A few hundred years pass. We migrate to America, it's the early 2000's and computers have begun to take up where books used to be. Beepers and nonsense. The good news is, people are absorbed now in their devices that they hardly notice me.

Liam keeps around me, keeping his lazy demeanor. I fund him, and every now and then...

New York is pleasant. It's cold, so no one minds us being bundled up. I push my glasses down at we walk about the square, Liam trailing behind me.

"It's absolutely dreadful," he complains. "I say, if Cory and Topanga don't get married I'll be breaking your DVD player," he frowns, lighting a cigarette.

I toss him a disdainful backward glance, adjusting my long coat over my suit.

"What have I said about saying I say?"

He frowns grumbling a half arsed apology. I roll my eyes, but submit.

"Brilliant," I look up, stopping for a moment to catch sight of the bookshop. "Not a scratch on her."

"Oh but you can say brilliant?" Liam muses behind me. "Not to mention, you're talking to a building, you look like a lunatic."

I tap my cane on the ground. "That's precisely what I am. Get the door, Liam."

"You talk like you belong in the 16th century," he sighs, getting his keys from his Boy Meets world Fanny pack.

He suffers, and it's most unfortunate —not just from vampirism. Yes, I'm afraid he also lacks all sense of fashion. I've attempted persuading, threatening and even pleading, with him to retire that wretched thing.

He refuses and I cannot kill him despite my efforts so we persist. I shake my head.

"Leave it," I wave my hand. "We'll open later. Let's go to the gallery first," I start walking and Liam fumbles after me.

I assumed he used to float merely because it was easy and he is a lazy sack of shite. It seems it's actually because he's quite clumsy on his feet, God burn his soul.

I own a few things in New York. I've been around a long time an inordinate amount of time and when you have been alive for longer than most family trees, you learn about good business.

So I took a bite out of an Apple. I opened a Windows. Money is a necessity and eternity is already damning. An eternity in poverty is just undisguised torture.

Liam and I walk a little further, until we come up on my gallery. I open it for the day. A bookshop, A gallery and an Antiques store. I donate my old clothes to museums.

They fancy it, and often replenish my coffers when they dwindle below an acceptable level of a billion dollars.

Just one. How humble of me.

I inhale. When you walk into my gallery the first thing you will notice is the scent of Jasmine. Jasmine flowers climb the walls, giving you a fresh whiff of them as you stand in front of paintings from different eras of the same woman.

They did an article on it. They say perhaps she is a goddess. A shapeshifter. An immortal. But I know she is gone, even her bones now, dust, nothing more.

It sickens me in a way. But I am also relieved that she is at rest. I stare up at her. Her eyes are still, and even her scent is not fully captured.

The background is black. She stared at the observer, at me. Her mouth ajar.

She says...haven't I given enough.

I glance away.

"This place is so creepy," Liam shivers, standing by the door. I turn around grinning at him.

"Let's go. I wouldn't want to upset you," I smirk, smacking his head as he puts his headphones on, pressing play on his CD player.

Does he not fear? Does he not wonder when God is coming? He must be? Surely soon. Surely I've suffered enough now.

600 years. 600 years.

"I'm hungry," he mumbles.

"We've food at home," I elbow him.

"Want something fresh,"

I sigh. Im about to lecture him. About how dangerous it would be if he were ever caught. About the position he'd put us in when I've found a perfectly safe way to get blood.

A man bumps into me before I can speak.

"Excuse me," he says.

I stop. I turn around but he's gone. I sink to my knees the sun getting hotter on my back despite my many fashionable layers.

"Alastair?"

It couldn't be...can it? Can it be?

Liam hovers over me, his face creased in worry. I can't hear the words coming from his mouth.

I think...he's here.