Sinning Forever

by Heidi Lowe

  "You poor thing. Sorry to hear about the breakup," she said.

  The only reason I'd mentioned it to her was because, after not seeing or hearing from me in days, she called to see if everything was okay. Telling her I was taking "me time" after my breakup seemed only fair. After all, she had been running the gallery single-handedly for a while.

  The first thing she did was offer me a cup of coffee, then hit herself on the forehead for being so absentminded. I took a glass of water instead.

  "Why did you break up, if it's not too painful to talk about?" she asked.

  I sipped my water wretchedly, saw my reflection in a piece of art that was made of broken mirrors stuck together in abstract ways. My hair was a mess, my white T-shirt wrinkled. Like I'd just crawled out of bed. No effort whatsoever; not the look of the owner of an upscale gallery.

  "Honesty, or the lack thereof," I said. "Word of warning when you do meet the man of your dreams: don't keep secrets from him. No matter how painful the truth is, it's always better to tell it."

  I didn't know how true that was, but it felt like the right thing to say. Being on the receiving end of someone's lie, naturally, gave me a bias.

  Her expression of rapt curiosity didn't go unnoticed, but she didn't inquire further.

  "Well, business is going great here. That might cheer you up. I got Louis St. Louis to agree to let us hold two of his pieces. He usually only deals with big galleries in Europe, but I worked my magic on him. He's game."

  Her features moved animatedly as she spoke. This place meant more to her than it did to me. Maybe it always had. I just couldn't bring myself to share in her enthusiasm. The place reminded me too much of Jean, of a better time that I could never get back. Those four walls were torturous now.

  "Rosie," I said, looking at her carefully, seriously. "You said you were in the process of getting the money together to buy this place before I got it. What happened? You never told me."

  "I couldn't come up with the deposit at the time. Funny thing is, just a few weeks later, my great aunt passed and left me some money in her will, can you believe it." She shrugged. "Ah, well."

  "How would you like to buy it now?"

  Eyes wide, eyebrows raised, she said, "Really? You wanna sell it?"

  "Let's face it, you're the one running it. This place is in your DNA. What do you think?"

  "I think that would be amazing!" Ecstatically, she threw her arms around me. "Thank you."

  "I'll have a lawyer draw up the paperwork, I guess." I had no idea how much it was worth, but I wouldn't overcharge her. The most important thing was to get rid of it, so there would be nothing connecting me to Jean.

  With promiscuity, you either had it in you or you didn't. Availability of women played very little part in it. Meaningless sex with a different woman every night suited a certain type of person – someone I had decided to become. Not out of desire, but because I'd completely given up on life.

  Besides sex, there was little else in the way of recreational and social activity to immerse myself in. I finally got it, what Oliver had been saying all along: life was long, too long to be in love, to confine myself to one person. Especially when that person had done nothing but hurt me every step of the way.

  Dismissing the premise of monogamy, of love, I stuck my tongue down the throat of the blonde who was perched on my lap. She was the first of the night, but not of the week. And if she played her cards right, she would be the one I took home. Maybe this time I would go all the way.

  The lights of No Man's Land flashed, and music videos played on the many plasma screens all across the room. In the seat opposite me sat Oliver with two women. Always wanting to outdo me, one woman never sufficed.

  The Frenching and heavy petting had been going on for fifteen minutes or so, and I still didn't know the girl's name.

  "Jean," she said, shouting over the music.

  The name stopped me mid-bite, just as I was about to pierce her neck.

  "What did you say?"

  "My name's Jean," she said again.

  I shoved her off me, eyes wide and wild. "Is this some kind of sick joke?"

  Frightened, she slunk back, shook her head frantically. "What did I do?"

  "Just get away from me," I said, waving her away, unable to look at her.

  "What was that about?" Oliver said, plucking his mouth away from his meal for five seconds. "She was cute. Not as cute as these two, but a safe six."

  "I didn't like her name."

