by Sophia North
Bemused by their interconnectedness, Dante escorted Simone to a chair, and in turn brought Vlad to another. "There, the two of you are unmerged. Makes it damn confusing to have a conversation when you both act in unison."
"Bloody hell, mate. You've accomplished the impossible - I actually feel five years old again," Vlad complained.
"You said it - not I."
Dante returned to the piano and decided to lift the current mood by playing Bach's Toccatas.
"Let's return to what my father said to me, shall we? He wanted me to remember our first battle together, which given the upheaval during my early decades as a vampyre, numbered in the many. But I've managed to recall the battle in question. It was Broadstone Heath."
"The final war with the werewolf clans, I remember it well." Vlad reminisced. "And how exactly does this relate to your vision?”
"Daryl."
"The Head of Security at my building Daryl?" Simone piped up with.
"The very same."
"Ah, yes I see - he was a werewolf, right? Can you believe I used to joke with Penny that he was ex-MI5? She can never learn the truth - I'd never hear the end of it," Simone chuckled.
"You think his presence in London is somehow connected to Wilhalf?" Vlad scoffed. "Bit of a stretch there, brother. I'm more curious to know why there was a werewolf so close to Simone. They do not like urban environments - avoid them at all costs. So what was he doing here?"
Dante inclined his head in agreement with Vlad's concerns. "It's my intention to find out. Would I be correct in assuming, as Head of Security at a swanky new riverside development, he'd have an office on the premises?" he asked Simone.
"If memory serves, it may be even better than that - I'm pretty sure Daryl lived in a flat onsite. Except, Penny told me when we last spoke that she'd asked to speak to Daryl the last time she was at my flat - this would have been when she was frantically trying to find me after my Thursday InsideOut show," Simone stopped, realising she was getting dangerously close to rambling on unnecessarily.
"Anyway," she continued, self-correcting her train of thought. "The point is, she said none of the other security guards knew who Daryl was - it was like he'd never existed. So, I'm not sure his flat would contain anything of use. It's probably already been emptied."
"It is as you say, when I went to deal with your belongings and the disposal of Daryl's body, I arrived to find it, along with all trace of him, removed," Dante remarked. "His flat was empty, the guards memories wiped. I knew it was the work of a vampyre, but was unclear as to who."
"And you want to go back there because you think you may have missed something?” Simone asked.
"Yes," he replied, the galloping rhythm of the music carrying the excitement of his discovery. "My hunch is worth checking out. I'm sure Wilhalf is involved somehow."
Vlad roused from his chair. "Let us go together, brother. I'm sure Simone won't mind being left here with Alfred."
Dante shook his head. "No, you need to lead the discussion with the different Heads of State. We need reinforcements and new alliances - the other intelligence my visit to Lowerton provided was a better sense of the numbers aligned with Anton. They filled the coliseum and corridors to capacity - there were thousands of vampyres, many of them from other countries. The variety of accents I heard were vast. We will need all the help we can get, brother."
Vlad still looked doubtful. "Should you not join me at the summit if it is as important as you say? Why is finding Wilhalf a priority? If he is responsible for the death of this werewolf Daryl, doesn't it make him more of a risk to what we are trying to accomplish? The last thing we need are the werewolf clans siding with Anton."
"Don't ask me to explain the unexplainable, Vlad. I need to do this, so will you do as I ask?"
"Yes, of course, mate. I was only trying to understand your logic - as illogical as that may be. I sometimes forget how much you and I see the world so very differently."
"It's why we are such a shit-hot team - now go out there and do the team proud," Dante announced confidently. "And be sure to come back here when you're done. Simone enjoys your company."
Simone caught the subtle poke at her house rule and cheekily scrunched her nose at Dante in effort to be funny, hoping Vlad did not catch her in the act.
"Vlad is always welcome to visit me - we've grown so close lately. I will be in the library reading, the leather couch in there is particularly comfortable. If you find me asleep Vlad, don't hesitate to wake me. Gentlemen."
Dante did not appreciate her barb quite as much as his own.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
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 had screamed the answer he sought was within reach. But here he stood, at 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 winds built, Dante turned up the collar of his black rain coat. He wasn't hot, he wasn't cold - as a vampyre he was unaffected by such things. The gesture was more out of habit from when he was human.
Finally, a crash of thunder broke overhead and the sky opened.
Turning his head up 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. The storm raged.
His arms held out, like Christ on the cross, he too raged at the Creator. "What! What do you want of 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. The Creator was getting ready to have a say.
"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 Dante's 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 from troubled dreams in a sudden jerk.
"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 agai
nst 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. Distinctive sounds of nature wrapped their tentacles around his vampyric senses. In the distance an owl hooted and a ripple of leaves, only heard in heavily forested areas, whispered their hellos.
Dante climbed up a bank and emerged on to 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 eyed the pub and gave silent thanks that a welcoming pint was not far from 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 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 that 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 'ver had." He broke out in a loud, smoker-crackled, laugh. The rest of the pub joined in.
"What's yer poison?"
"Pint of ale - whatever is 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 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 asked, 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 shite on me. Sort him out."
Dante's head snapped 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: "Take him, wolves."
Chapter Twenty-Eight
SIMONE WANDERED AROUND Dante's home, desperate to distract herself from her worries. It was night two since Dante had gone missing and as much as Vlad tried to reassure her, she could not rid herself of a terrible sense of foreboding in the pit of her stomach.
One consolation was Alfred's absence. It meant he was out searching for his master and she was convinced if anyone could locate Dante, it would be him. No one else covered the ground he 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 hope when salvation came in the form of Dante's old Marconi radio. Perched on a shelf in the library, she'd eagerly turned the large silver dial and was rewarded with a strong signal.
"Thanks for joining us tonight on LTC London - the station that Leads The Conversation here in our nation's capital. As our regular listeners know, we here at the LTC family have suffered the terrible loss of one of our own this past weekend. Dr. Simone Radcliffe, our host of InsideOut, was 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 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 of Simone are: Dr. Alfred Gould, the man responsible for bringing the wonderful Dr. Radcliffe back to the shores of Old Blighty, as well as being her mentor; Jack Richler, her producer/director for InsideOut and finally, Penny MacGregor, Simone's best friend. Thank you all for joining me."
Penny on InsideOut! 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 Jack drone on about her accomplishments until finally Cecil asked for Penny to say a few words. "Be calm, Pen, please," she whispered at the radio, 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, oh and that she was really, really clever did not help matters either. 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. Not that I wanted to be there, in fact, the circumstances of my arrival and survival before meeting Simone are quite a tale in themselves - but tonight is about Simone, so I shan't bore your audience with my pre-Simone existence."
/>
Simone broke into laughter, in both relief to hear the calmness in Penny's voice and amusement over the tale her friend referred to - it really was a good one. Content all was well, she settled back, wrapped a tartan wool blanket round her and continued to listen to her friend.
"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, dear Cecil. I'm afraid 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 - 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 of her fans listening 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 said, 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 now dubbed 'Storm 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, visible Saturday night across the country, as heralds of dark times. Strange times to be sure, 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 close to forty degrees Celsius. Old Beelzebub best bring his sunscreen for the upcoming Armageddon. Back to you in studio."
