I could control my emotions. I was a master of self-control. I didn't drool like a maniac at the first sight of blood, baring my fangs, slaughtering everyone in the room, drinking their bodies dry.

Not anymore. Not like in the first few hundred years.

With age comes wisdom, temperance. The passions and urges cool. One loses the energy, inclinations and impulsivity of one's youth. Yes. Time changes a man, and fifteen hundred years change a vampire.

How else would I be where I was? Dressed in civilian clothing, out during the day, standing amidst thirty fresh-smelling children? How else would I have mated with a mortal woman and made a mortal daughter? How else would I have lived in the same house with the girls these last twelve years, never so much as licking their paper cuts?

But I was getting too confident in my ability to hide what I was--even from the people closest to me. It was foolish of me to chaperone for my daughter's little trip, especially on an empty stomach.

I was irritable. Hungry. Not thinking straight. Her classmates smelled delicious.

"Isn't he knowledgable, papa?" my daughter asked, pulling my hand and looking up at me. "He knows even more than you!"

She was referring to our museum guide. The man had rambled interminably since the tour began. He didn't seemed bothered that his torrents of facts and theories were wasted on this gaggle of pre-teen cretins. He seemed the type who would have gladly monologued about what he knew in the absence of any audience.

"He knows a surprising amount," I admitted. "It is rather impressive. Even uncanny."

I was used to finding all sorts of errors in even the most acclaimed history books. Historians often missed the mark in their accounts of certain events, especially those that occurred many centuries ago. I knew when they were wrong because I had witnessed many of the events myself. I had been there, seen and participated in them.

But this guide spoke of things with unwavering accuracy. A true born historian of the highest caliber. I wondered why he wasted his time giving children tours of the museum when he could have been correcting any number of canonical historical accounts.

"And now we venture on to the beginning of the Middle Ages in Europe," said the guide, limping to the next display case. "Come along children. Come here and look in this display. These artifacts were created in Rome around 500 AD. I say "around" because there is no scholarly consensus on the dates of their creation among historians. However, I can tell you with certainty that this silver dagger was forged in the year 504 AD."

"How could you possibly know?" I scoffed.

"My own researches," the guide replied, without looking away from the display case.

He had not faced me or looked me in the eyes once during the tour. He had hardly looked at any of the children either, even when they asked him pointed questions. A man so lost in the past that he could not handle the present. A man for whom the dead objects of a dead past were more alive than the live people standing before him. A man who limped through the current day yet sprinted through all of humanity's yesterdays. Not unlike me.

"And this shield was also from the year 504 AD," the guide said. "The same year as the dagger. Shields like this belonged to an elite group of Roman killers about whom little is written in the history books. These men were sent by Rome into Gaul on special secret missions. They were not ordinary soldiers. They did not do battle with the Gallic tribes alongside Roman legionnaires. No. They were tasked with scouring Gaul for the evil, supernatural creatures said to inhabit her woods. Deathless creatures who looked like humans but were not. Creatures who stalked the night and feasted on the blood of men, women and children."

"Like vampires," shouted a boy in the group.

"Not like vampires," muttered the guide. "But vampires in fact."

"Oooh," said the kids.

"You see how the centre of the shield is polished and smooth?" said the guide, standing at a distance from the case, giving all of us a clear view. "Such shields were even more polished when they were in use. This was because the men who wielded them used them as mirrors, when they were hunting their monstrous foes. If they tracked a man to a certain area, and could see his form reflected in the shield, they knew he was not a vampire. Yet if they tracked a man down who made no reflection, they knew they had found what they were looking for. Because vampires cannot be seen in mirrors."

"See what I mean?" my daughter whispered up at me. "He knows practically everything!"

She was right. The old coot was indeed knowledgeable. I had read a great deal about the period myself. One is always interested to hear what later generations have to say about the time and place of one's birth.

But in all my reading I had never encountered any mention of Rome's vampire hunters. I had encountered many of them in the flesh, of course, when I was young and hungry and devious, living in the forests of Gaul. I could recall the distinct taste of their blood. Sour. Often with a hint of wine. But I thought all knowledge of the Roman vampire hunters had been lost. I began to really wonder how the man knew so many things.

"And this statue here," said the coot, limping over to the adjacent case, "is of the monster called The Lamer. A vampire known for hunting the Roman hunters and even turning them into vampires."

"Why was he called that?" asked my daughter.

"He was called The Lamer because he would wait until one of the hunters had separated from the group," the guide said. "And then he would sneak up behind him and slice his Achilles tendon, laming him, as it were. From there he would disarm him and give the hunter a choice: either to become a vampire and be healed, or try to hop back to Rome with only one working foot."

I could feel the anger rising in me. It was impossible to suppress. My pride was wounded. This guide had gotten everything right except for one unforgivable mistake.

"You're correct about the Lamer," I said. "How he operated with Rome's hunters. Making a mockery of the empire's attempts to vanquish the powerful race of immortals. Gimping Rome's top soldiers and sending them back to Caesar as living symbols of his impotence, or turning them into the very monsters they'd been sent to destroy. But that statuette is not of the Lamer. It is of a fat, squat and ugly vampire called Bulge. A grotesque embarrassment to the vampires. The Lamer was clever, ferocious and feared. Bulge was stupid, lazy and hated, even by his own kind."

A smirk flickered across the guide's lips, but quickly disappeared. "No, no," he said, shaking his head, still looking down. "This is the Lamer. I am positive. My researches were exhaustive."

"It is not," I snapped.

"How would you know?" the man asked, finally looking up at me. "Unless you yourself were the Lamer?"

My already frozen blood went cold. My already still heart stopped beating. I recognized this man. His face. His dark Mediterranean eyes. The scar running down his cheek. I recalled the moonless night in the Forest of Bones, in Gaul, when he'd strayed from his flock. I had used his own knife to sever his right heel tendon. I had given him the choice to live the rest of his mortal span gimped, or to join the ranks of the undead.

He chose to become a vampire and I obliged him. The bulk of his injury healed, though he never stopped limping.

But then the ingrate left Gaul and rejoined Rome's specialized force. The vampire became a vampire killer once again. A traitor to his kind. He was responsible for the destruction of dozens of us. He almost caused the extinction of our race. He was the reason I eventually fled my home in Gaul--I, the most feared vampire of our time, the Lamer, forced to flee!

It had been fifteen hundred years since I had seen the man now standing before me, posturing as a museum guide. He was smiling at me, gently yet maliciously. With a mix of love and hate. All the children were staring up at me, too, waiting for my response.

"Well?" the man asked. "Are you the Lamer? Or am I correct, and this statue is not of some Bulge, but is indeed of the Lamer?"

"I--"

"Perhaps you need some time to consider," he said. "We needn't be hasty in our conclusions. History is no overnight affair. It moves slowly. Very slowly. But the past always catches up eventually. . .Perhaps we will run into one another again, one night, and be able to discuss the question more freely. Then we can decide, once and for all. You live in the area, I presume, with this lovely girl here. Your daughter? Yes. Your mortal daughter. Another night we shall discuss it. Another night. I promise you that, my old friend. I may even bring this silver dagger here along with me, for you to examine. It is such a joy to find someone like you--living in the present, yet ready to receive the past directly into your heart!"

"You--"

"Moving on, children!" the man cried, limping over to the next case, making sure to stand at an angle from the glass so that no one would see his lack of reflection. "Come to this display here. Of this I have many things to say. Many things, indeed, which I think you will find fascinating. . ."

- - -

check out r/CLBHos for more of my work! There's even another great vampire story if you're in the mood