  I told myself that the next one would be different, would be the one I took to bed. I would find no fault with her like I had the three dozen women who had approached me over the last two weeks. She would have a suitable name, suitable hair, be the right height, size, have a non-annoying laugh, have the right color eyes... The next one. The next one.

  When the next one approached – pretty, with a nice smile and a body to die for, I didn't even get to second base before I told her to find someone else.

  Why was it so hard to get past that kissing stage? I was a free woman; my conscience was clear. Were the wounds of our breakup so new that this attempt to move on was premature?

  "I'm heading home?" I said after a while.

  "Already? You still don't know how to party, Lissa. You're never supposed to be the first one to leave."

  "Yeah, whatever," I said, grabbed my purse and left.

  How could one be surrounded by people, yet feel more lonely than ever? That bar could have been completely empty for all the comfort it brought. The women, the blood, everyone's constant self-indulgence, would there ever be a time when they meant as much to me as they did to Oliver?

  The wolf in me, that savage, beastly creature who sat observing other savage, beastly creatures in their natural habitat, had no place there. Perhaps that was why I couldn't enjoy the place like the others. For a hybrid like me, the charm of the place was lost. Oliver would never understand, because I would never tell him. What I was, what went down at Jean's house that night. I knew him – he would throw me out. And although I was about to be one hundred and fifty thousand bucks richer, once the sale on the gallery was finalized, I didn't want to be out on the street.

  "Did you have a nice night?" the cab driver asked on the journey home.

  "I guess."

  "You just came from that No Man's Land place, right?"

  "Yeah. You know it?"

  "Heard of it. What's it like?"

  Why did they always insist on talking to me?

  I shrugged. "It's just a bar. Not sure what the big fuss is about."

  He started talking about some of the other vampire bars across the country that he'd heard of, and I feigned interest. I just wanted to get home.

  I peered out the window into the dark, moonlit streets, and panicked.

  "Why are we here? This isn't the way," I said, grabbing the back of his seat.

  "Canterbury Manor, that's what you said when you got in," he said, pulling into the familiar street. Jean's street.

  Dammit! I'd automatically given him my old address.

  The mansion came into view. Home. Why did it still feel that way? Three weeks later, the final breakup later?

  "Want me to turn the car around?" He watched me warily in the mirror.

  "Yes. No, wait a second." I stepped out of the car, stood at the bottom of her drive, and stared at the house. The light in her bedroom was on. She was right there, so close yet a thousand miles away.

  I imagined her changing into her nightgown, brushing her hair, and climbing into bed with a book, then touching the spot where I once lay. I wondered if she sensed me near.

  My legs wanted to carry me to her, my heart gave me the reason to. But it was my head, my mind, that made the final call, that urged me back into that cab and ordered the driver to drive.

  I'd come so close – too close. That was why I couldn't stay in this town.

  FORTY

  "Where will you go?" Petr asked me, his picture sporadically freezing on the cellphone
screen, though the audio remained consistent. At the beginning of the call he'd warned me about the bad reception. He and Samantha were spending the weekend in a relatively remote town in Ireland with her family. He must have been wearing at least three layers of clothing, and his hair lacked its usual gleam.

  "I don't know yet. Somewhere far from here, from her..."

  "So you're just going to run away?"

  His tone was patronizing and reeked of reverse psychology. It wouldn't work on me, however.

  "Yep, that's exactly what I'm going to do. If I stay, I'll want to go back to her."

  "And that's a bad thing?"

  He probably couldn't see my glare, though I so wished he could.

  "Of course it's a bad thing! I can't trust her, Pete. A relationship is built on trust."

  The trust, whilst playing a major role in my decision to stay away from her, wasn't the only reason. The other, more serious matter pertained to my condition.

  Almost four thousand miles away, over a terrible connection, Petr, my best friend in the whole world, read between the lines.

  "Lissa, if you're worried about that Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde thing you've got going on, you shouldn't let that stop you. You said she knew all the time and never stopped loving you, or trying."

