by Eva Alton
“Ready to go?” I asked, deliberating whether I should offer her my arm, or would it be reason for yet another affronted frown on her part. I tried anyway, for good measure. Against all odds, she accepted it. I sighed with relief.
Present-day humans could be exhaustingly puzzling sometimes. The more time I spent hovering over their world, the more cryptic their customs seemed. Elizabeth’s rules on humans, although much looser than most vampire covens’, were clear: no meddling with them, no mixing with them and not killing them, either, unless strictly necessary. Witches were an exception to this rule, and strays had the advantage of being oblivious to the historical grudges and characteristic bickering between our kinds. That was also one of the reasons why Elizabeth only wanted to enlist strays to serve us―they were less troublesome, more impressionable and lacked the proverbial prejudice against vampires.
“Yes, let’s go,” Alba said. “I'm starving.”
“So am I,” I answered bitterly, trying to keep my fangs nicely tucked in―hopefully throughout the whole evening. Witches weren’t too tasty, but I found this one unusually tempting.
We padded out of the old cemetery, inhaling the scent of warm grass and damp concrete as we crossed the park which surrounded it. The best things in life are worth waiting for, my mother used to say; but too many years of experience had taught me that this was an absolute fallacy. Still, the saying did apply to summer nights―nights which tormented us, creatures of the darkness, forcing us to stay inside for much longer than we would have in winter. But once twilight made its appearance, such nights became little precious gifts, with their dizzying scents and that sweet, balmy air which warmed up our blood and made us forget, if only for a second, about our heartless and cold-blooded nature.
“The park gates are locked at night, so we use this side exit,” I told Alba.
I unlocked the small metallic door and made sure nobody was watching before we stepped stealthily onto the pavement. We walked for a little while in silence, and she kept sticking her hand into her bag, picking up her cell phone, then letting it fall back inside with apprehension.
“That’s where we’re going,” I told her, as the antique sign of The Midnight Owl Bistro appeared in the distance. “They know me there. It’s a nice place.”
Once inside, Fiadh, the pretty but inhospitable Irish waitress, greeted us with her characteristic steel glance and offered us a table in a secluded corner.
“I think your friend doesn’t like me,” Alba commented, after Fiadh threw a menu at her from a distance of six feet.
“Fiadh? Don’t worry―she doesn’t like anyone. I’m sure it’s nothing personal.”
Actually, it might be a little personal, but I doubted Fiadh remembered exactly how personal. It must be a subconscious thing.
I pointed at the menu. “What are you having?”
“No idea, what do you recommend?”
“I highly doubt we share the same taste for foodstuffs,” I said, a snicker escaping my throat. She didn’t appreciate the joke, so I changed the subject. “But I hear the sea bass is excellent. Would you like to try it?”
“Okay,” she said, then gave me an intrigued glance. “Are you eating anything?”
“We can share dessert if you want,” I said. Maybe by then she would have forgotten about it. “Wine? Ale? Water?”
“Wine sounds good,” she said, extending the napkin over her knees, then gave me a sly grin. “Because ale sounds too... Middle Ages.”
“I’ll go check what they have,” I said, then pointed at the shiny black device under her palm. “Do you want me to ask them to charge that for you?” she nodded eagerly and gave me the telephone. It was warm from her touch, and carrying it felt oddly pleasant and comforting, almost like holding a human hand.
Fiadh provided a bottle of red wine and two relatively clean glasses and told me to bring them myself to the table. I blew Fiadh a kiss and returned to the table, where I wiped them thoroughly with a napkin before filling them. Alba tasted her wine with her eyes closed, then encouraged me to do the same.
“Try it and tell me what you think,” she said. “I think it’s fabulous. Italian.”
“Maybe later,” I answered, twirling the wine in circles and watching the way it caught the light.
“Don’t you like wine?” she asked, leaning forward.
“I do, as a matter of fact.”
“But still you don’t want to try it?”
