by Eva Alton
I thought about staying and listening to her for the rest of the night, but I was too thirsty. I tried to keep the craving at bay for as long as I could. Sometimes I managed to go for many weeks before the bloodlust got the best of me. Occasionally, I was lucky enough to snatch a felon to feed from; but more often than not, I ended up perched in the arms of a lovely warmblood who wouldn’t remember anything the next morning.
My throat itched at the thought, and I let out an unintentional growl.
“She will come back,” Francesca murmured, misinterpreting my little snarl. She kept playing, her voice almost inaudible under the metallic notes. They seemed to seep out of her fingers effortlessly, but in truth they were the logical result of centuries of consistent practice.
She was talking about Mrs. Andersson, of course.
“I hope so,” I said, letting my head sway to the music. “There are very few strays left.”
“And this one is also pleasant to the eye, isn’t she?”
Francesca loved to tease me, but tonight I was hungry, which made it harder for me to produce the witty answer she had probably expected.
“Indeed,” I replied coolly. Then I left the room, pondering where to head.
I DECIDED TO EAT SOMETHING first and went outside into the night. Instead of flying, I enjoyed the sporadic ability to walk the streets like an ordinary pedestrian. If I closed my eyes, I could imagine myself treading those same paths during the day, with the rays of the sun warming up my light-deprived skin. I could remember each pebble, the shade of each blade of grass, just like I saw them day after day from the sky, frustrated by my inability to bask in the sun just like everyone else. I had learned them all by heart, to the point that I could have reproduced them on canvas, had I still been inclined to. It was such a paradox, this yearning, after spending my mortal life in a self-imposed darkness, too engrossed in London nightlife and its many temptations to pay attention to the trifle pleasure of simply being alive.
I put my hands in my pockets and let the nightly cacophony of smells overwhelm my nostrils: it was a concoction of damp grass, pollen, litter... and of course, the sweet scent of human blood pulsing in a stranger’s arteries. My little finger caught in a small object, forgotten inside the pocket of my trousers. It was round and cold, and had a sharp point in one end.
Oh, right. Andersson’s ring, of course.
How could I have forgotten to return it? It had certainly not been the most gentlemanly thing to do. By now, she might be thinking I wasn’t much better than a common thief.
Without a moment’s hesitation, I turned on my tracks, went back to the shelter of Saint Anne’s cemetery and shifted into a faster and more discreet traveling form. A feathered one.
Dinner would have to wait.
Once in the air, I headed south, impressed as always by the glitz of the city lights below, which became more sparse as I neared the suburbs.
Mrs. Andersson’s home was the last one in a cul-de-sac full of dull, upper-middle class constructions, which were the architectural equivalent of luxury plain toast. White gables, gray pointed roofs and symmetrical dormer windows made the houses barely indistinguishable from each other to the untrained eye.
I saw the lights were on upstairs, and I entertained the idea of knocking on a window. But it was Friday evening, and I didn’t wish to be seen by guests or family members. They might not appreciate the visit of a vampire older than their neighborhood who also happened to be an accidental pickpocket.
Maybe I should just turn around.
When I was about to leave, I spotted a small, long-haired figure abruptly turning the corner. The bittersweet scent of witch’s blood almost knocked me out mid-flight. Witches’ blood wasn’t much of a vampire delicacy, but I had always been thrilled by its distinct smell. Just like the aroma of cilantro, it was hated by some and loved by others, and it usually served as an unerring conversation starter for any vampire soiree. Not that there were many of those left, since vampire hunters had decimated our population in the 1800s, forcing us into isolation if we wanted to survive.
I heard two men approaching before I saw them. They were talking to each other behind a small thicket of trees, in a wide area devoid of houses, and I caught Andersson’s name in the middle of their conversation. They were too far for her to hear them but not for my perfectly attuned vampire ears. As the woman passed by the group of trees they were hiding in, both men jumped on her and pinned her slight body against the ground.
It was clinically proven that my blood was always room-temperature, but I swear I felt it boiling in my veins as I watched the scene from the air: I hadn’t spent years tracking down one of the last stray witches of the world so that those repulsive thugs killed her in front of my very eyes.
And I was extremely hungry, too.
I plunged to the earth, shifting back into a more presentable human form, and half-smiled at how well the woman was faring on her own. She had managed to claw both men’s faces using her keys and her knuckles as a weapon. But as painful as the wounds must be for the bloodied hooligans, it was clear that it wasn’t going to be enough to deter them.
Alba Andersson was screaming, and nobody but me could hear her.
Better for me, I thought, because what I was about to do wasn’t something you would like to perform in front of a human audience.
Chapter 9
Alba
After the argument with Mark, anger and regret seethed in my gut, twisting into an ugly mass. I strode down our street, then turned toward the road which ran through a quiet park and led to the fitness café where the girls must be waiting for me.
I heard steps, and I automatically grabbed the keys out of my pocket, holding them in a “werewolf claws” position. A nearly useless defensive technique, but it eased my anxiety. My neighborhood was a peaceful place, and I told myself there was nothing to worry about.
