Sophie Morgan (Book 1): Relative Strangers (A Modern Vampire Story)

by Treharne, Helen

  "I’ll see you later", I confirmed, smiling sheepishly.

  "See you later," he said pulling me into him by my wrist. I didn’t care that it hurt.

  "Be careful," he whispered into my ear. As he released me, he planted a warm, soft kiss on my cheek. It was lovely and I understood that he felt the same way as I did. He liked me too.

  Tracy chatted nonstop on the way back to the hotel. I wasn’t really listening to her, except to pick out the keywords that would enable me to get the gist of her monologue.

  Kieran had stayed the night, they’d had some drinks in the hotel bar I think, and then there were some further details which I chose to filter out. Apparently it was lovely and wonderful and all those things. I found it difficult to engage in any faux girlish excitement, although I was pleased that the breakfast which I’d paid for hadn’t gone to waste. From what I could gather, Kieran had eaten my breakfast, as well as polishing off most of Tracy's.

  En route, we stopped at a food stall and I picked up a coffee and a waffle filled with strawberries, nuts and chocolate sauce. Admittedly, it was not the most nutritious of breakfasts, but after the night I had, I couldn’t have cared any less.

  The young woman who took my money looked at me a little longer than I liked and I wondered if she was one of ‘them’, a vampire secretly moving through the world in the guise of an underpaid fast food server, but I quickly dismissed the notion in favour of a more likely scenario – she probably didn’t serve many young ladies who looked in the same state as me, beaten and thoroughly thrashed. She needed persuading to take my money.

  As I munched on my brunch, Tracy interrogated me on my own night, asking for "all the gory details". She had no idea how apt her choice of words was. I paraphrased my already heavily edited story again.

  I still felt exhausted, the whole being attacked thing having taken quite a lot out of me. Tracy apologised, embarrassed for concentrating on my love life and for completely overlooking the fact that I’d been assaulted and "who knows what else" less than twelve hours earlier. She told me I shouldn’t worry about doing anything that day except rest, she’d be quite happy on her own having a browse through the shops.

  I waited until Tracy left the hotel room before I undressed. When I did, I looked at my body in the mirror and wept. My arms were covered in bruises, my knees a maze of grazes and cuts. Bizarrely, my neck, with its pale pink scar, looked the best part of me. I knew I’d have to keep the dressing on though; I’d never be able to adequately explain how the wound had healed so quickly, not without revealing the horrible truth. That was a conversation I wasn’t prepared to have with anyone yet.

  The hot water of the bath stung, but I felt better once fully submerged in its embrace. The warm water washed over my body, cleansing each cut and abrasion and momentarily giving me peace.

  Soon I was reflecting on all that had happened and how I’d reacted. How lucky I was to have met Mickey and how brave he had been coming to rescue me. How my own irresponsible actions had started it all.

  As I tentatively washed myself with a small, complimentary bar of soap, I tried to pick apart what we knew about vampires, but the list I compiled in my head was brief.

  Firstly, I thought it was safe to assume that vampires were night hunters. Maggie and the other victims she had described, Seamus' cousin and the Antwerp murder victims, were all seemingly attached at night. This was also true of Mickey and me. I couldn’t be sure of any causal relationship or that vampire's aren't capable of going out in daylight, but I was eager to cling on to any remnant of hope of an ordinary life. If vampires can tolerate the sun, then I knew I’d go insane from a state of perpetual panic. They could be anywhere, be anyone, quite possibly wandering around leading perfectly normal lives most of the time. I'd never want to go out; I'd never be able to interact with anyone again. That's no life to lead.

  Secondly, they drank blood. Whether they needed to do this or not what was a different question, but they wanted it and they didn’t necessarily have to kill you to get it. As they had evolved super sharp canines to bite people with, it seemed sensible to assume that it was a biological need, rather than a preference.

  Thirdly, there appeared to be something in their saliva or teeth, which could heal and act as some sort of hypnotic should they wish to use it. This was interesting, as I wasn’t aware of any other creature that had this capacity.

  For the sake of argument, I decided to call it venom and noted that it could heal you in small doses, possibly without any conscious effort on the part of the vampire. The small amount of pressure I had placed on the dead monster's gum line had released it so I couldn't imagine that the force of a bite wouldn't.

  Given Maggie's experience, as well as both mine and Mickey's unaltered recollection of the events, it appeared that releasing larger volumes of venom required more effort on the part of the vampire. It would seem that these larger quantities are what is needed to mess with your memory.

  The mechanics of this process remained unclear, but I recalled watching a show about snakes on a documentary channel and I imagined that it could be similar. I wondered if, like other creatures which release venom, vampire fangs somehow act as a vehicle for transporting large quantities of the stuff into the victim. According to this TV show, that's how it works with snakes - it's called envenomation. I wondered what vampires called the process.

  In reality the hypnotic quality of vampire venom could mean that lots of people could happily be going about their business, meeting vampires willy- nilly, possibly being bitten by them too, and never knowing it. This was the thing that scared me the most out of all the things that I’d listed so far.

