by Heidi Lowe
"Just invite me in," he grumbled, having lost his patience.
I wasn't sure I wanted him to meet Petr and Samantha, wasn't sure I trusted him around them. But I gave him the benefit of the doubt, together with a warning. "Behave yourself, got it? They're off limits."
I didn't like the smile he gave me.
Two things happened the second he entered the lounge, suave and confident, like the wealthy prick he was. The Scrabble game ceased, and I saw that twinkle in Petr's eye. It was unmistakable. I'd seen it enough times to know what it meant.
"Hallo, junge Dame," he said to Samantha, as he took her hand and kissed the back of it. Her cheeks lit up, and she giggled like a schoolgirl. "Who do we have here?"
"Samantha," she answered.
I did the biggest eye roll as I watched his cheesy, slimy display. Women were so easily misled. How could anyone fall for this act?
"And you are?" Now he turned to Petr, who had gotten to his feet.
"Petr, without the e," Pete said.
The exchange between the two men had me gawking like I was at the movies. When Oliver shook Petr's hand, the shake went on much longer than was necessary. But the most fascinating part about it was the eye contact. It wasn't so much contact as sex. That sinister, flirtatious smile Oliver gave him had been used many a time on the women in No Man's Land.
I looked to Samantha to see if she had noticed this too, but she seemed oblivious.
Even after half an hour of Petr's over-the-top laughter in reaction to Oliver's stories, and the obvious way he kept making puppy dog eyes at him, Samantha seemed none the wiser. Did she really have no idea that her boyfriend was crushing hard on another man, right in front of her?
I should have known Pete couldn't have resisted Oliver's charms. Coupled with his devilishly good looks, and the fact that he was a vampire, it almost seemed calculated of me to have let them meet like this.
Oliver clapped his hands together. "I have a wonderful idea. Why don't we all go to my place? There's a pool, I can invite some friends. It could be a real party."
"No," I said, at the same time that Petr and Samantha said yes. I shot Oliver a warning look. "We're all fine where we are, thanks."
He laughed. "What, playing boardgames and drinking soda? Surely your friends didn't come all the way here for that?"
"Lis, come on, don't be a killjoy. I'm in," Petr said. He'd already gotten up to leave.
The only reason I agreed to go with them was for their own safety. I really didn't want Oliver to be alone with them.
As we all started out of the house, Jean was coming down the stairs. The others went ahead to Oliver's car while I spoke to her.
"Was that that boy I don't like?" she said, pulling me into a kiss. That was how she referred to Oliver – that boy she didn't like. It didn't matter that he was several decades older than her.
"Yeah. He somehow convinced the others to go to his house. I'm only tagging along to keep an eye on them."
"Will there be others there?" she asked, aiming for casual.
"You mean girls? Probably. There are always girls there..." By now I was grinning as I watched her disapproving face. Then I added, "But I'm so madly in love with you that I don't notice anyone else."
I received a long, passionate kiss for my schmoozing and butt-kissing.
"Try not to get into any trouble," she said, as she blew me a kiss and waved goodbye.
Petr had called shotgun by the time I got to the car, so I had to sit in the back with Samantha. The company wasn't the problem, but the space. It seemed like the backseats had been somewhat of an afterthought in this sports car. Cramped with little room to breathe, even young children would have had problems fitting in.
The top was down, despite the chilly weather. Oliver never drove with it up, instead chose one of his many other cars for rainy nights.
We sped off down the drive, Led Zeppelin blasting from the sound system, and turned onto the street. It was then that I spotted her. Or what I thought was her. The French woman from the gallery. Waiting in a blue car just across the street from our home. We were going so fast, however, that I couldn't be sure. It unnerved me the whole drive.
TWENTY
When the doorbell rang for a second time that night, Jean's first thought was that Lissa or one of her guests had left something behind. She expected to see Petr or Samantha standing on her doorstep.
With her cellphone pressed to her ear, she pulled the door open, then froze on the spot. Whatever Robyn was saying suddenly became inaudible.
Clara offered her a smile, and the two women just stared at each other.
"Jean, are you still there?" Robyn said on the line.
"I'll have to call you back." She hung up while Robyn was in mid-sentence.
"Good evening," Clara announced, removing her black leather gloves carefully, her smile unfaltering.
Jean cleared her throat. "Can I help you?"
"Your girlfriend mentioned that you own most of her paintings, and I thought I might have a look at them."
Jean's laugh derived out of shock and humor. Did this woman have all her faculties about her?
"So, if I understand you correctly, you found out where I live and tracked me down just to look at Lissa's paintings?" It sounded even more absurd out loud than it did in her head, but that seemed to be the only explanation.
Clara smiled wider, her dark eyes curious, daring, as though goading her, to do what, she didn't know.
"I'm curious to see some of her work."
"How did you get my address?" She couldn't work out whether she was angry at the privacy violation or intrigued. Possibly a little of both.
"It wasn't difficult. You're a prominent woman, and of course there is the register."
Of course. The vampire register that required all vampires to list their personal details, by law, including current place of abode. She hated that register with a passion. It left them all vulnerable.
