No Such Thing As Immortality

by Sarah Tranter

  ‘Nate? Oh God! Nate? Oh Shit! Natha—? Oh CRAP! Nathaniel Gray – What are you doing IN MY FLAT?’ Her first words sounded as if she were trying not to hyperventilate. By the time she had reached the end of her sentence, it was a scream.

  I was looking at the floor now, anywhere but at her enchanting body. Not because I didn’t want to, but because I was, at least now, sensible enough to know it wasn’t appropriate. And for the moment, I really didn’t want to look into those eyes of hers, either. I knew they would be full of shock and accusation. I wanted to bolt. I had to get out of there. What had I done?

  She was confused. I could feel it. I was panicked.

  And then she squealed as her good foot slipped from under her on the wet bathroom floor, and I was there, catching her, before the back of her head hit the edge of the bath. She was in my arms – again. I heard her gasp and I could feel her racing, skipping heart. Her towel wasn’t doing much to cover her and I was on fire. I was aware of her body in a way I had never been aware of a woman’s body before. I breathed in her scent – she smelt wonderful – and it wasn’t the mango-and-passion-fruit shower gel. And it wasn’t lust for her blood now consuming me, but a far more human sensation.

  I couldn’t help but look into her eyes. What could she see in mine? Her confusion increased as we focused on each other. She held my gaze and for a wonderful moment it was as if our sentiments blurred. As if she, too, was feeling that same confusing plethora of emotions that overtook my being in her presence. But she soon put me straight. She shook her head as if to clear it and anger sparked. Thankfully muted due to her state of shock and confusion, but I still felt it. This was Rowan.

  ‘WHAT THE EFFING HELL ARE YOU DOING IN MY FLAT, NATHANIEL GRAY? How did you get in here?’ She was trying to rearrange her towel. ‘LET ME GO! You’re in my bathroom – and I’ve NO clothes on!’

  I could feel her embarrassment, and see it as her cheeks flamed a deeper red. It was so becoming, so attractive.

  ‘Just get off of me and get out! Don’t touch me! Jeez your hands are not warm!’ She was trying to bat my arms away, but couldn’t make them budge.

  My voice was strained. I was really struggling to get my words out, but at least the anger had ebbed – for now. ‘I am trying not to touch you … believe me. It is just where I am holding you. I am … so sorry! Just let me … get up and I will … put you down.’

  I stood up with her in my arms. She gasped again. Her racing heart seemed to be working in conjunction with my own.

  ‘Just put me down – put me down now, Nate!’ She was pushing at my chest and her legs were flailing. She had no chance of escape. And for that moment: she was mine.

  I walked a couple of steps, with difficulty, both due to our emotional connection and the blissful physical sensations that were coursing through my body from where my hands were connecting with her skin. I then set her down on the carpeted floor of the living room. That way, she couldn’t give slipping and breaking her neck another go.

  She was attempting to manoeuvre herself, so her back was against the wall and the towel she had picked up – a small hand towel – covered some of her body. I made a point not to look at her, politely shielding my eyes to try and minimise her embarrassment. I retrieved a bath towel from her bathroom and handed it to her, whilst still making myself look away. God, it was difficult.

  I could hear her pounding heart. Alive! She was alive! And I was, as James would say, in deep shit.

  ‘I am incredibly sorry,’ I stuttered. ‘I thought something had happened to you – I panicked!’

  Rowan was speechless. And at that point in time, it was the preferred option. I really didn’t think it would be a good idea to be around when she had got over the shock.

  ‘Do you need help with anything? Can I carry you into your bedroom?’ Quickly realising how that might sound … ‘Or perhaps I should fetch your clothes … or a glass of water … for the shock?’

  She just stood there and shook her head, whether in disbelief or in answer, I didn’t know. She was clutching the larger towel tightly and looking at a fixed point on the other side of the room and taking slow deep breaths. I guessed this was the calm before the storm.

  ‘It might be a good idea if … I … perhaps … leave now?’ I suggested tentatively.

  She ever so slowly nodded her head.

