I climb into the car, where Wilson is waiting for us, and flop onto the seat cushion. Airas looks at me searchingly before shutting the door and getting in next to Wilson in front.
Again and again I tell myself I shouldn't leave the decisions to him, but when it is already so powerful within me, I generally don't have any strength left to resist. I know I should be grateful to him. Grateful that Airas, who because of his beliefs no longer kills, is my accomplice in murder and takes on the burden of guilt. But all I can feel is this emptiness inside and hatred for myself. With the return of my awareness my dazed state gradually makes way for the painful realization that it has happened again. Once more I was temporarily more beast than human and followed my survival instinct. My conscience won't accept the excuse that my prey was the dregs of humanity. It cries out in condemnation. I really can't remember the face of the man who entered the hotel room in the company of my brother, but I still taste his blood on my tongue.
7
Amkaya
The noise at San Francisco airport roars in my head, and I turn my sense of hearing onto standby again. Otherwise the many sounds and thoughts penetrate my head like foreign objects and nearly drive me crazy. Only when I completely suppress them can I somewhat tolerate being in such a busy place.
My decision to fly back to Hamburg alone for a while and visit Cassie's grave on the island after all was a spontaneous one, because my restlessness wouldn't let me be. It's questionable whether this trip will make it any better, but it might make it different.
Crap, the flight is going to be delayed almost two hours. Oh well, then I'll have another Chai Tea Latte at Starbucks in Terminal 3.
In the waiting room I keep an eye out for a reading nook and do find one. Lucky I always bring a book with me when I'm out. At moments like this it proves to be a good decision.
I could have brought the e-reader with me, but in spite of the positive aspects I simply can't get used to that way of reading.
Macbeth. I must have read this book more than a dozen times already, as well as some of Shakespeare's other works. I've loved his books since I can remember, and with them the finely interwoven memories of my father. Of me as a young girl, waking in the night in our hut in the Alpujarra and seeing him reading one of these books by candlelight, my mother's form leaned peacefully against him.
I carry these beautiful, warm memories from my childhood within me like treasures, and by reading Shakespeare it's almost as if I could touch them.
Although I try to concentrate on the tragedy and not let myself be distracted by my surroundings, it isn't really working. Suddenly something tears me out of the fourth act and breaks my concentration. I lift my gaze and look around. There's something in the air; I feel my muscles tensing and the fine hairs on my lower arms standing up on end. But what is it?
In the hustle and bustle around me I can't see anything suspicious to start with, until it hits me. The stranger's stare. It rests brazenly on me, with almost the same intensity as a touch.
Not that I'm not frequently subjected to looks from men who are attracted to me and my appearance. No, I know that only too well. But this look is different from the familiar expressions of interest from the male, and sometimes also female, sex. And then suddenly it's clear to me. I can't make out any emotion at all in the stranger's face. This look, which fixes on me without a flicker of feeling, confuses me and makes my pulse beat faster. What's going on? Who the hell is that? I lower my gaze, look at my book and try to bring order to the sudden mess in my head and keep control of the situation. I hate nothing more than losing control, and yet thanks to my second nature it's something that happens to me time and again, leaving in me a feeling of helplessness every time.
My cell phone rings. The tension is suddenly gone and when I look up, the man has disappeared from view. Relieved, I rummage in my purse for my phone. I look at the display. It's Wilson.
“Dearest, you won't believe what just sold.”
“Two Souls?”
Since only two paintings hung in the little gallery in SoMa, the neighborhood just south of Market Street, my chances were 50/50.
Wilson clicked his tongue in a bit of a huff, but confirmed my hunch, only to immediately announce in renewed euphoria:
“For an unbelievable twelve thousand dollars. And the buyer is a certain Jack Daniels from Europe. An art dealer who's interested in more paintings and can also envision an exhibition in Paris. He'd like to meet you.”