"I suppose you'd better come in, then," Jean said, after a while. It felt as though someone else was saying those words, that a stronger force than her was allowing this woman entry. Because any right-thinking person, and she considered herself to be among the topmost, would have slammed the door in Clara's face. This impromptu visit had stalker written all over it.
Her heels clicked against the floorboards as she surveyed her opulent surroundings. Jean watched her with fascination. Watched how she carried herself, so elegantly, and with such confidence. She didn't seem fearful that she was now at the mercy of a vampire she'd more than likely stalked. But then, most of Jean's willing givers hadn't been afraid of her, only excited to get the chance to be bitten. Maybe Clara was the same.
"It's nice here. Very...grandiose. A bit big for the two of you, don't you think?"
Again Jean found herself momentarily speechless and laughing out of sheer shock. The attitude, the nerve, the audacity. Had no one taught this woman any manners?
At that point she should have thrown her out, unleashed her fangs and made it clear that she was never to come there again, or contact her in any way. Anyone else would have received that treatment. But not this woman. She had a hard time doing anything but gawking at her in wonderment.
"That's relative," she said. "The paintings are down here." She led the way to Lissa's studio. The room hadn't been visited in weeks, and no new paintings added to it, so when she opened the door, dust fell around them.
Every painting her proxy had bought secretly before Lissa met her sat in a corner of the room, leaning against the wall, turned away from the world. That was how Lissa had wanted them after she turned. They hadn't gotten around to putting them up again.
"Over there," Jean said, pointing to the stack. "Please be careful with them."
Jean took a seat on the window alcove and stared at this mysterious woman who she'd invited into her home.
"She's good," came her conclusion after a long silence.
"I know."
"Why are they down here
collecting dust, not on display?"
"It's a long story," Jean said.
Clara replaced all the pictures and Jean got to her feet again. What was it about this woman that made her so nervous? She was a mere mortal, powerless against her, but she felt so vulnerable around her. Yet, and this was the part she didn't understand, she felt drawn to her. Not in the way she did to Lissa, in a wholly different way.
The two women stared at each other in the quiet room, but only one of them wore a smile. The other seemed hypnotized by her strange visitor.
"Why did you let me into your house?" Clara said after a while.
"I don't know. I'm still asking myself that question."
"You know I didn't come here to see the paintings, don't you?"
Jean gulped. "I figured as much."
"I came to see you."
"Why?"
Clara laughed. "We should get to know each other. If not tonight, another time."
Jean hoped that the woman didn't notice the slight tremble to her body, like someone had left a window open.
"Who are you?" she demanded, narrowing her eyes at the woman. This had gone on long enough, this game. It wasn't fun anymore. She didn't like not being in control, not even knowing the rules to the game, or what game was actually being played.
"I think you know who I am. That's why you let me in. You feel the connection between us. I can see it in your eyes when you look at me."
She did feel it, and it terrified her more than anything ever had, because she couldn't explain it. But Clara was wrong: she didn't know who she was. She didn't look familiar, and she remembered every face she'd ever seen.
"You must be mistaken. I've never met you before. And I'd like you to leave now."
Clara's smile remained in place, though she did as Jean asked and started making her way out of the studio.
Jean opened the entrance door for her, refusing to look her in the eye for fear this madwoman would see something there.
Clara stopped at the threshold, closer to her than she'd ever been, and said, "I'll be staying at the Lion's Den Motel when you're ready to talk to me."
"Goodnight," Jean said stiffly.
Only once she'd slammed the door behind the woman and was certain that she was alone, did she let out the breath she'd been holding. She took a seat on the stairs, feeling lightheaded and befuddled.
Lissa's kisses had healing properties. Each one was magical and had improved every bad mood in the past.
But that night, as Lissa climbed into the bed they shared and pressed her lips to Jean's, an overwhelming rush of guilt swept over Jean. Her lips were soft, her touch softer, and her eyes filled with so much love, so much trust, that Jean couldn't bear to look at her.
She shouldn't have let the woman in. How stupid of her. If Lissa ever discovered that she was there, perusing her studio, all hell would break loose. She wouldn't be able to explain herself, and no excuse would suffice. She still didn't understand what had happened herself.
Lissa was talkative since returning from Oliver's house.
"So me and Samantha are by the pool with some other people, and I notice that Pete and Oliver have been gone awhile. I go looking for them, go upstairs, and the first door I open, I almost choke on my breath. Oliver has Pete bent over the bed, and they're going at it like rabbits!"
Jean gave her a wide-eyed look. "You mean, having sex?" she said, lowering her tone.
"Yeah. Can you believe that? That's a visual I wish I could unsee."
"He cheated on his girlfriend when she was right downstairs? That's crass."
"I know. I mean, Samantha's actually not so bad once you get to know her. She doesn't deserve that. Infidelity makes my skin crawl. I'm so disappointed in him."
Jean fell silent. Infidelity made her skin crawl, too. She wondered what Lissa would consider infidelity, how narrow or wide her definition of it would be, and if she, Jean, would already have committed it. Would it extend to include letting Clara into the house, and then being unable to get her off her mind? Would it have even mattered to Lissa that the draw she felt toward the woman wasn't sexual? Though admittedly, she didn't know what it was. She'd never felt like this before.
