by Heidi Lowe
It took a minute for my skin to heal, and I promptly moved from the window and continued my journey up to the main house.
The house had been purposefully built with few windows, so thankfully I didn't get caught in a ray of sunlight and turn to ash as I reached the foyer.
I heard pleasant humming coming from the kitchen. Sandra. She was always humming some southern tune from her childhood, and she had the voice for it. I decided to wait until she came out to greet her, because the kitchen was one of the few rooms with big windows.
She appeared finally, a steaming cup of coffee in one hand, and a croissant in the other. She didn't see me immediately.
"Good morning," I said with delight, glad to be able to utter those words again. It didn't matter that I could only do so while sleeping.
The contents of both hands promptly fell to the floor. She let out the loudest, most bloodcurdling scream, yanked the front door open and ran from the house.
I tried to call after her, but now that the door was open and sunlight spilled in, I hurried back the way I'd come. Back down to the basement, down to the lair, shaking my head and laughing to myself.
What a strange dream, I thought, as I settled back into the casket.
TWENTY-SEVEN
They'd spent longer than usual in the shower that evening, making love. Lissa's prompt departure immediately after meant that Jean didn't get to hear the rest of her bizarre dream.
"My cab's here. I'll tell you when I get home from the gallery," she'd said, before hurrying away.
Robyn and Sandra were waiting for her in her office. The two women stood up when she stepped into the room, both wearing the same looks of anxiety. Sandra was wringing her hands, shaking a little.
"This looks ominous," Jean said with a laugh. She didn't know what this impromptu meeting could have meant, but the tension made her nervous. It couldn't have been anything good.
"Jean, we need to talk," Robyn said, her face solemn.
Jean looked between the two women, bemused, wondering what could have brought them to her office like this.
"I gathered that. What's it about?" she said, stepping past them and taking a seat behind her desk.
"It's about Lissa," Robyn said.
"What has she done now?"
Robyn exchanged a look with Sandra, then gestured for her to step forward. Tentatively, Sandra did so. She didn't look directly at Jean, which Jean found unusual. Sandra had never had a problem looking her in the eye.
Jean leaned forward. "What is it, Sandra?" Now she was starting to worry.
"Well, you see, I don't know how to say this without sounding like someone who just stepped out of a mental asylum..."
"Just say it," Jean said forcefully.
"This morning when I came out of the kitchen...I saw...I saw her..."
Jean blinked back at her. "Who?"
Robyn sighed and broke in. "Lissa! She was awake, Jean. Go on, tell her what happened."
"She was just standing there, then she wished me a good morning."
Jean felt her heart pounding in her chest, felt the blood rushing to her head. "B–but that's not possible," she breathed, feeling weak and dizzy as she looked to the women for answers. "You must be mistaken."
Robyn slammed a hand on the desk. "She's not. She called me as soon as it happened. You know it's not impossible, Jean..." Her glare was icy, accusatory.
"W–what happened next?" She was on the verge of hyperventilating as the panic set in. This had to be a joke the two of them had concocted together. Only, neither woman was the type to play tricks. She prayed to God that, just this once, they were.
"I ran for my life. I didn't know what else to do. When I came back in, there was no sign of her."
"So you just left her there?" Jean exploded, shooting up out of her chair. "Anything could have happened to her."
Robyn stepped in. "She did what any sane person would have done. Don't blame her."
Sandra, who had never been shouted at or reprimanded by her boss in all the years she'd worked for her, took it to heart, and ran from the room with tears in her eyes.
Any other time Jean would have gone after her, apologized profusely, and bought her an expensive bag as an apology. But she had far more important things to worry about than the hurt feelings of her employees.
Robyn's judgmental eyes only added to her anxiety. "You didn't take the research seriously. I told you!" she said.
"I need to think," Jean said, her thoughts all over the place. "There has to be another explanation for this." Denial was always easier than acceptance.
"There isn't. There isn't a vampire alive who can walk during the day. Didn't she mention anything to you?"
Jean opened her mouth to say no, but then something occurred to her. "I think...I think she thought it was a dream. She started telling me about an unusual dream she had, then she left." It finally hit her. "Oh God."
"Jean, you have to tell her now. If she unconsciously walks outside during the day, she'll burst into flames, no matter how much Were DNA she has. She's still mostly vampire."
Jean shook her head incessantly, hands pressed over her mouth. All the signs had been ignored, signs that pointed to the truth. Out of stubbornness she'd paid no attention to them. Quixotic hope. When Lissa had tried to choke her the night before while they were making love, she should have seen it then.
"I thought I got to her in time," she said. "I really did."
"Will you tell her?"
She shook her head slowly. "I can't. I'm not ready."
She knew what type of reaction that would elicit from Robyn, who had been consistent in her resolve from the beginning.
"It's not about you, don't you see that? You're a coward, and you're selfish."
Jean aimed a look of pure fire at her. When she spoke, her voice was dark and booming. "Don't you ever speak to me like that again! Remember your place."
