watches, transfixed. Not by me, but by my maker.
At the bottom of the stairs, I am introduced, “Meet your maker.”
He looks barely older than a boy and is an English lord with a title like “2nd Marquess of Hartington” — or at least that was his title when he was alive. He died of hemophilia or consumption but was really too gorgeous to die, so a vampire turned him. I curtsey and he bows gracefully. His nearly translucent ice blue eyes betray only a hint of affection as he gently takes me and ends my human life, transforming me into a vampire as well.
No matter how that tableaux warms my heart, I would never actually believe in it. Nor would I dream of insisting that anyone else buy into it. I guess that’s the difference between atheists and believers. I have no desire to force even my most delightful fantasies on anyone else.