“It is not so much a desire as it is a necessity,” she answered. Patches remained in defensive mode, ears still pressed flat against his head. She, however, regarded him with disinterest. Her eyes fluttered, pupils narrowed into thin slits. This particular time of day was set aside for naps–for to her, the threat of gray aliens and faceless shooters paled in comparison to the damage that lack of sleep would do to her brilliant white coat–and yet she was being put upon to explain such a simple plan to their fallout boy.
Sensing some mild confusion, she turned her head and explained, “He is called thus because his fate is the result of Fontanello’s schemes. The reference stands. I shall accept no questions on the matter.”
Curious, Patches gazed in the direction she faced. He knew not to whom she was speaking, for all he saw were the shelves of books that lined the Library’s walls. Perhaps there was an audience hidden in those shadows, but he had more pressing concerns at the moment. “There must be some other form I can take!” he beseeched. “Perhaps a winged unicorn or a majestic phoenix. Something that flies!”
“Vampires fly to some degree. I have done extensive research.” Her hackles raised for a brief moment as she recalled the time spent poring through such literary drivel. “This will work most effectively against that villainous oaf. The decision has been made. If you do not accept it, then you shall be dismissed from our service.” She daintily licked a paw but her claws–and the implied threat–were apparent.
Patches’s ears drooped in resignation. He supposed life as a vampire boy was preferable to having no life at all. “May I at least know the name of the immaculate beauty who is sending me to my sparkly doom?”
“Yes, I do believe you are owed that much. I am Violetta Browne, Marchioness of Sligo, First Chair of the Council of Librarians, Great Felyne Oracle, Guardian of the White River. Like all those beneath me, you shall address me as Lady Violet.”
“Fairest Lady Violet.” Patches again graciously bowed. “I wish we met under more fortunate circumstances.”
“Believe me, Sir Patches, if it were more fortunate circumstances, we would have never met at all.” The mystery in her voice, meant to dissuade any sort of affection Patches might feel, only further encouraged them. Of all the beings he has ever met, none were as captivating as the one before him.
His adoration was interrupted by the echoing creak of the opening doors and the pitter-patter of Mr. Wickles’s feet against the marble floor. “The preparations are complete,” he announced.
“Excellent,” Lady Violet purred. “Take Patches and begin the transformations. We mustn’t delay any further.”
Wickles motioned for Patches to follow, and so Patches trailed after his friend. Glancing back one last time at the angel who has captured his heart, he mewled softly as he saw her curled on top of a red velvet pillow, as if the softest and fluffiest of white clouds descended from the sky to rest right where she lay.