by Peter Dawes
And even then, my dreams were riddled with makeshift conversations, evident of a busy mind forced to sleep by pure physiological need. My body still buzzed from the encounter with Martin and Angela, my brain still trying to make sense of the shift in our dynamic with the couple we had befriended. In one dream, I saw myself seated in their private quarters, alone and staring at the blood which had been spilled on their floor. For the first time, I noticed the oriental rug atop the cream-colored carpet, focusing intently on the fibers which had been stained crimson.
“You’re a child,” the familiar voice of Flynn chimed, his shadow passing over me as he strode past. “A child attempting to learn how to finger paint.”
I failed to look up at him, as if was perfectly natural, him being a separate, tangible form. “Can you fault me for the attempt?” I asked. “You are the one constantly taking exception with the denial I shackle myself to.”
“I wouldn’t take exception to this if I thought you still had your head on your shoulders. We still have enemies lurking in the shadows.”
Finally, I succumbed to the urge to peer upward at him. He wore exactly the same ensemble I wore, from the white-colored shirt to the black suit jacket and matching pants. It struck me how much looking at him rang reminiscent of staring at a mirror, only the image peering back at me bore a different soul behind his emerald eyes. “Robin is working on that,” I countered. “I am supposed to be focused on Monica.”
Flynn scoffed. Sitting across from me, he folded his hands together, his elbows resting on his legs. “The man he’s searching for managed to convince him for a century that he was a friend. Hell, Robin accepted him as a lover, if that says anything about how much he lowered his guard with Patrick. Patrick could probably avoid him in a crowded room.”
“Compromised or not, Patrick knows him too well.” I frowned. “Sadly, I think you might have a point.”
“I know I do. This means we have to be careful.” Lifting a hand, he pointed around the room surrounding us. “This makes you losing your head right now dangerous.”
“You do not trust Martin and Angela?”
He laughed. “I don’t trust anyone, Peter, I thought you already knew that.” The sarcastic smirk he flashed sobered dramatically once his point had been established. “We shouldn’t be making friends right now. Save that for when we have Patrick’s ashes in an urn.”
“And what am I to tell Monica in the interim, when I have to lock her away in order to ensure her safety?” I perked an eyebrow. “Do you want to be the one attempting to explain to her that we are doing this for her own good?”
He scoffed, sitting upright until he settled against the back of the chair in which he sat. “Isn’t that your job, Master Peter?”
“No, coincidentally, she wants to know more about you.”
Flynn shook his head, glancing away, he released a heavy breath. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“I could force you.”
“Yes, do that.” His gaze flicked back to me. “And endure the migraine I’ll give you if you try.”
Lifting to a stand, he buttoned his suit jacket and strode away from me. I watched him leave the room and found myself looking down at the spilled blood again, analyzing it as if we had murdered its source right then and there. The dream faded and I lost all concept of time until the siren call of night beckoned me awake. Even then, I felt groggy and disoriented, as if I had not slept at all.
Monica bounded awake, behaving as if nothing lurid had taken place the night before. Once we had showered, she tugged me downstairs, asking if we could take in whatever activities the other members of the coven had planned for the night. I lacked the ability to fight against her desires, and considered it a mercy when she failed to bring up Flynn again. If for that reason alone, I felt apt to indulge her, and accompanied her down to the common area.
While some sat watching a movie, others seemed embroiled in discussion, and it was to the latter that Monica drifted. I followed her into the expansive room, littered with bookshelves and plush couches situated near a large television set. Two vampires sat on either end of a chess board, while the group engaged in conversation occupied the seats in a section where each chair and couch had been arranged in a communal fashion. I watched Monica wave at Angela, and waved back when the other vampire directed a greeting in my direction. My eye caught sight of Ophelia standing in the corner of the room, however. Leaving Monica to speak in private to her friend, I, instead, wandered toward the coven mistress.
