As time moved on Athena and I moved with the population, going where the ‘Capital of the World’ was—be it Istanbul, London or Paris. Always we lived in the center of the world, in the middle of the mortal world, our immortal eyes watching with both sorrow and joy as the world turned ever onward. Some things changed with the passing years—religion and technology and humans. Many things, however, were unchanging in the face of the passing years. War still raged over the land, poverty still killed children and cruelty echoed for years after the deed was over and done.
In the face of eternity my name changed little—from Atum to Jason, to John, to Jonathan and back to John when time dictated the change. Athena also wore many titles both before and during my time with her. Oftentimes she would become a folk legend that has never been connected to vampires. During my years of watching History march by I often read stories of Goddesses and women heroes that I knew, in my unbeating heart, were indeed Athena.
For the Gypsies she was Saint Sara, sometimes called Sara the Black. Some mortal historians trance this woman (whom they call Sara the Black Goddess) back to the Indian vampire, Kali, who wears a garland of corpses and skulls, has four arms and whose temples were always near cremation grounds.  Among our kind there is no evidence that Kali, who gains vampiric status by drinking the blood of the demon Raktabija, ever existed. Perhaps she was another supernatural being, who has since died or gone into hiding. Or perhaps she was a vampire—one who played the game of deception so well that vampires as well as mortals were fooled by her charade.
To the Gypsies Athena was a native of Upper Egypt who was the Egyptian servant of one of the Marys whom are in the bible. One the three Marys reached France they baptize Sarah. I do not know how this holy woman became a legend who was either played by Athena or inspired by her.
The Gypsies are among my favorite of the vampire myth tellers. In their myths a vampire is called a mullo, meaning one who is dead. In these stories a mullo is one who returns from the dead to do malicious things to a person who did something in life for which the dead person desires revenge. Gypsies also carry the belief of dhampire—half vampires and in legend it is only a dhampire who can destroy a vampire. Of course any true vampire can instantly tell that the dhampire is just a normal vampire who poses as a human in order to kill others.

I often wonder what became of my Athena, for once I made clear my plans to voyage to America she left me, heading—if rumor is true—towards the Far East. I have never heard from her, although I ask every vampire I meet to enquire of her and send her towards me. Perhaps she has found some new vampire to play hero to her goddess...however I like to think that she has found Zakin. Although, as you may guess, it is more likely that she had learned or thinks her Zakin is dead and has either followed in his footsteps or dove deep into the ground, never again to rise.
I see you are confused by this talk of the ground, so I shall clarify. We of the vampiric race, not being able to die easily, have been sometimes known to dig ourselves into the ground to sleep in the earth. I have never done such a thing, but some say it makes the passing years easier to bear and heals horrible wounds faster then normal. However it is very easy, in this underground sleep, to lose count of the years that pass overhead and to die. Yes it happens that we die in this way, all the blood being used up in our bodies so that we consume our own flesh, destroying ourselves from the inside out, till all that is left is a skeleton deep in the earth, left there for archeologists to puzzle over. You have, perhaps, heard of skeletons that have been found embracing each other? My theory on this is that they once were vampires, who lost the will to live and chose to die in each other’s arms...not a bad way to end immortality...
As I was saying, I had decided to go to America. At the time we were living in France, in a quaint little seaside village who’s name I never quite managed to pronounce. News had just started to reach our ears of how prosperous the Colonies of Britain were. I was interested by the idea of such a lush new world to explore and the historian that seems to lurk within every vampire was rising to the forefront.
And so I went across the Atlantic, living on rats and the occasional sailor, though I had to be careful so that the other passengers would not think me a murder. But eventually I reached the New World. By the time I had set myself up in American and knew all I needed to know to live there, the people had begun to grow tired of Britain’s rule. The Americans were fighting to have their own nation—and I joined in that fight. I was there when the American’s defeated the British and I was there as a new nation was crafted in a strange New World.
I do not know what to say of those years between founding and tearing apart of the nation, for there is not much to tell. I stayed in the North mostly, and it was no surprise that, when the Civil War erupted, I was among the first to join the Union’s army.

