by S. E. Lund
She came around the car and threw her arm over my shoulders. “Not your fault. It’s a bitch, but we’re in this together.”
Arm in arm, we went back into the house and waited.
Hours later, after we’d spent the afternoon reminiscing about our years together, and all the silly things we had done, all the times we cried on each other’s shoulders, and after we ate the last of the leftover lasagna, we sat down on the sectional and I turned on Apple TV.
“Are we really going to watch it?”
I shook my head. “I don’t want to. I mean, he’s incredibly hot, for an impaler,” I said, thinking of Kier.
“Oh, definitely. As far as impalers go, very hot. But still…”
“Yeah…” I said, wondering if she was talking about Kier or the actor who played Dracula in the movie.
Kier was beautiful, in a pale Byronic-hero way with his dark hair and blue eyes, very fair skin and black leather clothes. Gothic rather than Goth
I flipped through the movies. “Oh,” Chelsea said when World War Z appeared in the lineup of suggested movies. She pointed to it eagerly. “Brad Pitt. I love him in this.”
I shook my head. “Undead zombies who want to eat your brain? I don’t think so.”
She made a face at that. “Sorry. You know I love horror movies.”
“I feel like I’m living in one,” I said and laughed nervously.
She nodded. “Yeah, I know what you mean.”
We passed another movie that attracted me. It was Byzantium with a vampire mother and daughter. I’d watched it before and loved it.
“This looks interesting,” Chelsea said. “Is there a happy ending in this?”
“Depends on what you define as happy. In the end, the human becomes… an impaler.”
“Oh,” Chelsea said and made a sad face. “Maybe not.”
I flipped through a few more. Then I saw a movie choice pop into view.
The Only Lovers Left Alive…
Was Fate trying to tell me something?
“I liked this one,” Chelsea said. “It’s about an old … impaler… couple who’ve been married for forever. He’s a dark gothic hero from the time of Jane Austen, I think. He's a rock star. One of my favorite actors. She’s like thousands of years old.”
“Does it have a happy ending?” I asked, curious about vampires, but somewhat afraid of gory ones, considering.
She shrugged. “They’re still together at the end, so maybe.”
We watched it, and it was good and not what I expected. The vampires were married and had been for quite a while, but had been living separately, one in Detroit and one in Morocco. When the hero became depressed, the heroine came to Detroit and cheered him up. The chief problem they faced was getting clean blood. Human blood was generally contaminated and it made them sick. They went to Morocco together and although they’d did their best to get clean blood from blood banks, they were unable to find any and ended up attacking a young couple.
I liked it because it was rather artsy and deep rather than a horror film and I was surprised Chelsea liked it.
In truth, it only made me more preoccupied with Kier and what would happen when Chelsea went to bed and I was supposed to go to him in the guesthouse.
Would I go? I did the night before. I knew that as soon as she went to bed, I would as well.
When Chelsea yawned a few minutes before midnight, I turned to her.
“Maybe, you should stay up a while longer.”
She shook her head. “I want to but I’m so damn exhausted.”
When she stood up and started towards the bedroom, I turned and watched.
“Stay here instead,” I said. “Sleep on the couch.”
“I can’t,” she said and shrugged helplessly. “I’m going to fall asleep standing up.”
Damn… Had Kier compelled her to go to bed at a certain time so he could count on us being undisturbed?
“Just come back for a little while, please…”
She sighed and plopped down beside me, her long curly blonde hair splayed out on the back of the couch. “I can barely keep my eyes open.”
“I have just the solution,” I said and went to the kitchen where my mom kept a spray bottle of water for her plants. I grabbed it and went back to the couch. After I was seated, I sprayed it directly in Chelsea’s face. She startled and sat up, blinking.
“Hey!” she said and wiped her cheeks. Then, she smiled. “Great thinking. Keep it up whenever I look like I’m falling asleep.”
“I’m sorry to do this,” I said, “but I really really don’t want you to go to sleep.” Once she went to her bedroom, I knew I’d have to go to Kier.
We put on some music and I grabbed her arm and forced her up to dance with me, holding her hands and swinging them to the beat of some dubstep on the satellite station. It was totally surreal, for there Chelsea was, exhausted, her eyes blinking whenever I sprayed her with water. The rest of the time she yawned and rubbed her eyes, barely moving to the beat.
Finally, she flopped back down on the sofa. “I’m done, really.” She laid her head back on the sofa and closed her eyes. “Just so sleepy…”
I switched off the music and when I turned back, Kier was standing in the house, watching us.
“It’s time for bed, Chelsea,” he said, his voice soft but with a thin edge to it. “Say goodnight to Calla and go get some sleep. You’re so tired, you can’t stay up a moment longer.”
Chelsea nodded and stood up, her eyelids heavy. “Nite nite, Calla,” she said with a yawn, her arm draped over my shoulder. “Sleep tight. Don’t let the impalers bite.”
Then she left us and I was alone with Kier. I didn’t want to look him in the eye because I knew he’d be mad that I tried to resist his compulsion.
He held his hand out, and I didn’t reach out to offer him my hand.
“You’re very strong willed to even try to disobey me.”