  I wondered how many drunks had arrived home from a night out without any memory of getting there because a vamp was a bit peckish. Oh dear God, I wonder how many poor girls, drugged and raped had been subject to further, horrific indignity and been served up as dinner for some vampire. Okay, possibly taking it a bit far there, but how knows? If vampires can kill, drink human blood, torture and terrorise, maybe they can have sex? And if they can have sex, they could have some pretty perverted fantasies and motivations.

  But clearly the venom has its limits, both with healing and with memory. Excessive feeding and violence had led to multiple deaths in Antwerp a decade or so ago, and probably elsewhere too. If a vampire got carried away, then it appeared that little could be done to save the victim. Perhaps, I wondered, it was a case of the vampire merely taking too much blood, too quickly. I shuddered, painfully aware that if Mickey hadn't come and saved me when he did, then that could have happened to me. I'd have ended up dead in the doorway, covered in my own blood with nobody there to comfort me, to explain what had happened to me, to tell my story.

  Seamus' cousin had regained some of her memory after a few months. Perhaps she didn't get the right amount of venom, or maybe it's like many drugs and some people have flashbacks.

  Fourthly, with great relief and contrary to many horror films, being bitten by a vampire didn’t appear to be sufficient in itself to turn you into one. Forty years on and Maggie was still walking about and talking like a regular person, so I was reasonably confident that she'd remained human all these years. I had no reason to believe that she was actually a vamp on the sly.

  Of course, that didn't rule out the possibility that you might become one when you eventually die. For all I knew, drop dead at eighty in my armchair and be walking around with all the other bloodsuckers at some yet to be determined point afterwards.

  It seemed unlikely, though. I'm pretty sure that there'd be lots of bemused mourners wondering why caskets and graves were empty if that were the case. I never really understood that about horror movies - if you claw your way out of the grave, who backfills it? Surely people would suspect something was afoot when they went to visit the grave and all that's left is a big hole below the gravestone?

  Finally, and most reassuringly, I was confident that you could kill a vampire and thankfully, it didn’t mean whittling st
akes out of chair legs. Substantial head trauma appeared to be adequate. That should mean that decapitation would also work. I couldn’t be confident about any other methods. Drowning, staking or fire could all be effective for all I knew, but until I’d seen evidence of that I wasn’t going to count on it. So far, vampire lore and legend, according to my limited knowledge, had not proved too accurate.

  All in all, my conclusions left me with the feeling that I could be confident about very little. There was also the nagging concern that we couldn’t be sure that other people, even officials, knew about the existence of vampires and weren't doing anything about it. Although reluctant to accept conspiracy theories, I was finding it increasingly difficult to believe that vampires were merrily wandering around, killing and maiming, without anyone with any power knowing about it.

  My relaxing bath did not have the desired effect. Rather than washing away my troubles, I was making myself crazy. No good would come from letting my mind get carried away with ifs and maybes. Trying to answer a lot of questions by applying logic was not going to help in this situation; after all, it isn't logical for a supernatural being to exist in the first place.

  I decided on an alternative tactic to calm myself down. I got out of the bath and grabbed a small bottle of red wine and chocolate-covered raisins from the mini bar. Switching on the TV, I sat on my towel on the bed, with my stash of dried fruit and my wine poured into one of the two plastic glasses from the bathroom. I usually wouldn’t pay to use the overpriced mini bar, but given the circumstances I gave myself permission. I flicked through the television channels until I found an old black and white film, which was subtitled, but still in its original English. I was about a third of the way through it when I finally closed my eyes and drifted off to sleep.

  My dreams were a psychedelic cocktail of exploding blood vessels, burning perspiration and my teeth falling out, dropping into my hands to reveal snake-like fangs left in their place. I danced alone to the sound of a guitar on an empty dance floor while strange men sat at tables looking on. When the music stopped, I fell to the floor, lying in a pool of blood, not knowing if it were my own. I reached for my face and felt blood dripping from my eyes and mouth. I screamed and the audience stood up and applauded.

  CHAPTER 11

  Rachel hadn't felt so good in years. The colours of the world were vibrant and laid out before her like a beautiful carpet, a glorious vibrating kaleidoscope of nature. Birdsong echoed in her ears like a concerto and the golden welcome of the rising sun made the world look like a furnace, molten lava pouring over it all.

  She sipped the coffee that she had made. It tasted bitter and she spat it out over the perfectly dressed window sill. She'd made it out of habit. Ferrers had instructed her to appear as ordinary as possible. The routine of everyday existence would eventually help her contain her urges, or rather the singularly dangerous one, the one to kill. So far, it wasn't working. Perhaps it was time to succumb to the hunger and to all the other suppressed desires now angrily bubbling to the surface.

  Her reflection in the window surprised her. She had half expected it to be absent. Her hair looked thick and luxurious; her eyes sparkled and the hazel flecks in her irises danced in the sunlight. It had been years since she'd felt this good, hell, maybe a lifetime, maybe never at all. She felt strong, powerful, and alive. Had she always looked this beautiful, she wondered. Had her new vampire state made her better, or only imbued her with a new found confidence? Either way, she liked it. She could feel every nerve ending in her body, everything performing in precisely the right way, like a well-oiled machine. It was magnificent.