  Bugger! I could hardly go out the way I had come in. I took in the locked door … but the key was in place! I was through the door without a backward glance.

  Frederick and Elizabeth were parked across the road from the flat. I just made it into the backseat before Rowan Locke’s shock wore off. And then I paid the full price for seeing her naked.

  Frederick and Elizabeth were experiencing hysterical mirth. Neither was in a fit state to drive, and unfortunately, now I was in the midst of the storm, I wasn’t remotely capable of taking the wheel or flying. I was deathly quiet.

  They were both in my thoughts and I didn’t have the strength to keep them out. They knew exactly what had happened; they had probably heard most of it, and the images in my head provided them with the visuals.

  ‘I don’t think I’ve ever had so much fun, Nate!’ Elizabeth squealed.

  ‘That was class! True class!’ Frederick cried. ‘It is probably the funniest thing I’ve seen in two hundred years— No! It is the funniest thing I’ve seen in two hundred years!’

  Rowan’s onslaught was relentless. But I was pleased to have it. It not only meant she was alive, but provided distraction from my own grave worries about the ramifications of my idiotic attempt to rescue her, from nothing more serious … than a shower.

  ‘Izzy, love – you are laughing so much you’re crying!’ Frederick exclaimed before wiping away his wife’s blood-red tears with both thumbs and tongue. She was the only one of us who could cry.

  ‘I know! Isn’t it great? I’ve never cried with laughter before! Oh, I love this girl!’

  A particularly worrying thought intruded into my mind, despite its turmoil. ‘Elizabeth … Frederick,’ I said slowly, struggling to get my words out. ‘This is very important. We really need to keep this … incident … away from James.’

  ‘Sorry – no can do,’ Frederick said, with feigned regret. ‘We called him when we were all in a panic, and he and Mads parked down the road, just in time for the matinee. Can’t you hear their thoughts?’

  Dear God! How could this get any worse? Now I focused away from Rowan’s turmoil – and my own – I could hear them.

  With a great deal of effort, I silently spoke, ‘James – bugger off! That is the last time you – no, any of us – will ever see her naked!’

  ‘Nate, mate – Congratulations! Who would have thought you’d have progressed matters so quickly? And that wasn’t bloodlust you felt – was it?’

  And then I heard his laughter. Not through his thoughts. I could hear it from two hundred yards down the road.

  God help me!

  Chapter Seven

  The Chase

  I screwed up another piece of paper and blindly threw it over my shoulder, hearing it ping as it landed plumb in the centre of the metal wastepaper bin in the corner of the room. I was in my bedroom at our Mayfair home.

  Built in 1725, the substantial, double-fronted, early Georgian town house had been part of the Gray Estate since being first built. But I was in no mood to appreciate the elegant décor around me.

  ‘This is impossible,’ I growled, leaping from my desk and stalking to the attached wet-room, for my sixth cold shower in an hour.

  It was the early hours of Sunday morning, Rowan was eventually sleeping, and I was trying to write her yet another letter. But I was having a problem with concentration. My mind seemed reluctant to forget the most beautiful and welcome sight my eyes had ever beheld: Rowan alive in the shower. The benefit of enhanced eyesight and memory ensured that the images repeatedly re-entering my head were of such seductive clarity that focusing on the task in hand was close to impossible.

&nbs
p; ‘What is the point?’ I snarled. ‘Cold showers do not work on the undead.’

  Nevertheless, I let the cold water run over my body. I was in serious trouble and wasn’t remotely sure I could salvage things. At least with a letter – if I could focus enough to write the damned thing – I could apologise and attempt to explain myself. The aftermath of my earlier ridiculous rescue attempt had demonstrated verbally communicating with both a conscious and furious Rowan Locke was not an option.

  I groaned and violently shook my head under the jets of water, recalling Rowan’s voicemail message that had gone undiscovered until I had found my phone half an hour ago.

  ‘Nathaniel Gray! WHAT were you doing in my flat? How did you get in? I locked that door myself when Clare went out. You can’t just invade people’s homes and stand gawping at them whilst they’re in the shower! Are you some kind of lock-picking pervert?’