That really was good news. Indeed, no-one had ever paid so much for one of my paintings before. That was more than double what they usually brought in. It's not the money that gives me a moment of joy and euphoria, rather the flattered artist's soul in me. In 'Two Souls' I artistically split a face down the middle. One half shows a delicate young woman and the other an animalistic, menacing monster. In none of my paintings can you see me as clearly as you do in this one. It shows the tear in my soul.
“Jack Daniels? Seriously?” I ask Wilson grinning.
“Yes, that's really his name.” Wilson's voice is so laden with gravity that I'm certain he checked it carefully.
“That's great. Good work,” I praise him and I can just see his pleased expression and how he bashfully tilts his head to the side.
“Miss Álvarez, I didn't paint the picture. I just take care of the business side of things. You—“
“I really appreciate your hard work,” I interrupt him, because my flight is being called. “I have to go. I'll call you from Hamburg.”
***
As I buckle myself into my window seat in business class, it happens again. From one moment to the next, I feel something ripping me from my thoughts and putting my body on high alert. The unexpected shot of adrenaline makes me gasp. I find his gaze immediately, the gaze of the stranger which rests on me for only a moment this time, to then turn back to the stewardess who is giving him a friendly smile as they converse.
His expression isn't quite as emotionless as it was before in the waiting hall. I can even make out a slight smile now and I'm surprised at how well it suits him. Even if this man makes me deeply uneasy, I have to admit he's fairly attractive. His dark hair, cut a little long, falls across his face and neck in a cheeky way and gives him a brazen look. He knows how to dress well. Maybe a little too casual for business class in his tight jeans and short sleeved shirt, but it suits him.
The stewardess turns around. “Please come this way, Mr. Sandman.”
She heads straight toward me with him in tow. Smiling, she gestures to the seat next to me and nods in my direction. “There you are. I'll bring you something to drink in a moment.”
“Thanks,” the man replies with a pleasant, warm voice and sits down next to me.
I'm having trouble hiding my agitation and try once more to organize my thoughts. What a crazy coincidence. Now this man of all people is sitting next to me. Who the hell are you?
“Noah Elyas Sandman,” he introduces himself, as if he guessed what I was thinking. “I saw you at the airport before.” His face is open and friendly, but his smile is restrained.
This time I look him right in the eyes. The color of his irises is so exceptionally intense that I immediately assume he's wearing colored contacts. They're the bluest blue I've ever seen as an eye color. I can't help but admit to myself how eye-catching they are. My pulse is still racing way too fast. I should pay attention to the warning signs my body gives me. Something is wrong with this man.
“What a coincidence,” I reply, curt and cold, as I wait warily for his reaction.
He's no longer smiling quite so sparingly now, and seems amused.
“Some call it coincidence, others kismet.” He takes the drink from the stewardess, who asks whether I'd also like something to drink.
I take a Canada Dry and reply wryly, “And still others call it stalking.”
He takes a sip and turns back to me again.
“It always comes down to how you interpret it. The fact that we're both on the sa
me flight probably really is fate.” He takes another sip and continues, “But the fact I bribed the stewardess to seat me next to you no doubt doesn't fall into that category.”
Another disarming, candid smile from him.
My heart seems to have lost its rhythm and thumps wildly in my chest.
“Listen, Mr.—“
“Noah,” he interrupts me and now his eyes are smiling too.
Another caustic reply is on the tip of my tongue, but I can't bring myself to say it.
For a moment I stare at him and try to penetrate his thoughts, to command him to leave me alone, but I notice right away it isn't working. He seems to be immune to my manipulation. That has only ever happened to me twice before. Both times they were deranged psychos. It's probably best if I simply ignore him. I fish my book out of my bag and open it pointedly. There's no better way of keeping someone at arm's length.
We've been in the air almost twenty minutes already and I pretend to read, even if not a single sentence sticks in my head. This man's presence is extremely unsettling to me. Well, this is going to be fun. With two stopovers in New York and London, that makes almost nineteen hours I'll have to put up with him. Unless one of those cities is his destination.