  Who would have thought life could turn out like this? She certainly didn't. A few weeks ago, she had been logging on and grinding with the other junior partners in her law firm; nothing as exciting as criminal law though, just corporate law. Her speciality was acquisitions and mergers, but as she wasn't based in London, most of her time was spent on day to day contracts and routine matters. Her plan had been to make Partner, perhaps even move on eventually and set up her own practice. She had been in line for a promotion when she'd got the news. There had been no point planning for the future any longer. How was she supposed to focus on the present, making the most out of her life? She didn't even have one. No real family or friends to speak of. The doctor had asserted that there was nothing she could do. Ovarian cancer and it had metastasized. Basically, she was fucked.

  It was ironic really that it was her feminine organs which had let her down, since she'd not actually used them. Everything had been sacrificed to work and it had all seemed worth it. She didn't have a boyfriend, not even a cat, but she had an excellent job, savings and a lovely home. She had told herself that she would have time to find a mate when she was older; she was still young after all. Until then, she'd work and be rewarded, be a good person and do a good job for her clients. In time, it would all pay off. Her late mother, the archetypal anti-feminist, would be waiting for her in heaven with an "I told you so". Her father had always supported her choices, but she doubted he would be in favour of this one. It was strange, she didn't even care.

  For a while things had been going well for Rachel, her plan was beginning to pay off. She'd been the youngest in her graduating class to make Associate and she had a portfolio of clients with whom she'd worked hard to develop successful relationships. She was at their beck and call whenever they needed her. It never impinged on her social life - she didn't have one. No holidays, no hangovers, no distracting romantic interludes. Rachel gave good advice, understood her clients’ businesses and knew her boundaries. She took work home with her continually and reviewed files on the train during her daily commute. She remembered their birthdays, spouses’ names and golf handicaps in case she needed to make idle conversation. As she only saw them occasionally, this was something which her clients noted and appreciated.

  Charles Ferrers had been with her for a little under six months when the game-changing event happened. When they first met, his long standing solicitor had died suddenly and he needed someone discreet and efficient to handle a number of simple, but urgent, contract renegotiations. His business interests were varied, ranging from owning a number of commercial buildings and restaurants to investments in theatre productions. Mr Ferrers was quite the Renaissance man, although he revealed nothing of his personal life or background. Rachel suspected that he must have come from old money, possibly inheriting a number of the properties he owned in the process. Many of the buildings were hundreds of years old, often listed or in prime locations, where it was practically impossible to find anything for sale now. From what she could gather they were in immaculate condition, much like the man himself.

  She'd met with Mr Ferrers no more than half a dozen times, and each appointment had been informative and efficient. Time flew when she was with him and she often wondered how their half hour slot could have gone by so quickly. He wasted no time getting into the details of his requirements, although he always remained polite and quite charming. Then one day, completely out of the blue, he leaned in towards her, retaining his delicately folded hands on his crossed knee, and quietly told her that she was going to die.

  Her reaction was, understandably, hysterical. Rachel had told him a little of her life, let alone her health. They had only spent a matter of hours together in total. At first she thought it was a threat, and then wondered if it was an appalling joke. Neither seemed in keeping with the eloquent, well-dressed man she had been dealing with.

  After crying for half an hour in the toilet, she'd returned to her office to discover it empty. Charles Ferrers had left, but not before tucking a copy of his business card between the buttons of her keyboard. On the reverse, he'd written 'I will be waiting for your call'. He had beautiful penmanship, but that didn't excuse his behaviour. She'd never had a client so much as raise his voice to her, let alone threaten her life, if that's what he had, in fact, meant by his spontaneous declaration. She couldn't be sure of anything anymore. Rachel had been attract
ed to corporate law as she didn't want to deal with the emotionally volatile clients of criminal law or the trauma of marital breakdowns which formed the bread and butter of family law. She ripped the card up and threw it in the bin before going for a large coffee and the Times crossword in a coffee shop near her office - anything to help focus her mind and calm her down.

  As the days passed, Rachel couldn't shake off the doubts about her health that Ferrers had put in her head. She'd always considered herself to be in magnificent health, nothing more than a few cramps once a month and an occasional headache. Of course, she felt run down, but who wouldn't be after putting in a seventy-hour week at the office? She didn't have much in the way of colour, but she rarely saw daylight - she was either at her desk or on the train. There weren't enough hours in the day to work that hard, and sleep; no wonder there were circles under her eyes. Yes, she felt nauseous sometimes but she often had to skip meals in order to see clients or finish a piece of work. If there was something really wrong with her, wouldn't she know? And wouldn't she know before a practical stranger did? What was he, psychic?

  Deciding to err on the side of caution, whilst simultaneously berating herself for being a hypochondriac, she booked in for a full health screening courtesy of her private medical plan. It was a work perk she'd never had to use before.

  She felt embarrassed as she sat in the waiting room with all the sick people. She was uncomfortable when she got asked a million one questions about every aspect of her life and claustrophobic during the MRI scan. That was followed by shock in the consultant's room, denial in the cab home and anger at herself and the world in her kitchen as she downed a bottle of wine.