by Heidi Lowe
I fished out all the money I had in my purse. Two hundred bucks and some change. "If I give you this, will you wait for me here? I won't take long."
"I don't know, ma'am. It's late, and it's dangerous," he said, eying the money suspiciously.
"I'll double that if you wait. There's over two hundred dollars there. There'll be another two hundred when you take me home."
"Four hundred dollars? Just to wait then drive you back?"
"That's right. Will you do it?"
After a long, pondering silence, he agreed to wait, took the money, and told me not to take too long.
These woods had once been frightening and dark, as black as the abyss. But now, without a speck of light, I could see everything clearly, right down to the green of the leaves on the trees. Whatever fear I'd had in coming here again had disappeared. A sense of calm came over me; I felt at ease. Nor the shuffling of mysterious animals behind the trees, nor the various calls and cries unsettled me as they once had.
I let my guard down and trod calmly over the fallen leaves and twigs, deeper into the enveloping blackness. My pace quickened until I was running. And I didn't stop until I came to the spot where Dallas's cabin was supposed to be. The cabin we'd once fooled around in. We'd never progressed past second base. Even though Jean and I were separated at the time, it still felt like infidelity.
I spun around, searching. This was definitely where the cabin had been. My memory hadn't failed me. So where was it?
The pile of ashes on the mud at my feet answered my question. I bent down, touched the pile and sniffed my finger. Yep, someone had burnt it. Recently, it seemed. It hadn't rained in a few days; if they'd burnt it before then, the rain would have washed the ashes away. Could it have been Dallas?
I waited and listened for another five minutes in case she showed up, but no one came, so I headed back to the cab that, luckily, was right where I'd left it.
So as not to draw suspicion to myself, I asked the driver to drop me at the gallery, not home. And by the time he pulled up to the curb, we were already on first name terms, and he'd waived the other half of the fare. Brian with a wife and two teenage children. Brian, who had driven off with a better impression of the vampire race, now that he'd seen we weren't all bad. At least some good came of my trip to the woods, though I was no closer to finding Dallas.
"I'm home," I called, upon entering the house later that night. Not waiting for a response, I made a brisk beeline for the basement as the hunger pangs struck me. In the earlier days of the condition, two bags per night would have sufficed. But now that I'd matured a little, I was finding that the cravings had become more frequent. Now three bags were needed to tide me over.
Emptying the bag down my throat, I thought about how much had changed since that first night, the first time. To think there had been a time when the act of drinking blood had seemed barbaric to me, something I wanted no part of. Now, not only was it necessary for my survival, I'd developed a keen taste for the stuff. Most batches were delicious, others simply okay. All tasted different.
Fully replenished, I headed back upstairs and into the living-room, walking right into a conversation between Jean and Clara.
"Hi, love," Jean said, as she stood up to kiss me. "How was it?"
I laughed. "It's the gallery. Same as it always is." The guilty heart perceives everything as suspicious, sees doubt when it isn't there. When she looked at me, I panicked, fearing that she knew I was lying. Sort of lying. Omitting.
When she sat down, I made a bold move and sat on her lap, for Clara's benefit mostly. Any public display of affection between me and Jean, above all, seemed to rile her up like nothing else. Mere insults simply wouldn't have the same effect. Her scowl garnered a smile from me.
"Lissa," Jean said in a quiet voice, "not now." And with that she pushed me gently off her lap, her cheeks fully flushed.
Not now? Not now? Was I all of a sudden an embarrassment to her?
It was Clara's turn to wear the triumphant grin, and mine to wear the scowl. Not just at her, but at Jean. I'd sat on her lap many times, and only this time did she object to it. The act itself wasn't the problem – the person I did it in front of was.
That should have been my cue to get the heck out of that room and leave them to it, but instead I swallowed my pride, sat on the couch, and tried not to take offense.