Ophelia smiled as I approached, lifting a glass of wine to her lips and taking a sip before I closed the distance between us. “Good evening, Master Peter,” she said, an already-present smile blossoming as I assumed a place by her side. “How are you tonight?”
“A bit disoriented, if I had to be honest,” I said. “The past twenty-four hours have been a bit daunting.”
She arched a brow. “Would you like to talk to me about it in my quarters?”
“Actually, if you were inclined for us to step outside, I could use a cigarette.”
“I could do that.” She finished off her drink and stopped one of the other vampires as they passed us by. “Could you take this back into the kitchen for me?” she asked, handing over the empty glass. After the male immortal nodded, Ophelia directed her attention back to me. “Let’s go out the back. It’s nice and quiet out there.”
“Lead the way, Mistress,” I directed, gesturing for her to walk ahead of me. The journey to the back door proved to be quick, taking us less than a minute. Once the door had shut behind us, I searched through my coat for the pack of cigarettes I knew to be there, tapping one out and fighting against the wind to light it before seeing fit to talk.
Ophelia preempted me anyway, her eyes set on me as I drew from the filter. “It’s such an odd habit,” she noted. “I remember when it first became common. Nowadays, it doesn’t smell nearly as pleasant as it used to.”
“I remember that.” Slipping my lighter back into my pocket, I restored order to myself and leaned against the façade of the coven estate for support. A small smile played across my lips. “My mother used to have an old lighter she told me her father had given her. I always thought it sounded like an odd gift to be given, but she treasured it. She told me stories about her home growing up and one of her fondest tales involved the smell of the tobacco from his pipe. I suppose, in that light, it makes more sense of the gift.”
“It would, yes.” She lowered into a seated position atop one of the back stairs. “What happened to the lighter?”
“Sadly, I misplaced it around the time I turned vampire. Until then, I had carried it around as a reminder of her.” Something about the topic contrasted against the thoughts I held in the back of my mind. It prompted me to sober, albeit despite myself. “That seems like such a long time ago.”
“Wait until it’s centuries you’re tracing.” I saw her tilt her head in my periphery, only then aware my gaze had strayed from her. When I glanced back, she smiled again. “Where did your mind just wander?”
“To the fact that I am no longer that human.” I breathed a bitter laugh. “That I will never be human.”
“An odd thought to have. What prompted it?”
I winced. “I seem to have gotten in over my head. Though I am not entirely sure I should feel so chagrined about it.” As I saw the look of confusion painted on her face, I sighed. “Monica and I visited with Martin and Angela again. And while the night started relatively innocuous, it took a turn for... shall we say the obscene?”
Ophelia laughed. “What do you mean the obscene?”
Lifting the cigarette to my mouth, I drew from it once more. A puff of smoke accompanied my response. “I mean that there was spilled blood, naked bodies, and something more lurid taking place than I normally permit.”
“Oh, dear.” Her eyes sparkled with amusement, defying the sober way I had delivered my response. When my mood failed to lift, Ophelia stood and paced over to me shaking her he
ad while doing so. “I forget sometimes both how young you are and how dysfunctional your coven life had been.” Whatever expression I wore on my face, it must have warranted the light way she laughed. “It’s normal for a group of vampires to get... comfortable with each other, in that way.”
“Perhaps, but I am not certain how to feel about that.” Idly, I flicked ash from the end of my cigarette. “A part of me liked that more than I care to confess.”
“Could your princess be making a proper vampire out of you, my anomaly?” Ophelia leaned closer and kissed my cheek. “If this is what’s troubling your mind, then I understand it. Our attachment to our human life dies in stages, and some take longer than others. It seems that each time a string breaks, we feel the need to mark its passing.”
“Yes, I believe that summarizes my feelings perfectly.” When it failed to completely encapsulate what had me troubled, however, I frowned against the partial lie. “Well, there is that and a rather valid point made to me. This might not be the right time for getting so comfortable with myself.”