“I don’t feel very strong willed,” I said, clasping my hands behind my back. “I feel like a slave if you can make me do anything you command.”
He nodded. “I understand, but I haven’t compelled you to obey me completely. I could but I don’t like doing more than is necessary for safety. I understand the human need for a sense of free will. However,” he said and narrowed his eyes, “if you become too difficult, I may have to.”
I made a sour face. “I don’t want that.”
He stood waiting, his hands on his hips. “I can’t afford too much disobedience from you. I must prepare to leave and I need your help.”
He held out his hand once more and, finally, I took it. His skin was cool to the touch, but not unpleasant.
“Thank you, Calla. Perhaps I’ll be leaving tomorrow night and you can go back to your little life. Until then, I’d appreciate cooperation.”
We walked hand in hand to the guesthouse where he opened the door for me, ushering me in again like such the gentleman. We sat on the couch and I saw that he had a tray of hot tea, milk and sugar and teacups all ready.
“Tea?” he said and held up the old flowered teapot that my grandmother used for her afternoon tea.
I nodded, not wanting to appear ungrateful.
“Sugar and milk?”
“Please,” I said, watching him pour and stir. He handed me the cup and poured himself one and then we each took a sip. The tea was good and like my grandmother used to make. Proper British tea.
Then Kier put down his cup, and turned to face me once more, his arm on the back of the sofa.
“So, Calla,” he said, his eyes moving over me. “I spent quite a long time watching news, but it was confusing. Please tell me about the government and the election. The US is at war?”
“Civics was never my thing,” I said but did my best to explain the current state of the nation, including all the wars, past and current from the time of the San Francisco earthquake and fire. For the next hour or so, we touched on so many subjects, going on tangents when he had a question. He had a b
right mind. That, even I could tell. He understood politics far better than I did.
“I bet you never thought you’d get a history lesson from a teenager,” I said with a laugh when we finished our tea.
“Certainly not,” he said and smiled. Then, his expression changed from amused to serious, and he moved a bit closer.
“Now, Calla, I want you to contact someone for me using your internets. It’s my brother, who was living in the City the last time I was free. I have absolutely no idea how to do it. We didn’t have telephones or internets when I was captured, so I don’t know how to use them.”
“Tell me his name and I’ll Google it.”
“Google?” he said, frowning.
“It’s a way of searching all the information in the world using very powerful computers.”
He nodded. I’d told him in detail about the development of computers and how amazing they now were.
“I need to go back to the cottage and get my computer first,” I said.
“I’ll escort you.”
We left the guesthouse and went to the cottage, where I found my MacBook Air. We passed Chelsea’s room and I peeked in and saw that she was fast asleep.
I didn’t feel any real threat from Kier, so at that moment, I wasn’t too worried. He really did want to find his family and leave. He had only one small taste of my blood and seemed intent on not drinking any more.
I relaxed for a moment and it was a relief.
We returned to the guesthouse and I sat down on the couch and opened the laptop and a browser.
“What’s your brother’s name?”
“Evan MacLaughlan. MacLauchlan Investments.”
I Googled both terms and came up with dozens of hits. One was a LinkedIn profile for Evan MacLaughlan, Investment Banker with a firm called MacLaughlan Tyerman Investment Services. Another was a link to a website for the company.
“Is this him?” I asked and showed Kier the page. On it was an image of a man in his twenties with short dark hair, blue eyes and a sober navy suit smiling at the camera. There was a resemblance to Kier, but Kier was so much more attractive.
His eyes widened. “Yes, I think so,” he said and took the laptop, his fingers touching the screen. “His hair is much much shorter and he’s shaved, but I’m sure it’s him.”
“Short hair is the fashion,” I said. “Except for hipsters and bikers.”
“Hipsters?” he said and looked at me quizzically.
“Hip,” I said. “It’s a term from the hippie era in the 60s and is used to refer to someone who goes against the fashion trends or, in this case, create a trend. Most men are more conservative and have a basic short haircut and a clean-shaven face. Only the hipsters and lumberjacks have beards or scruff.”
“Scruff?” he said and rubbed his jaw. “You mean unshaven?”
I nodded. “It’s definitely a sign of being a hipster. Or lazy.”
He laughed out loud at that. “In my youth, most men had longer hair and beards. I haven’t had a chance to shave since I was no longer a dried piece of meat. I’ll have to find a barber once I get back to the City. If the style is for short hair and a clean shave, I don’t want to diverge.”
“Women like scruff,” I said, thinking of him without the dark grizzle on his chin and jaw. He was very attractive and I kicked myself mentally for thinking it once again. “And hair that is a bit longer. Women today like rebels. Outlaws, bikers, gangsters.”
“They do?” he said and smiled. “In my day, women liked rich handsome men. Are they out of fashion?”
“Women like rich and handsome, too.” I blushed furiously, thinking of all the romance novels I read on my tablet.
“What about you, Calla? What do you like?” he asked and moved closer. “If you met me and didn’t know I was a vampire, would you find me attractive?”
I glanced away, my cheeks hot. As much as I didn’t want to answer, I had to tell the truth.
