The Vampire Is Terrible at Small Talk

How it begins

The vampire's first attempt at small talk concerned drainage.

A pigeon watched from the canal wall, apparently unconcerned by either immortality or the commercial difficulties of local tourism.

"This street flooded in 1842," he told the two remaining tourists. "They finally repaired the channel. A very satisfying winter."

Iris Dorr closed her eyes.

She had hired him to bring menace to the midnight tour. The advertisement promised ancient secrets, forbidden encounters, and a complimentary hot drink. So far, Ivo Neri had provided municipal history and asked whether anyone needed the toilet.

One tourist checked her phone. The other leaned forward.

"What happened to the houses?"

Ivo brightened. "They raised the doorsteps. You can still see the old level under that window."

He pointed with an elegant hand that had, according to his references, opened the same front door for two hundred and thirty years.

Iris followed his finger. She had walked past the window every working night for a decade and never noticed.

The interested tourist took a photograph.

"My father used to repair flood damage," she said.

For the next seven minutes, the vampire listened.

Iris stood beneath a streetlamp, holding a lantern she no longer needed, and watched her failing business become briefly unlike anything she'd advertised.

After the tourists left, Ivo waited beside the old canal.

"I wasn't frightening," he said.

"No."

"I did warn you."

"You also said you knew every dark secret in the city."

"Mostly they concern landlords."

She laughed. He looked surprised, then pleased, then as though he was trying not to appear pleased.

Across the water, the last tram crossed the bridge. Iris could hear the familiar rattle, the sound she associated with closing up and going home alone.

"Would you like coffee?" she asked.

Ivo considered this with great seriousness.

"Is that a question with another question inside it?"

"Possibly," Iris said. "We could find out."