Not much could be seen through the broken slats of the shutter covering his window, but those young voices had unsettled him. Earlier, Anabel had thrown open the upstairs shutters so the windows blazed with warm, yellow light and now feet thumped on the wooden floors next door.
More than anything, it was the subtle shift in Essence that had aroused his curiosity. Although one individual seemed almost extinguished, two hummed–the one a riot of pent-up potential, containing more energy than he’d sensed in a very long time.
Eyes closed, he did something he rarely would, and reached with his mind, sorting through a tangle of thoughts. A mother, the dull one. She did not interest him in the least. Her energy points were blocked or leaking away into the aether.
The son was marginally interesting, darting about the property bursting with fascination, almost able to reach himself, so alert was he.
The girl, however, caught his fancy. She was the one who scintillated, although she kept herself contained, cautious.
How would it be to drink her, assimilate that power?
He locked down that thought. Hunting too close to home would be worse than foolish. The others would find him if even the hint of a mysterious murder so far away from the cities made the news.
Then again, young women sometimes ran away from home, didn’t they?
She carried a burden of resentment, which could be pushed–manipulated to serve his purposes. Her young blood flowed fast and she would be prone to making rash decisions.
Trystan slammed his hand against the wall. Why must it always boil down to his need for blood, for energy? Couldn’t he just enjoy another person for who they were instead of wanting to eat them?
He could always return to his kin in the big cities. He could abase himself before the elders and plead with the council to grant him some clemency for his crimes.
Thou shalt not drink the heart’s blood of your brother and sister. Thou shalt not imbibe of their Essence.
He could still hear that dreadful voice boom in his ears. No. He was better off out here, away from the accusing whispers and stares.
Blood calls to blood. Always.
Across the way, his new neighbors were so alive, so enticing, even in their very human dysfunction. Trystan tried to recall what being alive felt like but struggled to evoke all but the basics. There had been London’s dirty streets. He’d worked for an innkeeper, had cared for horses in the stables and also scrubbed floors. His name had been different, then. Matthew–when he had been alive. Yes. The straw, the warm, horsy snorts, it was a blur. He could no longer remember what it felt like to be warm, unless he drank the blood of the living. He dared not indulge too often. The others might discover him–drag him back to atone.
My guilt has bright green eyes, like tourmaline, like verdigris. When she smiles, my heart wants to start beating again and the soft fall of her auburn hair feels like a sheath of silk running through my fingers. Her teeth are very sharp when she bites and, when she laughs, I would do anything for her.
Antoinette was long dead and, of course, only he was to blame. Trystan shoved the memories as far back down as possible.
That was the thing about sticking around so long. He couldn’t exactly call it living, could he? There was so much to remember it was almost too easy to bury the things he didn’t want to think about.
Trystan bit his lip and resumed his watch through the gap. Silhouetted figures moved upstairs in the house. Voices were almost distinct enough to understand.
The need to be closer to these people drew Trystan out of his house as soon as he was sure it was dark enough. He rarely walked through the village, preferring the anonymity of his ’48 Hudson. The fewer who knew what “that strange one at number nine” looked like, the better.
The ground was still warm beneath his bare feet, the gravel of the road pressing painfully into his soles while he cat-footed across the street.
Trystan hated being out in the open, and felt too exposed and soft without his car’s metal encasing him–his exoskeleton.
Old Anabel had her wolfhound locked in the house. He made sure of that before he slipped between branches in the hedge, although he bit back a curse when thorns caught in his hair and stabbed into his shoulder.
He used to watch over Anabel, years ago, until they chopped down the fig tree after that summer they used to meet once the sun set.
Trystan had not been back since and could not recall how long ago that had been, save that Anabel was now well into her fifties, by his reckoning, although he wasn’t about to knock on her door to ask her, either.
So brief–these mortals–like bright flames attracting the moths with their heat and light, only his kind was adept at extinguishing this fire. Sometimes even vampires got singed.
Trystan waited for a good few minutes before leaving the relative safety of the hedge. He reached out again. The girl had gone upstairs, alone. Good. The boy was back downstairs, with his mother, Anabel and the dog, in the lounge–even better.
All he would do was take a look.
The climb up the side of the house proved easy. Over the years, the old fig tree had sent out lateral branches. They had not been trimmed back, although the original stump had rotted to nothing, and provided all the handholds he needed to reach the wraparound balcony.
The floorboards creaked as he put his full weight down and he froze, listening. The girl must have heard something, for she did not move, either. He could almost taste her on the other side of the thin layer of brick that separated them.
The door leading onto the balcony was flung open and she stepped out. Normally humans weren’t so brave. Their dull senses sometimes allowed them an inkling when his kind was about.
The girl was about his height. Wide gray eyes were set in her oval face framed by shoulder-length hair a color neither fully blond, nor copper.
She noticed him and jumped back but he did not leap off the balcony yet, as instinct urged. He stood still, observant, ready to vanish into the night in an instant.
