by Sophia North
Catching it with his thumb, Dante wiped it away.
"I'm sorry I've been so foolish," she said, her voice ragged with emotion.
Dante wrapped his arms around her. He needed to hold her next to his heart.
"Do not apologise. You've been through much since we met. It is only natural to feel overwhelmed by it all. Even I have been challenged. And let's face it love - I've been at this existence game a hell of a long time. But you've made me feel things I never knew were possible."
With her cheek pressed against his heart, she smiled at his confession. Leaning back, she placed her hand to his hard cheek. "That was beautifully put. Perhaps when this is all over we should go into practice together? You seem to have a gift for psychological analysis."
Dante laughed at her quip. "Not really, my sweet. My expertise lies in loving you, which..." he said, pausing to kiss her deeply. "I intend to demonstrate again before leaving for the evening."
Simone had no issue with his most excellent proposal. "If you insist. You are the expert."
Chapter Twenty-Eight
THE UNDULATING WATER of the Thames rushed under the low steel arches of Vauxhall Bridge, as the sky flashed with lightning. The current heat wave in London, the hottest since records began, was responsible for the night's electrical show. There was no rain, no real thunder either, other than an occasional rumble in the distance. But the sky...the sky was incredible.
Oblivious to it all, Dante stood on the middle of the bridge and stared down at the Thames. He'd searched every inch of Daryl's flat, office and even Simone's place, hoping to find something useful. But there was nothing. Not even the faintest whiff of a clue.
How he could have been so wrong? Every instinct screamed the answer he sought was within reach. But there he stood, in the middle of Vauxhall Bridge, bereft of any ideas on what to do next.
There was a storm coming. He could feel it.
As the wind built, Dante turned up the collar of his black rain coat. A crash of thunder broke overhead and the skies opened to release a torrential downpour.
Turning up his head to the heavens, Dante let the rain wash away his blood tears. Frustrated by his continued lack of progress, he roared at the sky. The sound was absorbed by another crash of thunder.
Gripping the iron railing, he pulled himself up to stand on its narrow width as the storm raged.
Holding His arms out like Christ on the cross, he too raged at the Creator. "What? What do you want from me? I'm here, where I thought you wanted me to be. Yet, you give me nothing. All you do is take. My father...Zara. Even now you place Simone in danger. Is this your idea of some sick fucking joke?"
The sky flashed in a succession of lightning bolts. The thunder rumbled closer. It was as if the Creator was getting ready to have His say on the matter. Dante, however, hadn't finished with his perspective.
"You take pleasure in destroying me piece by piece. And for what? So I can be your fucking reflection? Me - a Vampyre! Made in your image? What a fucking lie."
The winds howled, as if offended by his ranting. Or, perhaps more accurately, in anger at his heresy.
"Come on, you fucker - show me what you've got!" Dante challenged the heavens, unrepentant.
In answer, the thunder boomed, the sky flashed, and a jagged path of lightning slashed its way down to electrify his body. Jolted and battered, the power of its force sent him crashing into the swirls of the water below.
A few miles away, deep within the earth of Belgravia, Simone awoke with a sudden jerk from troubled dreams.
"Daaanteee!" screamed from her lips.
*
THE GENTLE SOUND of lapping water brought Dante from his deep stupor. Sprawled face down in mud, he rolled over. His body felt on fire. Every muscle within him groaned in protest at any sudden movement.
Where the fuck am I? his dazed consciousness screamed. Fucked if I know, his body replied.
Ever so slowly, he cracked open an eye. Overhead, an arch of iron and brick came into focus. Water, iron, brick - either this was a bad Industrial Revolution trip, or he was somehow in a river, under a bridge...god only knew where.
Dante dragged himself up and sat with his back against the brick wall. The river was actually more like a stream and beyond the iron and brick arches he saw it was nighttime, but couldn't be quite certain what night it was exactly.
Completely drenched and muddied, he stood gingerly, bracing his weight against the solid comfort of British ingenuity. The soft hum of a car engine sparked his senses back to life - and a world of sound erupted around him.