Ophelia stepped back, folding her arms across her chest and tilting her head again. “Why do you say that?” she asked. “Or, rather, why did someone else tell you that?”
I rested my head against the concrete, my gaze lifting to the haze of city lights covering Toronto like a blanket. “A conversation I had with Flynn,” I conceded. “One of the observations he made was that we are not exactly out of danger, even with Robin traversing Europe.”
“While I’ll grant him that, you aren’t on the front line of battle right now. It’s probably the worst thing a wounded soldier has to cope with – knowing there’s still an enemy who hasn’t been beaten yet. Even they have to learn how to heal first before they rejoin the war, though.” I looked down toward her again, almost taken aback by how impassive her expression had become. “And in that light, if Flynn has opinions on one topic, I wonder why he shies away from the other.”
“That I knew, Mistress. You would think this would be easy to ascertain, him being a part of me.”
“I think he locks away the parts of you that you haven’t figured out how to sort through yet. Perhaps you aren’t ready for your wife to remember the kind of vampire you used to be.”
“And you think I am attempting to dissuade myself from sinking into decadence lest I show that side of myself again?”
Ophelia shrugged. “In part, you are genuinely worried about what might be happening out there.” She pointed toward the east before lowering her hand again. “But yes, I think you might also be afraid of showing her that hidden part of yourself.”
“Flynn used to speak so readily to her.”
“He trusted the woman who knew his secrets. The one who can’t remember might break his heart.”
I nodded, finishing off my cigarette and thanking her for her time. The conspicuous silence which followed from my other personality seemed to indicate truth in Ophelia’s words; at least enough that he lacked a clever retort. When I rejoined Monica, I sat with her and Angela and allowed myself to lapse into comfortable conversation again. I would keep my eyes open, I assured myself, but in the meantime, that part of me wanting to explore immortality with my wife would be allowed to continue unabated.
While the declaration bore conviction, when we retired to the room that night, she asked the fateful question again. “So, are you going to tell me more about this Flynn person?” she asked, walking over to the couch in our sitting area. Monica deposited her scant weight onto the nearest cushion, but left me ample room to join her, the expectant way she looked at me forcing me to comply. I drifted closer, and lowered myself onto the couch, as she silently requested.
Taking a deep breath, I held onto it for several beats before releasing it slowly. “Flynn is a complicated subject,” I said. “Perhaps you might begin by telling me what sparked your interest in him.”
Monica shifted closer, prompting me to lift my arm so she could nestle against me. My hand lowered, settling on her side while she rested her head against my chest. “I saw something in your head last night,” she said. Her fingers slid up the fabric of my shirt, playing idly with one of the buttons. “I was afraid you’d be mad that I stole a peek without asking for permission.”
“It was jarring, but not unwelcomed. May I ask why you did that?”
She chuckled. “It was a wild moment. I wanted to share it with you.” A comfortable silence fell between us, framing the space of time where I could sense her gathering her thoughts. “I saw something about Flynn, though, when I looked. It’s funny. I felt almost like he was a separate person, looking at me, before turning away.”
“You saw him?”
“Well, I saw you, but I had this idea that it wasn’t you. That’s when he gave me the name Flynn.” Monica lifted her head to look at me. “Am I getting that right? Are you Flynn?”
Peering down at her, I drew in another breath to settle a sudden flight of nerves. “In some senses, yes. In other senses, no. It seems like we were once the same person, but something happened inside of my head that splintered us into two.”
“What happened?”
“I became a bloodthirsty bastard. Robin thinks I created him to make amends with that, almost as if my sins could be imputed onto someone else. That being said, he seems to resent how much I blame him.”
“For killing people?” When I nodded, she frowned. “I can see how that’d be complicated. Is he a killer?”
The way she studied me lacked judgment, as if I had become a book she sought to study without allowing prejudice to affect her. A spark of awareness lit from within me in response to this, that shroud which separated me from Flynn fluttering like it had been disrupted. “I think he would probably argue that he only does what he feels is necessary,” I murmured, the words slipping past my lips.