  I was already on the brink of tears before he'd said that, but once those words came out, my eyes were flooded.

  "I tried to strangle her, Pete! I won't ever be able to control that side of me. What kind of future would we have?"

  She couldn't be happy with me, not like that; and I couldn't be happy knowing I could turn on her at any moment. And after what I'd done to her with the dagger, not the Were but me, she probably never wanted to see me again.

  "A complicated one, I admit, but hasn't your relationship always been complicated? It's sort of what everyone expects from you."

  I let out a little laugh. That was Petr all over. Nothing fazed or shocked him – not my new, rare condition, nor the story behind it. He'd been rooting for me and Jean from the get-go.

  I didn't tell him about the dagger, and never would. It was a shameful, dark moment in my life I desperately wanted to forget and hoped never to experience again.

  "I can't go back to her," I said with an air of finality. "Even if I wanted to, she wouldn't have me back."

  "She would," he said with certainty. "You know she would."

  Maybe. Maybe I could see her one last time to say goodbye. Maybe if I got there and she wasn't mad at me, I might stay. Maybe. Maybe. Maybe.

  "I wish you were here," I said. "I need you. We could run off together like we planned when we were eighteen. I have some money now. We could set up a studio someplace, like we had before. You and me against the world."

  "Lissa, as much as I love the sound of a Bonnie and Clyde style adventure, we're different people now. Not to mention Samantha would freakin' kill me for leaving!" He chuckled. "That crazy bitch would hunt me down."

  Off screen, in the background, I heard Samantha laugh. "You bet I would." She must have just entered the room.

  "Seriously though, Lis, you don't need me. You don't need anyone." The audio began to break up. "...forgive her...since you were twelve...love of your...regret...call you tomorrow..."

  The call cut out completely.

  I knew what he was trying to say, though. Everything I'd been thinking myself. We weren't perfect, but no couple was. She'd made mistakes, huge ones, but when all was said and done, when all the hurt had subsided, our love was still there, left among the rubble. And it always would be, no matter how far I ran.

  I needed to see her one last time, to see if there was any chance for us. I owed it to myself.

  Unable to throw away my key, I'd kept it on its bunch. Thankfully. Her car wasn't in the driveway when I arrived, and the house was quiet. No Sandra, either. I planned to wait for her in her office, surprise her when she got home. Time would tell whether it would be a good surprise or a bad one.

  I headed upstairs. Just as I reached the top, I heard a voice coming from her office. As I drew nearer, the voice became more distinct, yet less intelligible. Not English, but French.

  Clara jumped when the door opened. She stood behind Jean's desk with a pile of papers scattered all across it and the phone pressed to her ear, a piece of paper in her hand.

  "What are you doing?" I asked, eying her and the papers suspiciously. Her face was as guilty as sin.

  She glowered at me, then continued reading from the paper in French, speaking to the person on the line, completely ignoring me.

  "I said what are you doing?" My tone deepened, darkened, as I prowled across the room to her.

  "Get out of here," she hissed at me. "What are you doing here anyway?"

  "That's none of your business. What is that?" I snatched the paper from her, tearing it in half accidentally. The piece I got was enough, however.

  I stared at the paper. Fenwick & Sons Private Bank. Jean's name and account number were printed on the right-hand side, beside which someone had scribbled something in French, along with a series of numbers.

  "What are you doing with this? Who's on the phone?" I tried to snatch the phone from her, but she moved it.

  "Go away, little girl. This doesn't concern you." Then, to the person on the phone, and likely for my benefit, she said in English, "You should be able to log in online now. Make the transfer as soon as possible."

  I whacked the phone out of her hand because it was the only thing I could think of doing. I knew what was going on – she was stealing from Jean.

  She only laughed.

  "You're stealing from her, aren't you?"