The din was not that of London, but rather the gentle rumble of a sleepy English hamlet. The distinctive sounds of nature wrapped their tentacles around his vampyric senses. In the distance an owl hooted and the thick forest whispered it's hellos with the rustle of leaves.
Climbing up a bank, Dante emerged onto a dark, poorly lit roadside. The creak of an old wooden pub sign, Head of the Rising Moon, the only evidence of human life.
Clueless as to where the hell he was, Dante gave silent thanks that a welcoming pint was close at hand. Aware at how ludicrous he must look, he half-heartedly attempted to tidy himself up, until reaching the conclusion he no longer gave a fuck about how he looked.
The pub door banged loudly upon his arrival. Not the best start. A group of scared farmers, or for all he knew, London accountants, did not make the best conversationalists. But the pub’s occupants didn't even flinch when he stepped inside. The few lost souls scattered about, either continued to sip their drinks and watch the football match on the telly or continued their low conversations without a side-ways glance.
Huh. Maybe it was just him, but he instantly warmed to country life.
"Ye look a bit of a fright, mate. Trouble with the missus?" the old, grisly bar keep asked, polishing a pint glass. "Or should I say 'partner' in these here days and ages?"
There were a few guffaws from the men sat at the bar. Dante chose to ignore the man's misconception all well-dressed men had to be gay. When in Rome and all that.
"Good evening, cheers for the concern. And you are correct, my missus is the reason for my current state. Seems she developed a strong dislike towards my company after finding out I may, may have slept with her sister. So I thought it best she took the car under the circumstances."
"Sisters are a dangerous temptation, mate. Harold over there 'ad a family of six once. Got ugly, eh Harold?"
A slightly dozing drunk in his seventies perked up when he heard his name. "Fucking nightmare, that - but still, it be the best summer of pussy I ever 'ad." He broke out in a loud, smoker-crackled laugh. The rest of the pub joined in.
"What's yer poison?"
"Pint of ale - whatever's local, if you have it." Dante settled on a stool and glanced up to see the footy score. "I see the Arabs are easy fodder for the Russians," he commented.
"Waste of bloody time. What do a bunch of camel traders know about playing football? It's all about the doe-ray-me, lad. Usually don't bother watching the World Cup until after the group stages - unless of course the Germans are playing. I always enjoy watching the Hun lose, not that it happens much, Kraut bastards. Except, of course, when it matters most." A few fists pounded on any available woodwork in approval with the sentiment.
Dante sipped his pint and wondered how he'd ended up back in WWII. The liberal North London crowd would be aghast to hear such opinions still being openly expressed.
The current state of the British nation all started to make a lot more sense. Not that he usually troubled himself with the affairs of humans, but at this moment it strangely mirrored his own world's melt-down, albeit on a completely different level.
"Ye be needin' a room? Me missus keeps a couple upstairs - spent a small fortune on the damn renos. Ye London lot got too many fancy ways. Barely get a goddamn soul out these parts, but she says it's only a matter of time and I need to be pregressive. Whatever the fuck that means."
"Far from London, you say," Dante ask
ed, leaning forward to catch the old keeper's eye. "Where exactly might that be?"
The old man threw down his towel. "Marcus, he's trying his vampyre mind control shit on me. Sort him out."
Dante's head turned in the direction where the barman had commented. In the far corner of the pub, a solitary boot stuck out from the side of an intricately carved wooden booth. His eyes fixed on an elegant black riding boot, as he waited for whomever sat there to show himself.
It wasn't long in coming. From the booth emerged a tall, slightly bearded man, wearing traditional men's riding gear - crop and all. "Evening. I could have sworn your kind and mine had a very clear understanding - you stay the fuck off our land and we will show you the same respect."
Shit, werewolves! Dante knew exactly where he was - Broadstone Heath, the heart of the Cotswold Clan's territory.
"Marcus, is it? It's been what - two hundred years since our kind caught up. Shall we have a drink and talk it out like the civilised creatures we both are?"
Marcus smirked at him and with a swish of his riding crop said: "Walter, did you ensure our guest received his special pint?"