  Clare had clearly been with her, because I could make out Rowan saying, ‘NO, Clare! It HAS to be said. You weren’t here! NO – I did lock the shitting door! NO – I shouldn’t have waited for you to help me in the shower!’

  She had then continued into the phone, ‘You scared me stupid! Is that what you get off on? If it wasn’t enough that you try and kill me on the road, you then try and give me a heart attack in my own bathroom! – Clare, just butt out! – And then you just left – skedaddled just like you were going to when you tried to kill me last time – with no explanation! You’d better have an outstanding explanation – or God help me, I’ll have to report you! You are dangerous, Nathaniel Gray – really dangerous! Call me as soon as you get this message. Oh! Thank you for my flowers. They were totally beautiful – but what is it with you? It’s Rowan by the way – Rowan Locke – I’m hanging up on you now.’

  Unfortunately, the others were around when I picked up the message, and their highly efficient hearing ensured they overheard it all.

  I was not used to being an object of fun, and was finding it far from amusing.

  Drying myself off and re-dressing, I decided to give the letter another go. There was no pressure. It was not as if much rested on it. Just everything.

  ‘Go away, Elizabeth,’ I growled, before she had a chance to knock on my closed door.

  ‘Forgive me?’ she pleaded, cautiously opening the door. ‘I’m sorry for earlier. I thought I could help with the letter.’

  ‘Elizabeth!’

  ‘Okay! I’m gone,’ she replied quietly, accepting that pestering me in my current frame of mind was not wise.

  ‘No, Elizabeth – I am gone!’ I stated petulantly, whilst grabbing my writing implements and exiting the house through one of the room’s three large sash windows.

  I settled myself on Rowan’s roof, with my back against the chimney stack. She was sleeping peacefully. I wrote to the soothing background of Rowan’s gentle breathing, so easily distinguishable over Clare’s.

  London, Sunday, 6 May

  Dearest Rowan,

  I very much hope you will do me the honour of reading this letter.

  I am mortified to have scared, upset and embarrassed you. Please believe it was never my intention to ‘gawp’ at you in the shower. It is very hard to explain – but I became worried about you. You were not answering your phone or the door, and I feared you may have fallen.

  I was even more concerned when I discovered your door to be unlocked.

  When I opened your bathroom door, I knew not what I would find. I was simply overwhelmingly relieved you were not lying dead upon the floor or stabbed within the shower.

  I beg you to believe I do not make a habit of scaring beautiful women when they are showering.

  I seem to be unable to do anything but cause you pain and displeasure – and that could never be my intention. I plead to be given an opportunity to make amends, to be allowed to demonstrate that I can behave honourably and, in many ways, as a gentleman.

  I seem to be forever putting myself in a position of having to ask, but please find it within your heart to forgive me. I exist in hope that you will accept my telephone call later today.

  Humbly yours,

  Nate

  I had struggled with writing the letter. With its style I had had to rein in my more traditional letter-writing tendencies; an issue I have with my business correspondence, too. But the worst thing had been lying to her.

  I had agonised over how I could get around the issue of the locked door. But I could see no other way. I knew if I didn’t plant a shadow of doubt in her head – had she, hadn’t she locked the door? – she would want answers I could not give. It was dishonourable of me.

  I wanted to tell Rowan the truth – everything: the emotional connection, that she made me feel alive despite my having been dead for one-hundred-and-ninety-five years, that I had never felt this way about anyone before, that I had so desperately wanted to take her lifeblood from her on the night of the accident but that I had resisted – and hoped I could continue to resist.

  But I knew that wouldn’t produce the sort of letter that would result in her agreeing to see me again. There was too much at stake.

  I folded up the letter, wrote her name on the outside – reflecting how handwriting had changed much over the years – and silently posted it in the letterbox.

  I returned to the roof, not yet ready to leave the enthralling, hypnotic sound of Rowan’s breathing.