“You’re very handsome.”
“Look at me,” he said and turned my face towards his, his expression serious, his brow furrowed. “Tell me the truth. Would you consider me as a suitor if we met under different circumstances and you had no idea what I was?”
“Yes,” I said and swallowed hard, hating to admit it, but unable to resist.
He held my gaze for a moment before nodding.
“Send my brother a message if you can,” he said and turned back to the computer. “There is a place for messages there,” he said and pointed to a comment box on the visitor’s page. “Tell him Kier is safe and ask him to send you a message back.”
I shook my head for the message would be public. It was a guest book rather than a contact form. “I don’t know if the visitor’s page is the safest way to communicate with him,” I said. “Anyone in the public or who works for the firm would see it. You need to send him a private message. You need his personal email.”
I took back the computer and did some more searching, looking on Facebook and doing a phonebook search for Montreal.
“I might be able to get his phone number.”
I searched the Montreal listings but there was no E. MacLaughlan or any with a name in Kier’s immediate family. Finally, I found a reference to MacLaughlan Tyerman Investments and a phone number for the Montreal branch.
“We could call the business and leave a voice message.”
He nodded. “Whatever you think is safe.”
We discussed the message he would leave and then I took in a deep breath and dialed the number using the landline in the guesthouse. I got an automated message in both English and French and selected 1 for English. Then I had to dig down in the system to leave a voice mail.
I handed the phone to Kier, who took it awkwardly and held it to his mouth like a microphone.
“Hello, this is Kier MacLaughlan calling for Evan MacLaughlan. I’m safe and want to speak with Evan to arrange a meeting. He can call this number.”
Kier repeated the landline number for the guesthouse, which I had written down on a piece of paper. When he was done, he handed the phone receiver back to me. I hung up and looked at him expectantly.
“I guess now we wait.”
He nodded, but was focused on the website for his family’s company, scrolling down to see what it said.
While he was busy, I checked the messages on my cell and saw that there was a text from my mother, who had arrived safely in Berlin. I smiled as I read her description of the flight and the taxi ride to their hotel.
“Is that a message from your parents?” Kier asked.
“Yes. They’re in Berlin for a concert.”
“Berlin,” he said and sighed, pushing the computer away. “I haven’t been there for quite a while. They have great theatre, food and many nice coffee shops.”
“How long has it been since you were there?” I asked, thinking of the division of West and East Germany during the war and the breaking down of the Berlin Wall.
He pursed his lips. “I was there in…1874?” He gazed off into the distance, remembering. “A performance of Julius Caesar by the Meiningen Court Theatre Company, which was on tour at the time. I was there with my father, who’s a big supporter of theatre, especially Shakespeare.”
I shook my head in awe that he had been alive—or dead—for over one hundred and forty years. He might be even older.
“When were you turned into a vampire?”
He smiled softly and shook his head. “Enough tales of my past. It makes me feel very old to speak of it. What matters is the future. You say that my message will get to them immediately?”
“It’ll go to their message center. It depends on how often they check it. Maybe no one will get it until tomorrow morning, so you might get a message back sometime tomorrow.”
He nodded and took out a pocket watch and checked the time. Then he turned and leaned his head against the back of the sofa, gazing at me, his eyes moving up and over my body to come to rest on my eyes.
“I’m hungry.”
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I swallowed hard at that. “For food or…”
“Both.” He jumped up suddenly and went to the kitchen, where he opened the refrigerator and pulled out a serving of leftover lasagna. He turned to me. “Can you do me the honor of heating this up? I’m not quite sure about this machine…”
He pointed to the microwave. I smiled at went to his side, taking the plastic container and removing the lid so that it wouldn’t get too hot.
“It’s easy,” I said. “You have to take the lid off or else it might get too hot and melt. Put a piece of paper towel on top to stop splattering when it boils. Put it in for a minute and a half, and voila.”
I put the dish inside and covered it, then closed the door. I set the microwave for ninety seconds and pressed start. We both stood and watched the dish spin around inside the microwave as the timer counted down the seconds. I stopped it just before the timer hit one second and then opened the door.
“You stopped it early?”
I laughed. “You’d know why if you used it enough. Here,” I said and slipped the piece of lasagna onto a plate and put a fork next to it. Then, I gave him a paper towel for a napkin and handed him the plate. “Dig in.”
“Thank you.”
I sat across from him at the dining room table and watched as he ate, my chin resting on my hand, my elbow on the table. He seemed voracious, focused completely on eating, although he was quite the gentleman and wiped his mouth frequently. I could tell he enjoyed the dish.
“What would my mother think if she knew a one hundred and forty year old vampire was eating her lasagna?”
He looked up from his food and smiled ruefully. “A bit older than one hundred forty, I’m afraid.”
“How much older?”
He shook his head and forked another piece of pasta. “A man has to have some secrets, Calla.”
“Where were you born? You can at least tell me that.”
He finished his mouthful and wiped his mouth with his paper towel. He studied my face, as if deciding what to tell me. Finally, he put down his fork and took a sip of his water.
“In a place called Caledonia in what is now known as Scotland. I was born in the eighth century.”