“If there is any place on God’s fair earth where wickedness ‘stalketh abroad in daylight’ it is in the army” one Confederate soldier would later write to his family and those words were as true and undisputable as ‘the sky is blue’.
Although the camps were supposed to be nicely ordered, they too often were mud holes with too few tents for the men and too little food. Clean water was never in good supply and food was full of maggots and weevils...had I actually needed the food I ate I am sure that I would have died from some disease. We drank pots of what we called coffee, but what could be anything that would pass for that dark liquid. Life in these camps as different from the pure terror of battle as heaven is from hell. When we were not fighting or moving the days, hours and even minutes in the camp could drag on endlessly. We played any game we could think of, sometimes racing lice or cockroaches across strips of canvas. We made alcohol from bark juice, tar-water, turpentine, brown sugar and lamp oil, or bought/stole it from a nearby town. The men enjoyed horizontal refreshments—prostitutes from town at night while I stalked animals or prisoners for my meals.
At this time I called myself Jonathan, the first name I found when looking for a modern version of Jason and kept because my initials were still JA. Before I had been Jason Atum, now I was Jason Adams.
The war progressed for me much like any other soldiers...save for one battle. It was in York County, at the battle of Hanover, that I found another vampire who was in the Great War between brothers. The battle of Hanover started when General J.E.B. Stuart’s cavalry attempted to ride north to get around the Union army, but they attacked a Union regiment and drove them through the streets of Hanover. My regiment arrived to counterattack and we managed to stalemate them for some time. During that night I ran through the battlefield, searching for my next meal among the dead and dying men. It was then I sensed another vampire nearby and I let him know that I was there and requested that we see each other—all of this was custom that Athena had taught me.
I walked towards him and he walked towards me when, with a shock I realized two things. One was that this vampire wore the outfit of a Confederate and the second was that he was no common vampire, but indeed he was...
“Heru.” I gasped, not believing that he stood in front of me, hair freshly shorn and a healing wound on his cheek. “I thought you were dead.”
“Atum.” he responded coming closer. “And I thought you were dead. We thought Amisi had killed you, for when I came down to find you, to make you one of us, you were not there.”
“Amisi, is she alive?”
“I do not know. When I killed the Lord and Lady to gain control of the Coven she fled. I have not heard of her since. But now I find you...here,” he motioned around at the dying me, “and fighting for the Union.”
“I agree with them. Have you heard from a female vampire who once went by the name of Athena? She is very old, one of the oldest to walk the earth.”
“I have not and I should hope I do not. Why would I wish to speak to one of the Ancient Ones? They are all mad, with their talk of an original vampire and a creator who I do not know.”
It was at that moment that I realized Heru was one of the ‘Coven Vampires’ so called because they prescribed to the belief that we were damned by God. These vampires either were eternally seeking redemption, as I believe Heru was, or they were eternally trying to destroy the plans of God. “By what name do you now voyage, Heru?” I asked, walking around to inspect him. “I go by Jonathan Adams.”
“My name is Alexander Journey and I control my own coven back in Richmond. We are so strong, you must see how great we are. Several of my flock are close to redemption and....as for you?” he inquired, thinking I would tell him of my good deeds done.
“I am not of a coven Heru. I follow no one and I know that we have all sprung from one font of blood.” With this remark Heru hissed at me for, even though I had once been his best friend, I was now his deepest enemy.
“Heretic.” he hissed, stepping forward and picking a broken bayonet off the ground.
“I am sorry my old friend.” I whispered, before darting forward and, with a single move that Athena had taught me, I froze his body and bit into his neck. This is how one vampire kills another, by taking all of that vampire’s blood into their own body. I am so sorry. I whispered to Heru as I drank and drank until no more would come. I dropped his body and watched as it lost its marble completion and lay—truly dead—on the battlefield. I went back to camp and lay down in my tent before I started weeping and found I could not stop.
One of my fellow Union soldiers heard me and rolled over, asking why I cried. I looked over at him, in the darkness, knowing he could not see my face and whispered that I had just been on the battlefield and had seen the face of a dead Confederate...my only brother, Alexander. The other man nodded, understanding the nature of the war and, with a few words of comfort, he rolled over and went back to sleep. After that night I quickly wrote a letter to Athena, writing in secret languages of so long ago, which Historians have never known and most likely will never know. I wrote to her of Heru, of his death and how I missed her company. I wrote to her as I would have never dared speak to her, asking that she come back to me. Once I had finished I sent the letter to a vampiric friend of mine in Boston—a Lady Vampire who I had stayed with on occasion. She sent it to a vampire in Europe with the request that it go from hand to hand until it found Athena or one of her friends. This was how we did things in those days and indeed, we still do it today. The vampiric community, though by no means close-knit, is connected far better then any mortal family. However I do not know if Athena ever got my message, or if it just circulated until someone decided it was too old and destroyed it.
Athena did not come. Athena never came and I never heard of her. When the first World War broke out I was eager to go, so that I could find other vampires and ask them to help me find her. I made several vampiric friends in that war which I continue to hold dear to my heart—but Athena had vanished and no one knew where she had gone. Slowly I began to find that I was the eldest vampire who had not been killed, killed him or herself or gone into the ground. Pretty soon I held the role that was truly Athena’s. I was the eldest vampire who continued to meet other vampires and, as times changed I became the one who kept the knowledge of our heritage...of Zakin and his pact, of Kaiyana, his first child. Often I found myself crying for the loss of my mentor, I terrified young ones with my screams and there was a time when the mere mention of Kaiyana or Athena would cause me to break down sobbing....

To Be Continued