That was when my eyes landed on the pamphlet in Clara's hand, which she so cunningly held at an angle, allowing me to glimpse the cover. Charrington Prep. A tagline stated it was the best prep school in the state of Illinois.
My eyes bulged. "Why do you have a prospectus for a school in America?" I hoped the answer would be anything but the obvious one.
Jean answered before she could, and joyously. "Clara and I were talking, and we both think it could be a good idea for her and the children to move out here."
My expression was one of the purest horror. "You can't be serious."
Jean's smile fell away. "It's just an idea at this point. But what would be so wrong with it?"
I let out a shocked, humorless laugh. "What's wrong with it? It's bad enough that I've had to put up with her this long, now you want her to stay out here permanently!"
"Lissa!" Jean's mouth was agape as she stared at me. Flabbergasted, more pale than usual. "Why would you say such a thing?"
"Because it's true." I got to my feet. "I've played nice for your sake, only because I knew there was an end. But this crap... Uh-uh, this is where I draw the line."
"Just what exactly is your problem?" Her eyebrows furrowed, her lips were pursed, her arms folded.
"She's my fucking problem!" I pointed an accusatory finger at Clara, who looked like butter wouldn't melt. "She's been nasty to me ever since she got here. Saying things when you're not around to hear them."
The allegation didn't have the outcome I'd hoped for. Not for a second did Jean turn and look at Clara to check the verity of my words, to see if her face would betray her guilt. Jean's piqued expression remained on me. She didn't believe me.
"Lissa, I know this has all been difficult for you," she started in a steady voice, as though she was talking someone out of a hostage situation. "And I know you've been more sensitive than usual of late..."
"Oh my God, you think I'm lying." I turned away in shock, shaking my head over and over.
"I didn't say that, I–"
I turned back to face them, now with murderous intent. "Go on, tell her about all that stuff you've been saying, how weird you think we are together, how my mummy issues are the reason behind my choice of partner. Go on!" I yelled at Clara.
She cleared her throat, looking embarrassed, not for herself but for me.
"Lissa, I'm sorry you took my comments to mean that, but I can assure you that wasn't my intent."
"You lying bitch!" I flew at her, but Jean was quicker, jumping between us before I could do my worst. It was in the heat of the moment, a knee-jerk reaction that was unintentional, but nevertheless her push sent me toppling backwards over the coffee table.
"Oh my goodness," Jean cried, and rushed to help me up. But I shoved her away. I wasn't in any physical pain, though emotionally it was the equivalent of being stabbed multiple times with a platinum knife.
"Lissa, I'm so sorry, I didn't mean–"
"So this is what you do now, abuse your girlfriend?" I spat. I knew it was an accident, that she'd never meant to hurt me, but she deserved my reproach; her guilt.
"No!" she said, panic-stricken. "It was an accident. I would never–"
"But you did. You took that bitch's side. It's always about her. You go shopping together and never invite me. You do everything together that you and I never did, or do. And now you want to move her and her fucking brats into our lives permanently. I bet you want everyone to live under this one roof, huh?" My laugh lacked humor, my eyes were wild and venomous. "Over my dead body. If you want me to live here, she has to go."
"You c–can't ask that of me." She searched my ey
es for some understanding, for signs of sanity. "Do you expect me to just throw my daughter out because you had a little disagreement?"
"It's anything but little." I stepped up to her so that our faces were mere inches away. My eyes were callous when I said, "Either she goes, or I do."
"Lissa, please don't do this," Jean said in the smallest, frailest voice I'd ever heard come from her mouth. A hopeless voice. Caught between a rock and a hard place. An impossible decision. Or was it?
"What will it be, Jean?"
"I'm not going to make that decision. You can't ask me to choose between you."
There were less than four weeks left on Clara's visa; I could have waited, sure. But it was the principle of the thing. A test. One Jean had failed miserably.
"Okay, I'll make it for you." With that, I took off out of the room and up the stairs, Jean following behind me.