“No. Not today.” Not ever. “I thought I would keep you company because most people don’t like to drink alone. Wouldn’t want to ruin your evening with my whims.”
“Do... people like you eat or drink anything at all?” she asked me with concern.
“We do, sometimes. Some are quite fond of alcohol, actually, and can drink vast quantities of it without any side effects.” Darling Francesca, for example. “I just prefer not to, but it’s just a... personal choice.”
“Smart. That way you’ll live a longer, healthier life,” she said, stifling a giggle.
I grinned, “You got me there.”
Fiadh returned with the fish and a salad and didn’t even bother to stop walking as she flung it in front of Alba’s face. The fish nearly jumped out of the plate, and I barely managed to catch it in the air before it hit the floor.
“You are fast,” Alba said, nodding in admiration.
“Yes, it’s a requirement for regular customers of The Midnight Owl. They have a very particular serving style here. We can practice at home if you want. Might come in handy when you come back alone.”
“I’m not sure I’m ever coming back, especially not alone. I have the feeling that Fiadh wouldn’t mind poisoning me.”
“You are a witch. You could poison her first.”
“And you are a vampire. You could at least stop pretending you never had a fling with the waitress,” she answered, shaking her head.
I snorted. “You are such a perceptive young lady. Is it so obvious?”
“Yes, it is.”
Was that a tinge of jealousy in her voice?
“She’s pretty,” Alba said, “I mean, it’s none of my business―you can bite whoever you want, or whatever you do with them. I just feel stupid when people lie to me.”
“How could I lie if you didn’t even ask? And also... it’s like it never happened, because... she doesn’t remember it,” I muttered, not knowing why I felt compelled to share that information with her. To make her feel better? To make her hate me more?
“Like you did with those men on the street?” She set her glass on the table with slightly more force than necessary. I could almost hear her brains churning. “So, that’s how you do it? You seduce women and then make them forget you?” Her fork fell to the floor, and the noise attracted the attention of other diners. I picked it up and waited for her to calm down before answering.
“It may sound horrible to human ears.” I bit my lip and tried to be nice. “Fine, maybe it is a bit horrible. But in the grand scale of things, it’s still better than killing them, wouldn’t you agree?”
“I guess?” she puffed. “So there’s this oblivion stuff and the bird thing. What other tricks can you do?”
I could feel the refusal in her voice like a stab through the heart. She was still scared of me, and the thought of making her forget this part of our conversation crossed my mind for a second. Then I became conscious of what a foolish idea that was. If she was going to live among us, she needed to know how things worked. The sooner, the better.
“Just this and the bird thing, as you call it,” I said, trying to sound calm. “That’s about it.”
She nodded. She wiped her mouth on the napkin before taking another sip of wine. Her left hand lingered on the white tablecloth, as she seemed to ponder my words. Pretending to smooth the fabric, I quickly brushed my fingers against hers, so fast that she didn’t even register my touch, and stole her ring surreptitiously. Then, with a flick and a flourish, I produced the gold band on the palm of my hand, causin
g her jaw to fall open in astonishment.
“Well, apart from this kind of trick, of course,” I told her, offering her the ring for the second time in the course of four days. She grabbed it, still open-mouthed and blinked in confusion, then put it back on.
“One day you’ll have to explain to me how you do that,” she said, clicking her tongue. “You really have sticky fingers.”
She was smiling now, so I leaned back in the chair, relieved. “It must be from paint leftovers,” I said, grinning back at her.
“What paint?”
“Didn’t you know? In another life, I used to be an artist. A long, long time ago,” I said quietly. A wave of melancholy struck me as the memories associated with that word came back in droves.
“Not anymore?”
I shook my head. “I ran out of steam somehow,” I said simply. “But I still use my talents to help Elizabeth forge documents and signatures. Sometimes I draw if I’m in good spirits. No more oil paintings, though.”
Her face softened, and I searched in my pockets for something respectable enough to show her. I found the drawing I had been sketching while I waited for her in the conference room, and I unfolded it on the table so she could study it.