But this time was different. Two men appeared and blocked my way, one from each side.
Abruptly, one of them tackled me to the ground, and after that, the other held me still. I struggled, aiming at their faces with my keys, my hands guided by sheer survival instinct. Blood stained their skin, but they didn’t relent.
I screamed for help, but a fat hand covered my mouth and nose, hardly allowing me to breathe. It stank of gasoline and rancid chips. When they started to drag me toward the nearby trees, I bit the man’s hand in desperation. In turn, he punched me in the face so hard that I nearly passed out.
It soon became clear that I had no chance of winning this unexpected fight. I thought about my daughters, home alone with their spiteful father, and that gave me new strength to struggle against the unknown men’s relentless grasp.
They hit me once again, and that time I went limp with pain. Terror washed over me as all the horrible ways this situation could end flashed swiftly through my mind.
Right then, a voice appeared out of nowhere.
“Release her,” it said sternly. “Immediately.”
I had heard that voice before. Although it had sounded quite different in the morning.
An elegant pair of old fashioned shoes made their appearance in front of my nose, and I knew they could only belong to one man. A man called Clarence Auberon.
The two attackers watched him with amusement and cackled, staring at his odd choice of attire.
“Hey, dude,” one shouted, “Halloween was half a year ago.”
“I don't know about you, dude,” the last word was pronounced in a mocking tone, and sounded almost comical in his English accent, “but the Night of the Dead is every night for me,” Clarence answered impassively. “And now, if you excuse me, I would like to escort this lady to her home. Or wherever she wanted to go before you interrupted her. Would you mind stepping aside?”
The second time the men started to chuckle, their laughter ended abruptly in a choked, gurgling gasp. Clarence’s nails sank mercilessly into the crook of their necks. The men struggled and tried to attack him with their knives
, but he just smirked and disarmed them with admirable efficiency. The knives flew in the air, and he twisted the thugs’ arms behind their backs, pinning them to the floor, then stacked them on top of each other in a pile.
I sprang to my knees, crawling away from the fight scene as Clarence lay his neatly polished shoe on top of the men and turned to me with a grave look.
“Mrs. Andersson, would you mind waiting for me behind that vehicle?” He pointed at a minivan parked on the other side of the street.
I rubbed my eye and struggled to stand up. “What? No. Why?”
“Because I would feel more comfortable if you didn't have to see what I'm about to do.”
Okay. I swallowed hard, and reluctantly, I did as he wished. I leaned against the car with my back toward him, and felt my legs become paralyzed with shock.
Meanwhile, the ear piercing shrieks of the men became unbearable, and I felt frozen on the spot.
“Who sent you?” I heard Clarence ask them.
No answer.
No blows either, just a disturbing sound of tearing flesh, followed by bloodcurdling cries.
Horrified, I tilted my head just a little bit and peeked at the three men with just one eye―the one which wasn’t swollen closed after the blow.
Both men were sprawled on the ground with their faces and necks lacerated and covered in blood. Clarence stood over them, his shirt sprinkled with burgundy droplets. He stared into the men’s eyes and murmured a few unintelligible words. After that, both men stopped screaming, nodded and passed out. Clarence searched their pockets with experienced proficiency, and finally, he threw them behind the shrubs.
“Sorry about the mess,” he said, looking contrite as he pulled a white handkerchief out of his waistcoat pocket and wiped his hands with a grimace of disgust.
My mouth was completely dry, but I managed to utter two words, “You didn’t...?”
“Kill them?” he said emotionlessly. “No, I didn’t. They’ll be fine, and they won’t remember anything from tonight.”
“What...? Who...? How...?” I stammered.
He shook his head and offered me an arm.
I looked at him and hesitated.
Should I trust him?
For some unfathomable reason―maybe just sheer despair―I actually wanted to. At that point, nothing in my life seemed stable anymore. Funnily enough, the steadiest thing I could see around was that man who called himself a vampire and had just appeared from nowhere to offer me an elbow to lean on.
“Please, allow me,” he said, then he scrutinized my face with a frown. “Are you hurt? Should I take you to a hospital?”
The invisible chains which had kept me paralyzed started to melt, and I let out a ragged breath.
“I’m okay, thanks,” I lied, settling clumsily against his sturdy side. “I just need to get home and put a pack of ice on my eye. It’s just... too much for one day.”
“Had you seen these men before?” Clarence said, guiding me to the place where he had left them. They lay unconscious behind the bushes, and I observed with relief that he had told me the truth: they were still breathing.
I nodded slowly. “I think so. These are the ones who were following me this morning. I have no idea who they are or what they might want from me. Maybe just robbers.”
“Hmm,” Clarence said, scratching his chin. “It’s hard to tell. I will talk to Elizabeth about it; she might know something. At least they won’t follow you for a while.”
“Why are you so sure? What happens when they wake up?”
“They won’t remember anything from the last few days. At least not anything related to any of us.”
I raised my eyebrows, eyeing the man next to me with incredulity. “What on earth...?”