“My favorite book by Shakespeare is King Lear, by the way.” He gestures to the book in my hands.
Damn it, can't he leave me alone? Doesn't he see how much I hate his intrusions?
“Which of his works is your favorite?”
He actually manages to throw me. What should I say? That I particularly like Romeo and Juliet, even though it's not exactly considered one of his best works? No, I won't reveal that.
“As a matter of fact I like them all,” I answer in the end, and surprise myself by smiling back briefly. I'm horrified at myself. 133 years old and I'm acting like an immature teenager. Great.
“Old Shakespeare seems to have been very concerned with the ambivalence of good and evil,” he says casually, which immediately makes me think of my life. Somehow I feel found out, and remain silent. He waves the stewardess over. “Bring me another double please.” He then explains to me almost apologetically, “I don't normally drink this much, but I simply wasn't expecting this.”
“What weren't you expecting?” I asked with marked indifference.
“To meet you.”
Is it really possible, this strange man is flirting with me so blatantly and he even manages to make me feel embarrassed? It is possible! I pull my handbag onto my lap and rummage around in it nervously. But there is no object I'm looking for in my bag, rather it's my right mind I seem to have lost. How else was it possible this Noah guy managed to rattle me like that? Suddenly he leans over to me and whispers in my ear, “Tell me your name, darling.”
The unexpectedly familiar way of addressing me, in conjunction with his warm, husky voice gets under my skin. Normally such brazen advances would have appalled me, but these aroused feelings of a completely different kind. The aura of the man beside me is unusually strong and it unsettles me considerably. I breathe through the rising panic.
His stunning eyes watch me penetratingly and expectantly and I wonder what it is that makes me feel so different and alien in the presence of this man.
Now pull yourself together, goddamn it, I rebuke myself, out of fear I really might succumb to a panic attack soon.
“Am. . . Amy,” I answer, also in a whisper, as I feel his gaze on me. Damn it. I'm bloody well eating out of his hand. I can't believe it. Still, Amy was only a half truth, since no-one uses this shortening of my name.
He leans back again, but the gorgeous scent of his skin and that of the blood pulsing beneath it remains in my nose. Enticing. Desire floods my body and I feel the familiar tingle in my jaw, as I always do when the animal in me awakens. I clear my throat, disconcerted, and take a sip of my drink, then choke on it. The whole thing is definitely getting too much for me now.
I'm on a plane, thirty thousand feet above the ground, I feel a virtually magnetic attraction to a complete stranger and at the same time I'm terrified I'll rip his throat open any moment. Morton. There it was again. The picture that was burned into my memory.
The wound that never heals. I have to get out of this situation.
“Excuse me,” I blurt out as I get up and hurry past him toward the restrooms. I absolutely have to gain back my control, and get a hold on myself again in peace. I should probably even ask the stewardess to seat me somewhere else. As I reach for the door handle, I can smell him behind me. He has followed me. Within seconds, he has pushed himself into the tiny room along with me.
It's as if I'm paralyzed by this unexpected ambush and by the eye contact with which he seems to practically be holding me captive. While his hands are propped against the cubicle wall next to my head, his body leans lightly against mine. The fear and panic I felt only moments ago are suddenly gone, as are the animal in me and certain defense instincts. Only my heart is still beating hard and fast in my chest.
If eyes could caress, then that's exactly what his are doing right now. Openly, without inhibition and definitely not without effect.
I anticipate his kiss. I long for his kiss. For more than a hundred years even just the thought of a kiss was tainted with aversion and disgust. It was tied up with the terrible images of 1897. With what happened back then. Images that won't let me go, catching up with me even in my dreams, over and over. But in this moment all I feel is anticipation and a slight trembling in my knees. Someone knocks on the cubicle door, but both he and I ignore it. His kiss is tender and warm, gentle and insistent at the same time. With closed eyes I return it.