“Nice drawing,” she said, scanning the paper with admiration. She ran her fingers over my rough depiction of a man and a woman, lying together in death, their tombs joined eternally by a wild rose shrub. “You are good at drawing faces. Who are they, by the way?” she asked, “Is this one... Francesca?”
I laughed, wondering how she had come to such a bizarre conclusion. “No, of course not. It’s supposed to be Isolde, lying with Tristan after their death. Are you familiar with the story? There’s an opera by Wagner, too. Maybe you have seen it.”
She shook her head, and I couldn’t help but think how pretty she was, her lips so full, her cheeks still flushed from the wine and the previous fit of anger.
“Classical music isn’t my strong suit, really. I’ve never been to the opera. But I think I remember something about Tristan and Isolde. Wasn’t it some kind of Romeo and Juliet?”
“It’s about Knight Tristan, who fell in love with the King’s wife. I’d love to take you to the opera once if you have never been. It’s my favorite piece.”
“Does it end well?”
“Not really. It’s a medieval romance. They’re not famous for their happy endings.”
“I’m not sure I want to watch that, then. I have enough drama in my life already.” She exhaled, looking very weary.
“There’s a magic potion in the story,” I said. “I thought you might be interested. As a budding witch.”
“Good point.” The color raised up to her cheeks once again as she nodded with a faint smile. “Maybe you are right. It might be fun.”
“Fun is not exactly the word I would use to describe the works of Richard Wagner, but still, it would be an honor to be the first one to go with you.”
“Tell me the part about the potion,” she said with candor.
I smiled at her, because it was hard not to be overcome by the warmth in her voice as she asked.
“So, Knight Tristan was hired to deliver Isolde to his uncle, King Mark, to whom she must be married. Isolde, and in some stories her mother, concocted a love potion, so they could drink it together with King Mark, fall in love and be happily married forever. But, in the end, it was Tristan and Isolde who drank the potion, and of course, tragedy ensued. The end.”
Alba sighed and seemed lost in her thoughts. I almost expected her to ask for the recipe of the potion, but instead she said, “Was King Mark a nice person?”
“What kind of question is that?” I chuckled. “I’m not sure. His nephew and his wife betrayed him. I suppose he had the right to be a bit cross?”
She shrugged. “Most Marks aren’t too nice.”
“I’m sorry to digress. Some Marks are perfectly fine. Look at Mark Twain.”
“His real name was Sam, so no, he doesn’t count. And this also explains why you never drink wine,” she continued, then held my gaze intently, “especially not in a witch’s company.”
She said witch in a mocking tone: she still didn’t believe it. I extended a hand toward her, and she quickly covered her engagement ring, expecting me to steal it once again. She made me grin for the hundredth time in the same evening. “That’s definitely not my concern. If I were to drink a love filter, which I doubt I’ll ever do, I wouldn’t mind sharing it with someone like you. There are much worse options out there, trust me.” I tilted my head meaningfully toward Fiadh, who scowled from the bar as she saw my hand over Alba’s.
“Well, thank you?” Alba raised her eyebrows, a mixture of amusement and aggravation in her face. “I’m not sure I would share the potion with you, though.”
Of course she wouldn’t. I took back my hand and waved at Fiadh so she would bring the bill.
“Your date already paid for dinner,” the waitress growled, then curled her lip in disgust, pointing at Alba. The sneaky little witch must have paid when she went to the restroom. I found it fascinating and blamed it on modern times and customs I had yet to learn.
As we left the bistro, Alba became silent. Something told me she was mulling about her personal King Mark. A waiter―thankfully not Fiadh―came out of the restaurant running, with a cell phone in his hand.
“You forgot this, madam!” he said. He was quite handsome and had a really beautiful blue vein pulsing on the left side of his neck.
“Thank you so much!” Alba said, throwing the waiter a frustratingly sweet smile and picking up the device, which was flashing with all colors of the rainbow.
As soon as she turned the screen on, she cursed, then covered her mouth prudishly, like she feared my reaction.