"Aye, Marcus. I slipped it in, jest like ye wanted."
Dante started to feel strange the moment the old barman made his declaration. The pub began to distort like a hall of mirrors at a fair. "What the fuck did you put in my drink?" he cursed, grabbing hold of the bar to steady himself.
"Let's just say, the wolves and the fae have settled their differences," Marcus answered. "Take him, boys."
Chapter Twenty-Nine
SIMONE WANDERED AROUND Dante's home, desperate to distract herself from her worries. Dante had gone missing nights ago, and as much as Vlad reassured her he would be found, she could not rid herself of a terrible sense of foreboding in the pit of her stomach.
Her only solace came from Alfred's continued absence. If anyone could locate Dante, it would be him. No one else covered the ground a raven could, nor had the ability to keep searching day and night.
Shut off from the outside world, Simone thought she might lose her mind.
Unable to use the telephone, for fear of being listened to by Roxy or one of her friends, she'd been about to give up when salvation came in the form of Dante's old Marconi radio. Seeing it perched on a shelf in the library, she'd eagerly turned its large dial and was rewarded with a strong signal.
"Good evening, listeners. Thank you for joining us tonight for a special Sunday edition of InsideOut on LTC London - the station that Leads The Conversation in our nation's capital. As our regular listeners know, the LTC family suffered a terrible loss of one of our own recently. Dr. Simone Radcliffe was sadly taken far too soon from this world - and the circumstances of her death, despite the flurry of online chatter, are still under investigation.
Yet tonight, on this the final show of InsideOut, we are going to honour her memory, take your calls on how Simone impacted your life, and listen to what those closest to her have to say about this vivacious woman. Who, despite her young age, managed to touch so many people."
Stunned by the gesture, Simone sat down on the couch wondering who would be there to represent those 'closest to her'.
"I'm not sure if listeners tuned-in tonight will know me. My name is Dr. Cecil Bacon from LTC's Bacon at Breakfast - and no, I did not change my name for marketing purposes."
Cecil and his studio guests chuckled at his quip.
"But enough about me. Tonight is all about Simone. And here in the studio, to share their unique memories are: Dr. Edmund Gould, the man responsible for bringing the wonderful Dr. Radcliffe back to the shores of Old Blighty, as well as being her mentor; Jason Richler, the producer of InsideOut and finally, Penny MacGregor, Simone's best friend. Thank you all for joining me."
Dear lord, Penny was on air! Simone scrambled upright to stare intently at the radio, as if the act of doing so might allow her to somehow see her friend and possibly interact. God, she hoped Vlad and Alfred pulled through on their roles in keeping her fiery best friend in check.
Minutes ticked by as Simone agonisingly listened to Alf and Jason drone on about her accomplishments until finally Cecil asked Penny to say a few words.
"Be calm, Pen, please," she whispered, nervously waiting to hear her friend speak.
"Simone and I met at boarding school. At first I thought she was the most stuck-up bit..er, girl I'd ever had the misfortune to meet. She was thirteen, quiet as a mouse - which I mistakenly took as snobbiness. And oh my, was she clever. Really, really clever, which did not help matters much. Can you imagine, there she was, thirteen and studying for A-levels? As for me, I was only at the bloody place because I'd won a scholarship to study Art."
Simone broke into laughter. Content all was well, she settled back and wrapped a tartan wool blanket around her shoulders.
"Oh my, Cecil - it seems I've wandered so far off the point, I've forgotten it," Penny laughed warmly.
"Not to worry, my dear. It happens to all of us. You were saying how you and Simone did not exactly hit it off from the start."
"That would be putting it mildly. I may have been a tad on the brutal-side towards her during her first term - and before the lines light up with complaints about bullying, I'd like to remind listeners that it all worked out in the end. But only because Simone was who she was - and by that I mean, she was always a thoughtful and patient listener. And I am sure all her fans hearing this tonight can relate to that Simone."
"So true, Penny, so true. And we'll be sure to ask our callers just that, after the news and a word from our sponsors. You're listening to LTC's InsideOut, I'm Dr. Cecil Bacon, and we'll be back shortly to hear your memories of Dr. Simone Radcliffe."