Just as suddenly as his assault began, he stops, backs away and looks at me again with his unbelievably blue eyes. Now I notice his thick, dark eyelashes that set off his eyes to even greater advantage.
“I'm sorry. Forgive me,” he says softly, and his eyes darken for a moment. He looks thoughtful and almost a little sad. Still totally captivated by the effects of the kiss, I search for words, but he already reaches for the door and opens it.
“No, I. . .” I want to object, but he's already out the door, leaving me behind. In disbelief, and a little numb, I lay a finger on my lips and stare at my reflection in the little cubicle. The green of my eyes is glowing brightly and my cheeks are reddened. Is that really me? I look inside myself. The uneasiness I felt in the presence of this stranger at first has completely disappeared, and I can hardly believe which emotion is spreading over me instead. Bliss. Completely irrational and incomprehensible bliss. In fact, I feel as if squadrons of endorphins are rushing through my bloodstream.
Suddenly, the plane jerks violently, and I have to hold on to the basin so I don't fall down. I hear loud, panicked screams and notice the aircraft losing height and falling from the sky with ever increasing speed. We're crashing!
My eyes are closed, but my consciousness is wide awake again. It smells like smoke, charred rubber and burned skin. My body is one big ball of agony, and I want to scream but no sound escapes my throat. Instead, I spit blood and open my eyes. I lie beneath a large fir tree with silver-gray bark at the edge of a group of trees and I can see out over an open field. Amidst all the smoke you can see the wreckage of the plane. The tail is blazing fiercely, and the picture before my eyes blurs, because the smoke blowing over burns in them. So I close them again and try to sit up and lean against the trunk of the tree. Every little movement hurts so much that I feel like I'm going to faint.
I hear a sound close by. A faint whimper. With the greatest exertion I turn my head in the direction of the sound and see her, lying about six feet diagonally behind me, the stewardess from the plane. She lies there on her side, with a branch sticking out of the middle of her stomach, watching me wide-eyed. Imploringly and full of fear. Her mouth forms the word 'help' but only a faint whimper comes out of her throat too. I gather up all my energy to roll onto my stomach, and spit blood once more. Still, I dig my hands into the ground and pull my body slowly, inch by inch, toward
her. With every movement I scream and yell inside from the pain and still I creep onward, until I'm right up close to her. She smells of Chanel No. 5, of blood and of the bodily fluids seeping out of her wound. When my hand touches her cheek and strokes the hair back, she gives me a small smile and lays her hand on mine. That's the moment I rip her throat open.
It's not as if the pain disappears instantaneously, but it immediately becomes a bit more bearable. When I release her, her eyes stare at me, empty and expressionless, and guilt closes off my throat. Murderer! my conscience yells at me. And it's right. This time was different from usual. I was there when my second nature killed. No, it was even worse – I was even her accomplice, who can remember every moment of it in exact detail. As if survival instinct made us one this time. A union born of pain and fear. It wasn't an assault, a takeover like it usually was, rather a calculated agreement.
I close her eyelids, lie on my back and close my eyes too. She would certainly have died anyway. I released her, freed her from her suffering. Try as I might to convince myself and prove my innocence, I can't. My body trembles from the pain and tension. No matter how many bones are broken and how many internal injuries I have, I know I'll be restored to full health again soon. Her blood will significantly accelerate the process. Murderer! it screams at me again, and I want to run away or put my hands over my ears. But I can't escape the voice within me.
The snap of a branch startles me out of my thoughts and I tear my eyes open in a flash. Only about ten feet away from me stands a figure, staring at me with an inscrutable expression. For a moment my heart stops. Sandman. The stranger from the plane. Only now does the memory of him come back to mind.
He's alive, I cheer inwardly, but only a moment later the joy is silenced by panic. How long has he been standing there? I didn't hear him coming. Probably I'm too weak. But why doesn't he seem to be injured? What did he see? Oh my God.
The Night Within Us: Dark Vampire Romance Page 5