“Don’t mind me―I didn’t hear anything,” I said, raising my arms and suppressing a snicker.
“Sorry. My husband must have come home, and he’s freaking out that I took the girls. I need to call him back.”
I nodded, then walked away to give her some privacy. “Take as much time as you need. I will wait for you on that bench,” I said, and I crossed the street, trying not to eavesdrop on her conversation despite my infuriatingly fine hearing.
Her body contorted in agony as she spoke: her knuckles became white, her eyelids furrowed. I had watched her argue with Mark a couple of times before, as I studied her for Elizabeth’s dossier from the tallest branch of the magnolia tree in their garden. Fury grew inside my chest as I remembered the demeaning way that man always treated her, like she wasn’t more than a piece of furniture he could just pay for and exchange when it became too old and tattered.
Clenching my teeth at the memories, I turned away from the scene and walked further, reminding myself that this wasn’t my battle to fight. My job had been to find out about Mrs. Andersson’s background and bring her safely to The Cloister. I would work with her and do anything Elizabeth asked me to. But whatever Alba Andersson had going on in her private life was not my concern. No more eavesdropping. The dossier was completed now.
“I’m not sure I would share the potion with you, though,” her words still reverberated in my head when she stopped talking on the phone and approached me with slumped shoulders. And as much as I wanted not to care about her, the tightness in my chest stayed there, unwilling to leave, reminding me of the place when once, a long time ago, my heart, just like hers, had once pumped warm blood and loved more than it should have.
Chapter 13
Alba
My hands were sweaty as I held the phone against my ear. Mark’s enraged voice came out of the microphone in a roar, and I leaned against the outside wall of the bistro to keep my legs from swaying.
“What do you think you are doing?” he growled. I could almost see his face, livid with anger, and my heart started to thump in my ears. He was probably standing in the kitchen, because the microwave beeped in the background.
“I just took the girls for a short trip out of town,” I said, hoping h
e couldn’t notice my voice faltering. Shit. He was going to kill me. “I left you a note. We’ll be back... on the first of the month.” I hadn’t thought about coming back yet, but I made it up on the fly. Even a law-ignoramus like me knew it wasn’t possible to simply kidnap kids indefinitely, even as their mother. I just needed them to be safe while I earned enough money to get myself an attorney before Mark could manipulate me with his mind-games into signing something awful.
“I want them back now,” he roared. “And you, too. You should have asked for permission.”
“We can’t go back now. We’re too far.” Keeping my cool when Mark was in a bad mood required superhuman effort, but the physical distance between us helped. At least I knew he couldn’t touch me. We weren’t that far at all, just a twenty-minute car ride at most, but he didn’t need to know that.
“Alba, I hope you are enjoying these days with the girls, because it’s definitely the last time you will spend time together as their full-time mother,” he said then, his voice a snaky hiss. “I’m going to serve you the divorce papers as soon as you stick your nose back into the house, and I’m sure you’ll be delighted by the parental arrangements I have personally envisioned for us.”
I wanted to scream, but I bit my lip, my fingers strained around the phone. Had it been Mark’s neck, I wouldn’t have hesitated to strangle him with my bare fingers.
“Thanks for the good wishes, Mark. I wish you a great week, too,” I said weakly. I was aware of his bad habit of recording conversations and having them remastered by his friends to serve his purposes. I wasn’t going to risk handing him evidence on a silver platter yet again.
“Mark my words,” he said. “I’ll write an amazing agreement for you to sign. And trust me, you will. See you at court, darling.”
I hung up with a sob, unable to grasp why he hated me so much. When we had met, right after I went back to the States after spending my early years in Europe, he had blinded me with his thoughtfulness and innate charisma. But then, after our marriage, his bad temper had come to the surface, just for me to see. To the outside world, Mark had always remained the perfectly poised lawyer. After that, I had spent the best years of my life raising his kids and playing the role of a perfectly submissive wife. The whole thing had escalated after Katie’s birth, to the point of becoming as extreme as it was now.