  I could hear her cat – Tinks, I recalled from the private investigator’s report. She was meowing from somewhere below and then, shockingly, she was rubbing herself against my legs, and nudging my cold hands for strokes.

  Animals are terrified of us unless we use our charm on them, as we do when we feed. In the case of cats, their hackles go up as they momentarily look like a fir tree, before they hiss and flee at top speed. Yet, Rowan’s blond tabby cat, with its unusual grey eyes, actually seemed to … like me.

  I gently rubbed warm, furry feline ears. Why are you not scared of me, little one?

  On returning home, I was greeted by Elizabeth.

  ‘Did you write the letter? Have you called her back? You’re blocking me again. Tell me!’

  Elizabeth had found me as I made it into my first-floor study. I couldn’t recall her ever having disturbed me in the large, well-proportioned room, with its book-lined walls, before. There seemed to be no escape these days.

  ‘Elizabeth!’ I uttered impatiently, sitting at my desk.

  ‘Lizzy, we really should give him some space,’ Madeleine observed, entering the room too, and taking a seat by the window.

  Come to think of it, Madeleine had never before disturbed me here, either.

  I looked at Madeleine questioningly. She was the only one not finding mirth in my current predicament and, as a result, I had time for her – even if my space was being seriously invaded.

  ‘It was the shower,’ she stated casually.

  I looked at her inquisitively and her thoughts applied the context to her words. ‘Of course.’ I sighed.

  ‘That is sooo weird,’ Elizabeth muttered.

  I hadn’t had a chance to work out why my connection with Rowan had been temporarily broken yesterday. I had been somewhat preoccupied with trying to deal with the torturous result of my response to that break – and then damage limitation.

  Madeleine continued out loud, ‘It is strange – we’ve never noticed it having an affect on us before. But it’s clear: running water can have an impact on vampires. In your case, it either temporarily breaks the connection you have with Rowan, or shields her from you.’

  Whichever way, I didn’t like it. ‘I have read about it, but thought it nonsense – just as with our not being able to go out in the sun, our inability to feel emotion, our aversion to silver and the stake to the heart!’

  ‘Lately, it’s been suggested we sparkle,’ Elizabeth added, with a grin.

  Shaking my head incredulously before refocusing, I said, ‘Is it not something about running water being pure, and not being able to hold magic, so it is meant to i
mpede us?’

  ‘Yeah, something like that. We aren’t meant to be able to cross streams or rivers, but of course we can. I hadn’t thought there was anything in it. You are making some pretty groundbreaking advances in vampire lore, Nate. You really are going to have to watch yourself.’ Madeleine looked sympathetically at me.

  As I looked at her, her expression changed. ‘Yes – if you are sure you are happy to do it?’ I replied to her silent question. The detective still hadn’t come up with anything and Rowan’s Aunty Hetty remained a concern. If Madeleine could get inside her head, it might provide us with some answers. Not that I was sure I really wanted any. I currently had enough things to worry about.

  ‘But go careful, Mads,’ Elizabeth urged, before James waltzed into the room.

  What was it with everyone tonight? And James was in one of his unbearable moods again. I could sense it.

  ‘You know, I am so impressed! God knows what talents you have lurking beneath the surface, Nate. I told you he didn’t need any lessons in small-talk, Lizzy.’

  My growl was ignored.

  ‘Alright, bruv?’ Frederick sent my way as he entered the room to complete our unit. He was chuckling before he had even reached his usual place by Elizabeth’s side. ‘Sorry – I just can’t stop thinking about it. You’ve made my century!’

  My second growl was ignored, too.

  Why were they finding amusement in this? I was in one hell of a mess.

  James taunted, ‘I’m just intrigued to see how you are going to pull off returning her call, when she’s off on a rage again. It had better have been one hell of a letter!’

  I scowled. I had absolutely no idea how I was going to manage the conversation, and the last thing I needed was to be reminded of the fact. If worst came to worst, I would terminate the conversation – pretend the signal was breaking up – rather than me. I just prayed my letter calmed her down a little.