"My Greco-Gaelic dragon sounds well," Vlad's deep voice spoke out, startling Simone.
"Vlad, you nearly scared the life out of me!" she exclaimed. "House rule number two: procure and insist Vlad wears a loud bell at all times when on the premises."
The Viking looked at her quizzically but didn't dare ask. The low hum of the news drew his attention instead.
"And today in London, the heat wave continues following what many are saying was the strangest storm the capital has seen in centuries. The wind and electrical damage wrought by the storm now dubbed 'Boudicca', has had crews working long hours to restore and repair large areas of Central London. Some Londoners have even taken to the streets to proclaim the storm and upcoming total Lunar eclipse heralds of dark times to come. Sounds ominous, Cecil - and the forecast for the next couple of days won't help matters. It will be clear and sunny but hot as Hades with highs reaching the mid thirties. Old Beelzebub best bring his sunscreen for the upcoming Armageddon. Back to you in studio."
"Armageddon indeed", Cecil crooned back on-air. "My friends and I usually refer to it as Brexit. But thankfully this is not a political discussion we're having tonight. Rather, we are here to remember our dear friend and colleague, Simone. And so listeners, ring, text or message us with your stories - we'll try to take as many calls as we can. First up is Anton, who wants to share a very special memory of the late Dr. Radcliffe. Good evening Anton, you're on-air."
"No fucking way," Vlad growled.
Simone's eyes widened in horror.
"Cecil, distinguished guests - thank you for taking my call," Anton's unmistakable voice blared from the radio. "Where does one start with describing the impact of the lovely Dr. Simone? It was shocking to hear about her passing - I understand she was tied up in all sorts of unsavory matters at the time of her death."
Cecil cleared his throat. "Now see here, sir. Tonight's show is no place for such vulgar talk. You rang to share a memory not desecrate one. I think we shall ..."
"Oh my god it's him - the caller from Simone's last show!" Jason could be heard saying in the background.
"Is it you, you vile piece of shit?" Penny boomed menacingly, her respectable public persona completely shattered.
"Miss MacGregor, language. What would your tutors from Godolphin's say about that naugh
ty tongue - tsk, tsk." Anton smoothly replied. "Though you do sound rather delicious and I am partial to redheads."
"Kill the power, it's the only way." Jason yelled. "Kill the show!"
Suddenly the radio went static. Simone turned to Vlad and shouted: "Vlad, you have to save Penny!"
"Fucking hell. I'm on it, Doc."
Chapter Thirty
A BUCKET OF water to the face works miracles at rousing drugged unconscious vampyres.
Spluttering from such a deluge, Dante awoke chained to a chair. Nice. The Lang's were apparently genetically predisposed to producing cunts, if the present cubs were anything to go by.
Shaking his head vigorously, he blinked his way into focus and was greeted by the vision of a vaulted ceiling supported by large oak tresses.
Damn, the place actually had a bit of class to it. The Lang's kept that side of their natures well hidden under a bushel.
Discovering he was surrounded by a pack of werewolves in human form, Dante leaned back in his chair. "You know, I am finding this latest trend in my life of being jumped and taken captive rather annoying," he drawled. "Where has common courtesy gone? Oh wait, I forgot with whom I was speaking. The Langs have only ever operated with a veneer of respectability."
"You talk a lot of shite, mate," the barkeep from the pub replied.
"Fuck, I didn't realise things were so bad the Langs have to rely on the leadership of old men. I'm going to go out on a limb here, but your name wouldn't happen to be Walter?"
The older wolf bristled. "So what if'n it is?"
"No particular reason, there just always seems to be a Walter Lang in existence. And you, my friend, bear all the usual traits."
"Are you quite finished, vamp?" The one they called Marcus asked. Changed from his riding clothes, he wore a pair of jeans and a crisp white shirt - a complete transformation in appearance had taken place. Gone was the dandified gentleman and in his place was a man of raw wolf power. "You should be counting your blessings the full moon is not for a few more nights. Otherwise, I suspect you'd not be sitting there spewing your crap."