Monica furrowed her brow, as if sensing whatever shift had just taken place. Sliding into a more upright position, she lifted her hand from my chest, but settled it again on my shoulder. “Killing people is necessary?” she asked, and while her question still bore no discrimination, I heard the challenging lilt in the way she issued it.
I shrugged. As I became more the assassin and less the seer, I felt the air take on a different tenor, my stomach tying in knots without my face surrendering any outward sign of nerves. “I think survival might be the better way of putting it. Sometimes, to survive, it might be necessary to kill. Perhaps a part of our nature might even be to relish that fact, knowing we are predators and they are prey.”
‘Flynn...’ the seer cautioned with the tone in which he spoke the name.
‘Should I not be truthful with her?’ I responded. Blinking back Peter, I fully assumed control of self, tilting my head to regard her in the same searching way she did me.
“You mean, he would think that,” she countered, her lips curled as if she knew the nature of the game we had begun to play. That it resembled the ones we had played for so many years chased away the flight of nerves, leaving a burst of warmth in its wake.
“Yes, of course,” I said, exaggeratedly. “Playing Devil’s advocate, though, should we angst over our state of being? It is what we are called upon to be at times, isn’t it?”
“I wouldn’t know that. You always tell me to avoid killing people.”
“Perhaps I have done you a disservice, then.”
“No.” Her smile turned affectionate, palm sliding from my shoulder to my neck until she cupped my face. “You’ve been looking out for me. It’s been very sweet, actually.”
“Sickeningly so, isn’t it?”
“I don’t know.” Monica twisted so that she faced me, lifting a leg so she could straddle my lap. While her one hand lingered where she had settled it, the other gripped onto me for leverage. She shimmied into place in the most tantalizing manner. Part of me wondered if she did so on purpose. “Sometimes, a girl likes to have a little of the saint, and sometimes, she prefers the sinner.”
“And which do you prefer right n
ow?” I asked as she leaned closer until our faces hovered mere inches apart. I felt her breath hit my nose and smirked, clutching onto her waist with an unspoken hope that she would not deign to go anywhere else.
She brushed her thumb across my lips and sobered in a way that only added to the tension. “Show me the sinner,” she said, “And I’ll learn how to love him just as much as I do the saint.”
Monica kissed me, not waiting for me to be the first to encroach upon her space to do so. As our mouths danced, set both to engage and to tease by avoiding, I tightened my hold on her and pressed her closer. She tasted divine, and in that moment I shared her with nobody, doing so without apology. Whether or not she could sense it in my kisses, I apologized to her without words spoken. I should have never left her alone in Costa Rica. I should not have gone anywhere she could not follow. She had been turned into a creature, the same way I had all of those years ago, and this time, I could not prevent myself from loving her. I had come too close to losing her already.
We stumbled into the room when engagement turned into foreplay, divesting each other of our clothing. As she climbed on top of me, I felt more exposed than I normally allowed myself to be, showing her my soul while surrendering my body to her. After we had spent ourselves, she collapsed beside me and we lay in silence for a while, the comfort of quiet covering us like a blanket.
“I forgive you,” she whispered as she fell asleep, as if she had read my thoughts somehow, or carried blame over my avoidance of her. I did not know what all she had seen of me when she tapped into Peter’s mind. I had surrendered my name, and gave her nothing else. In that moment, though, I had no doubt she had seen so much more than I had been willing to offer.
And for the time being, I could not have been more glad.
For once, waking as Peter felt less jarring even lacking any memory of how I had come to lay naked with Monica in our bedroom. I did not take much for me to ascertain that she and Flynn had become enamored and, to be honest, I felt relieved that I could faithfully report to Robin introductions had been made. I kissed her hair as I spooned against her, and after a spirited romp, we showered.