The girl recovered her composure first and approached him. She smelled of honey and he fought the need to close the distance between them. She stopped a meter before him, that gaze flicking from his face down to his too-long nails. The thrum of her pulse was the sound of the ocean breaking on rocks, which made him think of the taste of salt on his lips.
The hunger stirred in his belly, hot and fierce–this girl was one of those rare individuals found once every hundred years. She burned on an aetheric level.
The perfect victim. He could drink her down to the last drop of her Essence tonight and not need to hunt for weeks, perhaps months if he were clever about it.
Or, she could take the blood and it would catch, something malicious in him suggested.
“No,” Trystan said in a low voice. “I won’t.”
“Excuse me? What did you say?” Her eyes were so large, gray streaked with green accents. He could stare into them for eternity.
His mind made up, he twisted, gripping the railing to drop over the edge of the balcony, landing with nary a sound on the grass below. Then he made the mistake of looking up, and was once again transfixed by her gaze.
“What’s your name?” she asked.
“Trystan.” Now that was a stupid thing to go and do.
He did not look back again, as he passed through the hedge, just one more shadow escaping in the night.
Chapter 6
The New Kids
Mrs. van Zyl had warned them the Friday already that two new students would be starting at Rubidge Private Secondary School the following Monday–two kids from Cape Town.
She had intimated they had suffered some sort of trauma and would be boarders and please would everyone be kind to them. They had only arrived late on the Sunday. Apparently their car had broken down on the N9 National Road outside of Graaff-Reinet, so Etienne only caught his first glimpse of Helen and Damon Ashfield at breakfast on Monday.
Oh, the brother would be teased all right.
He was a skinny pale boy with freckles, and a shock of red hair tumbled into his eyes. His expression was permanently bemused, as if he still couldn’t figure out where he was and where he was going.
Helen did not look like a hopeless loss, however. She’d pinned her strawberry blond hair back with pretty sparkly clips and she had nice legs–her blue jeans fit her well. She’d never bother looking at Etienne, though. Nearly all the girls treated him with a mixture of pity and contempt. Except for Arwen, of course.
Helouise and some of the other matrics–nice enough girls–had taken the newcomers under their collective wing, so Etienne didn’t dare approach them. He wished Arwen was here, though she would no doubt have been making some biting comments by now.
Etienne worried about Arwen. Since the incident with her tarot cards three days previously, she had not returned to school. A family member had collected her that very day. She had not called or texted–which was very unlike her, so he fretted.
He’d sent a short text this morning and had received no answer. Computer literacy classes were after their tea break, so he could only hope to send her a proper email then.
The new kids noticed him for the first time when they were lining up in the quad before filing into the hall for assembly.
To give Helen some credit, she had tried not to stare. Damon, on the other hand, had sneaked furtive glances until the last possible moment, even spinning around a few times once the grade eights were finally seated.
Their headmistress, the rather cadaverous Ms. Engelbrecht, went through her usual, tedious drill with a Bible reading and the same, tiresome hymns pounded away on the piano by one of the music teachers. Their school was, after all, still nominally Christian, and old Engelbrecht never let them forget that.
Helen and Damon Ashfield were officially welcomed and Etienne cringed on their behalf when they were made to stand in front of the entire school. Damon’s complexion almost matched his hair color.
Ms. Engelbrecht did this to all the new students. He remembered his own humiliation all too clearly. His dubious welcome had been even worse because he’d started halfway through grade eight, when most of the kids had already had ample time to form their little cliques. They’d laughed when he’d stumped up onto the stage. He’d thought, at first, that this was some cruel practical joke aimed specifically at him, until Arwen informed him he certainly wasn’t the first, or the last.
Poor Arwen. Like him, she had also been a newcomer. Only, she’d been ill for the first month of school–acute peritonitis brought on by complications from a botched appendectomy–and had gone through exactly what he’d experienced. Although he was a hell of a lot shorter than the average kids his age, thank God his parents hadn’t seen fit to name him after a character from a fantasy novel filled with elves and walking trees. Even now he wasn’t quite sure which was worse.
Perhaps he should just call Arwen on the landline,but he was wary of her father, a stern man who frightened him half to death.
Stupid, of course–the old man wouldn’t be at home during the day.
The rest of the assembly passed without incident, save for the attempt some person behind him made to trip him on the way to mathematics. When Etienne turned around to catch the culprit in the act, all he got was Jean-Pierre and his friends trying to look innocent. His own ferocious scowl had no impact.
A confrontation with them wasn’t worth his trouble, so he quickened his pace while trying to ignore their endless nudges from behind. If he had longer legs...and if wishes were horses.
Helen was in this class. She arrived out of breath, ten minutes into the lesson, which did not please Mr. Bayly.
“Sit!” The man gestured at the empty desk in front of his table–the spot reserved for troublemakers–where, oft as not, Etienne ended up sitting.
She kept her head down, a red-gold strand of hair falling over her face as she seated herself. Etienne hated the way the others sniggered. His only consolation was that Odette was not here. Odette studied accounting and home economics. Mathematics was for boffs, according to her, although he never heard her rag Jean-Pierre for getting Bs. Jean-Pierre was on the rugby team. Damned jock.