It was enough to silence Robyn, though it didn't silence her eyes, which stayed on Jean, as reproachful as ever. Robyn could insult her sufficiently enough with them.
"I'm not telling her, and that's the end of it. Don't bring it up again. I mean it, Robyn."
Robyn nodded her grudging agreement to keep her mouth shut about it.
"Then at least change the code for the entry system so that she can't get out before dusk."
It was Jean's turn to nod. "I'll do that. At least that way I can keep her safe."
A solution to just one problem. God only knew how she would solve the rest, if in fact there were solutions.
She waited until the two employees had left the gallery for the night before she stepped out of her car and headed toward it. The night was cool and quiet. She felt a gentle breeze against her cheeks.
"What are you doing here?" Lissa asked, enveloping her in a body-crushing hug. No one would have believed only a couple of hours had passed since they'd seen each other.
Jean held onto her longer than necessary, and fought back the tears that threatened to fall. How she wished they could just run away somewhere and never have to deal with any of this. But wherever they went, Lissa's condition would follow them. Their love would always be hampered.
Besides, she couldn't run away now that Clara was in her life.
"I just wanted to see you. Is that all right with you?" she said, kissing her.
Lissa giggled. "Of course it is." Lissa took her by the hand and led her around the gallery, showing her some of the new paintings they'd acquired.
"You were going to tell me about your dream. I'd love to hear it."
Lissa looked at her with a doubtful smile. "You came all the way here to hear about my dream?"
"No, I came to see you. But you can tell me about it now, if you want."
When she listened to the recounting of what Lissa believed had been simply a figment of her wild imagination, she forced laughs where necessary, and acted as one would when listening to a radical story.
"You should have seen how fast Sandra ran," L
issa said, beside herself with laughter. "The cup smashed; there was coffee everywhere."
Jean doubted very much that Sandra saw the funny side to any of it. She certainly didn't.
"Did you really come here just to see me?" Lissa said after a while, putting her arms around Jean's waist.
"Why is that so hard to believe? I always want to see you, Lissa. That's what people do when they're in love."
When they kissed, it was bittersweet. Jean savored it, fearing that some day soon, Lissa would come to eternally despise her presence, and that it might be the last kiss she ever received from her.
TWENTY-EIGHT
French dialogue spilled out of the living-room as I let myself into the house. My mood immediately dampened. She was here again. That made it six nights in a row.
I slammed the door so two things could happen: Jean and Clara would know I was home; and they would switch back to a language that didn't sound like gobbledygook to everyone else in the house.
Jean came out to meet me in the foyer.
"Didn't you go to the casino this evening?" I asked her, pulling her into a kiss.
"Clara came, so we've just been here the whole time."
"What have you been doing?"
"Looking at old photos from my childhood. She wanted to see what the rest of her family looks like."
That word – family – had been thrown about so much lately that I was sick of hearing it. It felt as though when she used it, constantly reminding me that Clara was her flesh and blood, she did so deliberately. It was as if she wanted to drive home the point that she still had a family, people with whom she shared a real connection, and I didn't. My last living relative would disown me when she found out what I was.
I let go of her, did my best to conceal my growing distaste of her new-found happiness, and headed toward the stairs.
"Lissa, aren't you going to join us?"
Why, so I can watch you play the good mother and daughter while I'm the third wheel? That was what I wanted to say. Had I adopted my prior selfish and childish behavior, I would have. But when I looked back at her and saw how concerned she was, how innocent she seemed, I couldn't say it. I couldn't tell her how alone I felt, convey how alone I truly was for the first time in my life. I would simply suffer in silence.
"Sure. I'm just going to change first."
I took as long as I could changing my clothes, then headed back downstairs.
I interrupted them chuckling over photos of Jean as a teenager: she went through a punk phase and sported the wildest haircut – shaved on one side, green streaks running through it, the whole nine yards. Even back then she'd been a fan of black clothing.
"This was taken at my aunt's wedding. If you look closely, you might be able to spot someone famous in the background," Jean said. She passed the picture to me. There she was, fresh-faced, in her early twenties, no signs of her previous rebellious streak. An English rose who fit perfectly into the high society in which she was born. And there, among the reception guests, I spotted someone. She was a blur but I was certain it was her.
"Is that Princess Diana?" I asked, flabbergasted. I'd never seen any of these pictures, or known just how aristocratic her family actually was. Royal connections, British titles... She was becoming more of a mystery to me every day.
"It is," she said, taking the picture and handing it to Clara. "Prince Charles attended also, but I don't think there's a picture with him."
"How well did you know the royal family?" Clara asked, marveling at the photo.
"Fairly well. My parents, at least. My father was a marquess, so that sort of goes with the territory."
I sat quietly and went through the pictures while they chatted among themselves. She'd lived such a full and colorful life, so far removed from mine and the one she currently lived. There were photos of her with friends at Durham University – where she'd studied for her Bachelor's in economics; of her traveling the world, standing beside the Great Wall of China, standing on Mount Kilimanjaro, on Safari, sunning herself on a Caribbean beach, at her family's vacation home in Monaco. And on and on and on... She had been everywhere and done everything, all before she made it to these shores, all before she made it to me. And I, in contrast, had done nothing. I'd never left America, and I had nothing to show for my twenty-five years.