"Lissa, what are you doing?" I heard the fear in her voice as I stormed into the bedroom.
"You're right, I can't ask you to put her out on the street. So I won't. I'll leave."
"Why are you doing this? I don't want you to go."
I tugged open the closet door and began pulling some of my clothes out, throwing them onto the bed.
"You think I made it all up, don't you? About the horrible things she's been saying to me? The reason I never mentioned anything to you was because I feared you would take her side. And boy was I right."
"Please, let us talk about this." She grabbed my arm. "You can't just leave. You said you wouldn't do this again."
Hearing her cry, weep for me, because of my actions, made my heart ache and pang. It never felt good to bring her to tears, no matter how furious I was. She'd cried so much already because of me, which was why I'd tried to change my ways. I'd promised never to leave her, just as she had made the same promise to me. Never to kick me out, never to give up on me. How easily all of that was forgotten in my rage.
"I just...I just need to go. I need to think."
"Where? Why can't you think here? I'll use a different room, get you your own box if you like. Just stay."
It was all too much. The pleading, my guilt at causing her tears, my need to hold on to my anger. I growled in frustration, turned away from her without looking at the damage I'd caused, and ran from the house without taking any clothes with me.
Sometimes, all you could do was run.
THIRTY-SIX
A soulless black pit of self-indulgence and incessant hedonism. A place where morals, dignity, love and every last remaining human emotion I'd held fast to came to die.
That was Oliver's place in a nutshell.
The women were rarely the same from night to night, though the nights themselves hardly differed from one another. Despite having been here multiple times in the past, this most recent trip, and indefinite stay, made the place seem more vacuous than usual.
He was my last resort, and it had taken a lot for me to come here. After realizing that I had nowhere else to go once I left home, I found myself on his doorstep, tail firmly between my legs.
"I thought you hated me," he'd said with his signature smirk.
"I do. So what?" came my defiant answer.
He laughed and invited me in. That was how he was; it didn't faze him one bit that I'd tried to beat the crap out of him only a few nights prior. His lack of real friends, friends who were like us, who'd turned at a young age, probably had something to do with him letting me in. He would never have admitted it, but I suspected he was lonely.
That made two of us.
"What did she do? Invite a bunch of other women into your bed? Because if so, I did warn you about that ridiculous monogamy thing. You know it makes little sense for people like us."
I'd rolled my eyes as he tried over and over to guess what had made me run. And when he ran out of kooky, fantastical guesses, he said, rather frustratedly, "All right, so what was it?"
"She chose her daughter over me. You said you have a spare box. Could I crash here for a while?"
"Sure, whatever. Mi casa es tu casa, and my bed is your bed." He wiggled his eyebrows in that lecherous way he often did, making me tut.
And that was how I ended up there, in the home of a serial killer, someone who'd inadvertently caused my death, or "rebirth", as he liked to call it. Surrounded by women every night, and forced to drink from the source, because the bagged stuff was all but forbidden in his house.
His house had many rooms, and I was able to choose whichever one, bar the master bedroom, I liked. They all seemed the same to me, however; neither of them was my own bed. And neither of them had Jean in it.
One of his stunning housemaids and part-time lovers bought me clothes during the day, because I'd left everything at Jean's. I didn't bother replacing my phone, or going back home to retrieve it. I did call the gallery the following evening and let Rosie know I wouldn't be back for a little while, and that she should hold the fort, as she had been doing. Jean would go there looking for me, no doubt, and I didn't want her to find me.
This was where I would remain, for as long as it took to get on my feet and get my own place, my own box. My plan was simple.
Too bad I didn't account for my emotions...
Leaving Jean was becoming a habit of mine, but not one that got easier the more I did it. In fact, my heart ached even more this time than it had the previous times. The sound of her choked up, tearful voice replayed constantly in my mind. Her pleading, the desperate way she'd tried to hold on to me. To think I had caused such despair. I always caused it. Maybe we were better off apart.