Etienne tried to concentrate during the rest of the lesson but his thoughts fluttered about. He was only too glad when the bell rang. He’d go talk to the new girl, find out what subject choices she studied. Of all the crap things out there, starting at a new school halfway through the first term was near the top of the list.
Marianne and Aniska, two of Odette’s friends–or lieutenants as he preferred to call them–beat him to it, so Etienne followed at a distance, toward their English class.
They were sussing her out.
He watched, in the ten minutes before Mrs. Davis came in–late as always–how they congregated around Helen, asking questions. Helen’s gaze darted about–she was obviously bewildered by all the attention she was receiving.
During the tea break, he retreated to the library, and made himself as inconspicuous as possible among the shelves. Perhaps with the new girl here and Arwen absent, his tormentors would not seek their usual dismal sport.
Later, a message from Arwen did await him in his inbox, after all.
Hey Etti
I’m sorry I didn’t get back to you sooner but I haven’t really been feeling at all well. Dad says I have to come back soon, so I’ll see you on Tuesday. They’re talking about sending me to the shrink again.
Laterz
Arwen
The message had been sent on Saturday. Etienne ached for Arwen. She’d fainted after that incident with Odette and he’d not been able to speak with her before the school nurse had booked her off.
After long break he had the first indication Odette would not accept Helen. In typical fashion, they’d invited her to sit with them in their circle on the school field beneath the poplar trees but he could see, as he walked past on his way to the library, their body language was not quite right.
They were interrogating her, and it didn’t look as if they liked all the answers.
Odette sat straighter than usual, somewhat apart, with Marianne and Aniska on either side of her, talking animatedly.
They may not do anything now, but he’d seen this little routine enough times in the past. He walked away, narrowly missing Jean-Pierre. That was a small mercy about being a little person. Etienne could slip into hiding a lot quicker than anyone else.
Arwen and her pet hobbit. That jibe made him smile when no one was watching.
* * * *
Mr. Robins was their art teacher and classes were a haven for Etienne. Mr. Robins–a man gray and stooped before his time, yet still lively–never let Etienne feel as if he were anything less than normal.
Mr. Robins’s bright green eyes missed nothing. To him it didn’t matter that Etienne sucked at life drawing. Mr. Robins always said, “It’s not how you draw, my children, it’s how you express yourselves. An artist is a thinking and feeling person.”
Etienne didn’t mind that this man constantly referred to his students as “my children,” either. He somehow made the term sound dignified.
Etienne only took art classes because Arwen did and Mr. Robins made him feel as if he were the best thing since sliced bread–he couldn’t think of any other way to describe it.
Mr. Robins wore a wonderful, woody aftershave and sometimes, he’d stand behind Etienne, just breathing, and Etienne imagined he could feel the teacher’s heat radiating off him. This excited him in ways that he dared not voice.
The art studio was situated next to the music rooms. Even in the dead of winter, it was pleasantly warm here, although the air-con didn’t always work during summer.
Art wasn’t a popular subject at Rubidge Private Secondary School. The only kids who attended classes were the un-sporty misfits.
Helen’s fate was sealed when she stumbled in, five minutes late. It wouldn’t be long now, a week, perhaps.
You’re one of us, he thought with a wry smile. Odette hated artsy-
fartsy nerds, as she called them. He wore that badge with pride.
Chapter 7
It Starts
Rubidge Private Secondary School was nice enough, once Helen got over the initial strangeness. Built somewhere during the mid-nineties, the school’s buildings clearly leaned toward a Bauhaus revival that reflected a post-modernist trend–if she recalled her architectural studies well enough. But, somehow, the architect had tried to keep the style in character with the typical flat-roofed architecture of the old Karoo. She enjoyed figuring out the influences, hoping that when she got stuck into art classes the teacher would touch on architecture.
All the buildings were single-storied and fit together in neat blocks joined by covered walkways. The school had been situated roughly five kilometers outside of Graaff-Reinet, so it held an air of isolation. The white karees held out their scraggly boughs, not quite large enough to provide much shade but the verdant sport field situated next to the irrigation dam was the school’s pride and joy, a vivid patch of green in an otherwise beige landscape.
She assumed their father was responsible for the school fees, because most of the students were dropped off in the morning by parents driving Beamers, Benzes or large, shiny SUVs and the little savings their mother had would never pay for a private school.
Their grandmother, a stern woman who would only allow them to call her by her first name, Anabel–not Ouma or Grandmother–drove a beat-up stationwagon full of rust, which developed an alarming tremor on the dirt roads. They had spent a scant few nights acclimatizing to Nieu Bethesda’s lazy heat before Anabel had announced they would start at their new school.
Neither Helen nor her brother had boarded before. Thankfully, they’d still return to Nieu Bethesda over weekends. The dorms at school were in a series of four-bedroom chalets set on the slope of the hill overlooking the school. She had to give the architect that much, he’d tried to make things cheerful, only the edges were too sharp, and the paint too white in the sunlight. Each room slept two–only the grade twelves had the luxury of private quarters. Grade tens shared.
Camdeboo Nights Page 3