One of the many downsides to the condition was that I could no longer use the excuse of feeling sick to get out of doing things. We never got sick, not unless we hadn't fed in a while. I had to come up with something fast, if I didn't want to spend the rest of the night feeling inadequate and insecure. Jean had done a terrific job of playing down her importance and status in society, but the pictures didn't lie. We were worlds apart in every way. Perhaps this was why she'd never shown me the photos. They only highlighted our differences.
"I said I'd call Oliver when I got home from work. Excuse me," I said, and left the room before Jean could say anything.
Upstairs, I could finally breathe, and curse. Loudly. Clara being here, the photos, this was all too much. I hated being that person, the spouse who had a problem with her partner's children from a previous relationship. But that was essentially what I'd become.
"I was just thinking about you," Oliver said, when he picked up. "Would you like to know what I was doing while I was thinking about you?" His grin came through in his voice.
I rolled my eyes. "No, I don't. You're disgusting, that's all I need to know." I knew he only said stuff like that to get under my skin, so I didn't take him seriously. I never ceased to wonder why I bothered calling him. "Where are you?"
"At home. Why?"
I threw myself on the bed and let out a sigh. "I have to get out of here. Every day it's the same thing. Who goes to see their mother every freakin' evening? It's weird."
"Maybe they made that whole story up to fool you, and they're really lovers, waiting for you to leave to start humping each other!"
I shuddered at the thought. There had never been any doubt in my mind that they were really mother and daughter. Even if Jean hadn't verified it beforehand, it was plain to see. They looked the same, dressed similarly, had the same mannerisms, liked the same things. Had they not been related, I would have packed up my things and left already, because with that much in common, they would have been soul mates – destined to be together.
"Don't even joke about that," I warned, shuddering again.
"You know what your problem is, Lissa? You focus on the negative, and let everyone else have the fun."
I tutted, knowing exactly where this was going. Somehow, we always made it back to that. "So what you're saying is, I should come with you to No Man's Land and let the blood of a thousand virgins lift my spirits?"
"Pretty much."
I sighed, realizing I didn't have any better options. My ideal night would have involved disrobing my girlfriend, keeping her in that state all night, and bringing her to climax over and over again until there was nothing left of her. That would have been paradise.
"How soon can you be here?" I said eventually.
Oliver's arrival, as expected, didn't go down well with the old lady. A part of me knew it would piss Jean off that he was there, which was why I made a point of bringing him inside.
When I trotted him into the living-room to say hello to everyone, she shot me a glare that I pretended I couldn't see.
"Clara, this is my friend Oliver. Oliver, this is my...well, you know already. Clara."
Oliver kissed the hand of every new woman he met, always pouring on the charm. Clara was no different. Unlike the swooning young girls he usually attracted, however, she didn't seem the least bit impressed. Like mother, like daughter.
Jean didn't greet him at all, simply continued glaring at me for bringing him into her home. I knew that look, and I'm afraid to say it made me hot under the collar. That look said I was in trouble, and that I would likely receive a tongue-lashing...in more than one way, as punishment.
"Are you going somewhere, Lissa? I
was hoping to discuss something with you." Her tone was admonishing. How I wished we were alone so she could have her wicked way with me!
"Yeah, we're going to No Man's Land for a little while. You're both more than welcome to tag along." My demeanor was cheery, in stark contrast to Jean's. Oh, I would get it when I got home! I could hardly wait.
"We'll pass this time, but thanks. Have a good night." The words were nice enough, but coupled with the glare, and the timber of her voice, I saw right through them. And when she whispered a very menacing "we'll talk later" when I kissed her goodbye, I almost came right there in front of everyone. Since turning, I found pretty much everything she did sexy. And Jean losing her temper was about as hot as it got, because it didn't happen often.
As I set off for No Man's Land, a place I had no desire to patronize, thoughts of the punishment I would receive when I got back brought a permanent smile to my face. Sometimes she was too easy.
Two hours, that was how long I lasted. Two hours. Drinking from the source just wasn't much fun when what you really wanted lay back at home.
"You've had one woman. That was hardly worth the trip down here," Oliver complained, when I announced I was leaving. As far as he was concerned, playtime wasn't over until he said so, until every human in the joint had been sucked dry.
It wasn't as if I didn't have my pick; there was a plethora of attractive women in attendance. But their body language screamed desperation; a sort of "pick me" bell dinged whenever you looked their way. That was what I disliked about the place – the fun of the chase had been removed from it.
I thought back to the time I met Jean, and how incessant and unyielding I'd been in my pursuit of her. Anyone else would have given up as soon as she turned them down the first time. But not me, I'd stayed persistent. I knew what I wanted and I took it, took her. From everyone who'd ever had her, ever wanted her, and were waiting in line until she chose them. I was the one she'd chosen.