"Does Samantha know?"
"Nope. When I took him aside and confronted him about it, he said it was a one-off, something he had to get out of his system. Apparently Ireland's still on." She shrugged. "Anyway, what about you, do anything interesting while I was gone?"
"Nothing special. Just caught up on some work in the office." Omitting the fact that Clara had shown up only added to her guilt. She was digging herself a hole out of which she would have difficulty climbing if Lissa ever found out.
"Did you miss me?" Lissa straddled her and dropped little kisses on her neck and face.
"I always miss you when you're not here," Jean said. Well, at least she wasn't lying about that. She took Lissa's face in her hands. "I love you so much," she said, a seriousness to her voice and stare. "More than anything in this world." Was it the guilt talking, or the love? Both were strong.
"I love you, too."
Ten minutes later, while Jean's eyes were glued to her book, and Lissa had disappeared to retrieve her phone from the lounge, the book fell from her hands, a cold shiver ran down her spine.
"Oh dear God," she gasped. "I know who she is."
And she couldn't wait to see Clara again.
TWENTY-ONE
Fragmented pieces of the memory of the night I was attacked were all that remained. I'd never understood why I couldn't remember the most recent of my human memories. Jean said eventually everything would come back, and that the trauma was likely the cause of the blockage. A blessing in disguise, as far as I was concerned. And having gone more than three months without coming any closer to piecing the bits together, I was able to breathe easily, thinking that it would never come back. A were-bite wasn't like a vampire bite; no pleasure, no sense of euphoria.
"Goodnight, my love," Jean whispered, as she kissed me on the forehead and settled down beside me for her long sleep. "I hope your dreams are as pleasant as you are."
She said some variation of this almost every night, even though she knew I never had dreams, only nightmares. That was part of our curse: we were supposed to suffer during the day, no matter what.
I was never conscious of the moment the long sleep began, until the nightmares kicked in. And the thing about the nightmares was that you never knew they weren't the real thing until you woke up. While you were in them, it was as though you were literally reliving the bad event, because there was never much variation from the original.
So on the night of my attack, when I heard the noise at the door and went to take a look, thinking that Jean or Sandra had returned, I couldn't tell myself not to go and investigate. It was like watching a scary movie and screaming at the screen – at the actors – telling them to turn around and lock themselves in their rooms, or call the police. I didn't get a second chance to make a better decision. Even if I did wait a little longer, and I did pick up the phone to call someone, the outcome was the same.
As Dallas stalked toward me, I pleaded with her, insisted that she didn't have to do it, whatever it was she had planned.
The look in her eye said otherwise. It seemed she had to, and there was nothing I could have said or done to save my life. Her family was dead, her brothers and sisters. That was what she'd said to me. I was to blame. How had I forgotten? I'd sent Jean and the others to end the war without bloodshed, but she'd betrayed me.
I had blood on my hands. I'd given up the location and now they were all dead. I deserved my fate.
"And then I thought, there's something much worse that I can do to you. That I can do to her," she said.
She showed me the moonstone, which I'd thought was merely a worthless homemade necklace. And then she transformed into the beast that robbed me of my life.
I woke up screaming, and felt my neck, felt for the blood that I was certain was pouring from the bite.
Jean tried to calm me, but I couldn't be calmed. It was so real, I could almost feel the pain of the bite, even though there was no blood.
I wept into my hands, still shaking from the nightmare, finally cognizant that it was in fact a nightmare. At least, not one I was physically reliving.
"What was it about this time?" Jean asked, cradling me in her arms.
"The night I was attacked, the werewolves, you still killed them. You promised you wouldn't, but that's why she was here that night. Because her family was dead."
"When we got there they were already dead. I swear it," Jean said. I wiped the blood-tears from my eyes so I could better look into hers. She was telling the truth, I could see that. "Someone else must have got to them. I never would have hurt them, not after I made that promise to you."
She held me tighter and stroked my hair as my heartbeat steadied and I recovered from the nightmare.
"I was so scared. She wouldn't listen to reason, she just came at me."
"Honey, was there anything else you remembered about that night?"
"Actually, yes. It's weird. I didn't understand it then, and I still can't now. She said she wasn't there to kill me, but that she had a worse punishment for both of us. What did she mean by that?"
Jean's silence, the way she abruptly stopped stroking my hair, and the sudden stiffness to her body prompted me to look up at her. Her face looked more pallid than usual.
"Did she mean having you turn me into a vampire?"
"Probably. What else could it mean?"
I didn't want to imagine that she knew more than she was letting on, but it was impossible to ignore that insincerity in her eyes.
"Let's take a shower," she suggested, forcing a smile and breaking eye contact. "That will make you feel better."
It did, temporarily allowing me to push the thought from my mind.
There was a message from Petr when I got out of the shower and went into our bedroom. The lair had no reception, so I usually left my phone upstairs.
I played the thirty second video attached to the multimedia message, and smiled right the way through it, before playing it two more times. It featured Pete and Samantha in Dublin Airport, having just landed. They were jet-lagged, though you could always count on Pete to look his fabulous self no matter how tired he was.