“Let’s say I have a talent to make people forget things,” he said mysteriously.
I stopped walking, and I blinked with incredulity. “Can you... hypnotize people? Make them do whatever you want?” After all I had seen in the last hours, nothing seemed impossible anymore.
He smiled. “Ah, I wish I could. I just erase their short-term memories, that’s it. For anything more sophisticated, you might need to hire a witch.”
“A witch, huh?” I tried to arch an eyebrow, but my whole face was throbbing after the blow.
“I will take them somewhere else later, so they don’t wake up so close to your house.”
We walked arm in arm until the end of the street, and I found his tall, silent presence oddly reassuring. I wondered whether I shouldn’t be appalled after what he had just done, even if it had been to help me.
As my house appeared in the distance, I pondered what I would tell Mark the next morning when he asked about my shiner. I might just tell him that I had hit my head with a cabinet door.
“I reckon this is your house,” Clarence said, as we reached the edge of the lawn.
Then, he put a hand in his pocket and retrieved a small item out of it.
“I forgot to―” he started to say, but before he finished, I stumbled on the curb and crashed against his side, making the small object fly off his hand.
“Sorry!” I gasped, regaining my balance. “What was that? Let me help you search for it.”
“No need,” he answered, waving me off.
Clarence bent down and scanned the lawn like an eagle. It took him less than one minute to pick up the small object from among the overgrown grass blades. The darkness didn’t seem to bother him at all. Still on his knees, he opened his hand and showed me the little gold band which sparkled softly on his palm.
“Please accept my apologies,” he said, sliding my engagement ring back to where it had been in the morning. I stared in confusion, but he just nodded in approval. “Some things just belong together, don’t you agree?”
I snatched my hand away from him, rubbing it vigorously to remove the invisible traces his icy fingers had left on my skin.
“That was awkward,” I commented, as he stood up from his kneeling position and started to laugh openly, somehow dissipating the tension from the evening.
“Maybe a little bit,” he admitted, watching me with a wide smile. “Was it too premature for your taste?” he added in a joking tone, pointing at the ring with his chin.
“Definitely,” I said, grinning uncomfortably.
“Don’t worry,” he said, regaining his composure. “In my opinion, eternity lasts too long for that kind of commitment, so you are safe with me.”
“That’s a relief.”
“However, there’s one proposal I hope you will consider,” he added earnestly. “Not mine: Elizabeth’s. Would you do me this favor?”
I glanced toward my house. A light turned off in the master bedroom, followed by the blue flashing of a TV set. Mark must be watching a movie in bed. Memories of our conversation in the kitchen flooded me, together with the realization that I had thrown Clarence’s visit card into a trash can and I had no way to send a reply.
A sudden clarity lit my mind.
“I... lost your visit card,” I mumbled, “but I think I’ve already made up my mind.”
“Really?” Clarence’s eyes flickered with sudden interest and cast a couple of red sparkles―or was it just my imagination? “And? What have you decided?”
“I’m looking forward to working with you,” I said, hoping I wouldn’t regret my hasty decision the next morning.
“Maybe sleep on it, just in case,” he said with an almost imperceptible wink. “I’ll come back tomorrow evening, if you want.”
“Tomorrow is Saturday. Mark will be home,” I said, twisting a lock of hair with my finger. Elizabeth had been clear that I wasn’t allowed to reveal anything about this job to anyone, and that included Mark. “Can you do Monday morning? Eleven o’clock?”
“Of course.”
I waited for Clarence to walk away, but he just stood by the path which led to the house through the garden, staring at me, completely still.
Did he expect me to do a curtsy or something? I wasn�
�t well-versed in historical etiquette.
“Good night?” I said, tilting my head.
“May I walk you to your door or would that bother Mr. Andersson?” he asked solemnly.
A nervous laugh escaped my lips. “Mr. Andersson doesn’t really care,” I said, backing away from him. “But you can just leave. It’s just a few steps, and this is a safe neighborhood.” He raised an eyebrow, implying how recent events contradicted my words. “Okay, at least most of the time.”
He bowed slightly. “Good night, Mrs. Andersson.”
I crossed the porch, unlocked the door and stepped into the dark house. When I turned around to lock it once again, Clarence was still standing under the magnolia tree. Its purple blossoms filled the garden with their cloying sweet scent and made me dizzy.
“Mr. Auberon?” I whispered, not sure he would hear me from that distance.
“Yes?”
I was surprised he caught my words at all.
“Can I ask you a question?”
He looked intrigued.
“Can I ask you... what did you do to those men to make them scream like that?”
He crossed his arms and let out a deep breath. “Do you really want me to answer that?”
Did I?
I shook my head.
“You’re right,” I said through the crack of the door. “Good night, Mr. Auberon.”
Chapter 10
Alba
The weekend dragged by in a tortoiselike manner, but I was far from idle during those two days. Mark spent Saturday playing golf with some clients and most of Sunday at the office, allegedly preparing for an important trial. In the few hours he spent at home, he managed to slap Katie’s cheek once and scream at Iris on three different occasions.