It was a question I asked every time, as I tried to justify having left the woman I loved, despite my whole body speaking against it. My heart, too. It was also a question that, after the third night of being away from her, became ridiculous to even consider. Because the aching feeling of loss kicked in, and I missed her like crazy.
Of course we weren't better off this way. It had never been the case before, and it wasn't the case now. A life without her was no life at all.
Yet...she'd made her choice. That wasn't my doing. She didn't believe me, I saw it in her eyes. Instead I was seen as the troublemaker, the unstable girlfriend who had a history of violence, of lashing out. Someone whose word couldn't be trusted. She thought I fabricated the whole story. Even if I had said something earlier, this would have been the outcome.
No, she'd made her coffin, now she could lie in it alone. And when Clara returned to France, and there was no replacement daughter foolishly waiting to give her the love she needed, she would come looking for me, no doubt. Because that was all I'd been, a replacement for the daughter she gave up. I was sure of it.
Death metal music blasted through the house from the lounge – so loud and thunderous that it made the bed vibrate, and the ornaments on the walls clatter. It was an awful racket that should never have been called music, but nevertheless was loved by Oliver.
Beside me on the king size bed were two pretty women, both of whom were older than me by at least ten years. They were friends, had been since childhood, and had never been with a woman before. They were just passing through town; they were scheduled to leave a couple of days later.
It hadn't taken much to get them to strip down to their underwear. After all, that was why they'd come. To get naked and get bitten. Sex tourism by a different name. I'd been objectified the minute I turned; I was now something to be coveted and desired, something women like this would travel far and wide to sample. Each vampire bite was different, just as all blood was different. And it didn't matter how female I was; sexual preferences played no part in any of this. They would give up everything for the bite.
"This is far better than a crummy hotel," one woman said of Oliver's place, and his benevolence in putting them up. I didn't know where he'd found them, but he'd chosen them specifically for me, because he knew my preference for mature women. Dark hair, too, which both of them had.
"Should we take these off too," the other woman asked, gestur
ing to her panties and bra. "Are you going to undress?"
"You can keep them on for now," I said, ignoring her other question, and keeping my clothes on. We had all night to get to that part, if indeed I ever managed to bring myself to it. The thing about being madly, deeply in love was that nobody, and no body, could ever replace the person you loved. It didn't matter how much sex was on the table, or how attractive the potential lovers were. When you wanted steak, chicken simply wouldn't do. Working up to finally giving myself to another woman was far more difficult than I'd thought.
When one went to kiss me, I twisted my head so that her kiss landed on my cheek. We wouldn't do that, either.
Taking charge, just as they expected from one of my kind, I laid her roughly on the bed, pinned her arms down and plunged my fangs into her neck. Her euphoric moan excited me more than I wanted it to, making my sex throb. We would have sex tonight, I concluded. It was written in the stars. That would be the point of no return, and Jean would hate me for it. If she ever came looking for me.
I drank the woman up, then turned my attentions on her friend, whose come hither eyes made it hard to resist her. This time, though, I went for the inside of her thigh. A similar scene came to mind then. Back before Jean and I were a thing, I'd walked in on her taking part in an orgy of sorts. She confessed, once we were together, that she'd done it for my benefit, to push me away so I wouldn't fall for her. But I already had by then.
A feeling of warmth cloaked me when I thought about how hard I'd fought to make her mine. That kind of love, of dedication, would not come between the legs of two strangers whose names I hadn't bothered to get. But they were all I had.
If the music hadn't been so loud, I probably would have heard the bedroom door creak open and someone walk in.
A gasp, then, "Who are you?" the first woman said, startling me.
I lifted my head out of her friend's crotch, and spun around. My body went cold when I saw Jean sitting on the chair at the bottom of the bed.
"Just an observer," she said with a calm, friendly voice. Her eyes, however, were anything but friendly when they looked at me. "Please, continue. I'm interested to see how far this will go."