  "Stealing would suggest I wasn't entitled to her money. But I am. It's rightfully mine. I'm taking my cut. This is just insurance in case she thinks of doing something stupid, like giving it all away to the two silly orphan girls she feels responsible for."

  She was talking about me and April. But I didn't understand everything else.

  "What did you do?"

  "I took what's mine. My inheritance from my mother. That's all."

  "So that's what you came here for, her money?" I shook my head, regarding her with disdain. "I knew it."

  "Not only, not at first. I genuinely wanted to get to know her, see where I came from. But then I watched her with you, watched how devastated she was when you left, watched her mourn her vile, incestuous relationship, and I knew I didn't want any part of it."

  How perfect her English was now. Accented, but much clearer than it had been up until then.

  I couldn't even feel joy in learning that Jean had missed me. Her daughter had just condemned our relationship, called it incestuous.

  "So you're trying to clean her out? What, just because you don't agree with her choice of partner?" I willed myself not to cry, but those stubborn tears wouldn't stay put.

  "You both make me sick!" she spat. "I'm glad she didn't raise me. I would be just as depraved as she is."

  "Take that back," I said, pointing a shaky finger at her. "Don't you dare say that about her. She's not depraved."

  She cackled, eyes gleaming with joy at my misery.

  "They all know about you back home. They're all laughing. Laughing at the girl who continues to sleep with the woman who killed her mother. And here you are again, defending her after you found out she took your life. You will keep coming back to her no matter what she does to you."

  "Shut the fuck up!" I screamed, and tossed everything off the desk in one fell swoop. The blood rushed to my head, the tears made my world red and blurry. But I could still see her laughing, still hear that cackle ringing through the room.

  "Silly little orphan. This isn't love you have for her, it's Stockholm Syndrome. What would your mommy think of what you're doing? Do you believe in heaven? Because she has probably been looking down on you having sex with the woman who murdered her..."

  In the two seconds that passed before I pounced on her, the fear in her eyes was evident. The laughter ceased, her eyes grew w
ide, like she knew she'd gone too far.

  She collapsed backwards on the desk as I sunk my fangs into her neck. Her struggle stopped as the euphoria kicked in.

  That would teach her. I would take just enough to scare her, as a warning. Just enough.

  But what was enough? She tasted so good, sweet. Would Jean have tasted similar?

  Why couldn't I stop? Wasn't this enough?

  It dawned on me then that I hadn't drunk since waking from the big sleep at Oliver's. He didn't use bags, and I'd left without taking from one of his live-in maids.

  As I drained and drained, her moans began to quieten, until they died out altogether.

  The hunger-induced daze passed, and I drew back with a shriek. Her lifeless body rolled off the desk and tumbled to the floor.

  "Oh my God," I breathed, falling beside her and checking her wrist for a pulse, blood running down my chin. Her blood.

  There was no pulse.

  "No." I scrambled backwards in horror. Back pressed against the wall, I stared transfixed at the dead body of my lover's daughter. "No, no, no."

  Clutching at my hair, I wept, shaking my head over and over, praying for a miracle that would restore life to Clara.

  "Please get up," I said in a feeble, tear-filled voice. "Please."

  She didn't. She never would again.

  I didn't move from my spot, crouched on the floor, back against the wall. Numb from the neck down.

  "I didn't mean to," I repeated again and again, as though the lifeless body could hear me, could forgive me.

  From the phone's handset on the floor by my feet, a muffled voice said hello, growing more frantic with every passing second, before the person hung up.

  Taking a life was the worst crime imaginable, and I had joined the ranks of killers. But this wasn't just any life, this was Jean's only child.

  I bawled harder, harder than I ever had. She would never believe it was an accident. She would think I came here for revenge, that I took her daughter from her to hurt her. She would never forgive me.

  My arms hugging my body, I rocked myself and cried, rocked and cried. Time passed, though I wasn't sure how much. Time I could have used fleeing the town, the state, the country, so I wouldn't ever have to face Jean. If ever there was a time to run, this was it.