by Linn Chapel
“Yes. There were two presences in the shadows. They seemed to know who I was.”
“What were their intentions?”
“They only wanted to watch me.”
“Were they human?” asked Holt in a low voice.
Tressa glanced over her shoulder at the other patrons in the crowded pub. Leaning forward, she said in an undertone, “No. They had to be vampires. I could sense an urge to hunt, but fortunately they didn’t act on it.”
Holt’s expression hardened and he braced his hands on the table in front of him. “They might have followed you here. Can you use your ability again, Tressa?”
She shook her head. “It’s no use. There are so many people in the pub that all of the intentions would be blurred together, like white noise.”
“How could these vampires move about the city during the day?” asked Luke uneasily, keeping his voice low.
Holt shrugged dismissively. “They could be using the Tube, where the artificial lights have no power to weaken them. Aboveground, they could travel within the shade of city buildings. I’ve done it myself.”
“There must be some reason they were so interested in Tressa,” Luke added. “But I can’t see any connection between a pair of vampires in London and all the problems we’ve been having with Operation M in the United States.”
“Nor can I.” Holt frowned deeply and stood up. “Stay here. I’m going to leave a message for someone I know,” he added.
As Holt made his way around Tressa’s chair, he leaned over to speak in her ear. “Don’t even think of moving from this spot until I return, Tressa.”
She wasn’t a reckless, irresponsible child, and she was just about to inform Holt of that, in a very pointed way. But as he leaned over her, his long hair brushed her bare shoulder. Tressa’s heart lurched at his nearness and her snappy comeback was left unspoken.
Once Holt had left on his errand, her brothers began whispering back and forth. “Remember, vampires almost never kill their victims,” murmured Peter in a reassuring voice. “They don’t want any humans to become suspicious. They’d have to take a lot of blood to cause a victim to die, anyway. That would take time and increase the chances of being caught.”
Luke’s face was still pale, though. “What’s the best protection against them, in practical terms?”
“Flames terrify them because their bodies can catch fire very quickly,” Peter said. “Wooden stakes are also effective. Wood reacts with their blood, and any kind of wooden intrusion like a stake will poison them. Unfortunately, they’re often still strong enough to pull the piece of wood out and survive. The best defense is a wooden stake driven through the heart. That kills them instantly.”
Tressa shivered. “Keep your voices low. We can’t let anyone hear what we’re talking about!”
“How much of that has changed for Holt?” asked Luke.
“He’s more than halfway through the transition,” said Peter. “His body can’t go up in flames anymore, and wood can’t harm him very much. On the other hand, he can probably be killed in all of the other ways, now. Bullets, drowning, suffocation,” he began.
“Stop, Peter,” protested Tressa.
Luke asked, “Has he eaten anything yet?”
Peter shook his head. “No, but his old appetite for human blood is gone. I’ve been watching his eyes and his mannerisms when he’s near humans. I can tell that his old instincts to hunt have disappeared. Daylight gives him sensory overload, but he’s very resilient. His worst symptom is the fever. It’s making him hot and uncomfortable, but he seems to be thinking straight.”
“What if he turns aggressive, like those other subjects?”
“Don’t you think I’m watching him carefully?” said Peter.
“But he seems so moody.”
Peter laughed. “He’s always been moody. For some reason, it’s worse than usual now.”
Tressa had been taking a sip of water and she set her glass down very carefully, hoping her brothers wouldn’t look her way. Holt’s moodiness had something to do with her, she was sure.
Just then, their waitress arrived with their sandwiches. As she set their plates down, she flirted a bit with Peter and Luke. Tressa listened to them, smiling to herself. With his athletic build and camera-ready looks, Peter was accustomed to such flirting and took it in stride, bantering back and forth with the waitress in his friendly way.
Luke, on the other hand, applied himself hastily to his plate of food. He was much thinner than Peter, and he had none of his brother’s restlessness or stage presence. But his lean features were very attractive in their own right, and the unruly shock of dark hair that often fell into his face gave him a look of scholarly preoccupation. That, along with Luke’s natural reserve, might make him seem like a challenge to women, Tressa suspected.
As their waitress swept off to another table, Tressa heard a sigh of relief emerge from Luke. If she hadn’t been so tense from her recent fright near the cathedral, she would have teased him while they ate their sandwiches.
When they had finished, she murmured uneasily, “I wish Holt would come back.”
“Speak of the devil – there he is,” said Luke, looking toward the entrance.
Tressa turned to see that Holt was making his way through the lunchtime crowd near the door. A path was opening up as the patrons speedily moved aside for Holt in a way that they hadn’t for her. It wasn’t surprising, Tressa thought as she watched him approaching. With his black hair and clothing – and the scowl that was on his face right now – Holt had a dangerous air about him.
When he reached the table, he ran a swift, assessing glance over Tressa – reassuring himself, no doubt, that she hadn’t fallen into any further trouble. His errand had been completed, he told them, and now it was time to leave London. Waving aside the suggestion of food, he drained a glass of ice water and led the way from the pub.
A few hours later they arrived by train in the city of Bath. Curious about the glimpses of the city she could see through the windows in the station, Tressa leafed through a tourist brochure as she waited for Peter and Holt to reserve a rental car.
Natural hot springs lay under the city, she learned, and the Roman colonizers of southern England had made the most of them, building an extensive structure to house their Roman-style baths. Her eyes lingered on a photo of the ancient Roman stonework, still standing.
Tressa knew that Bath had enjoyed a heyday two hundred years ago, when wealthy patrons had flocked to the city to dine, dance and drink the mineral waters. She leafed with interest through the photos of the city’s exquisite Palladian architecture. Holt would have been alive when Bath had flourished two hundred years ago! She wondered if he would be willing to give her a short tour, complete with first-hand commentary.
Holt returned with Peter just then, bearing the keys to a rental car. “Reading about the history of the city, Tressa?” He was close to smiling, for once.
She nodded and asked in an undertone, “Holt, did you ever come to Bath in the past?”
He gave a quick glance around them to be sure they were alone. “Yes, many times, but as the decades passed, Bath became only a stop on my way to and from Langley.”
She eyed him hopefully. “Could we spend a few hours here, seeing the sights?”
Holt only shook his head. Firmly, he added, “We must take no chances.”
Soon they were on the journey south to Langley in the rental car, with Holt at the wheel. Next to him sat Luke, who navigated from a printed road map in lieu of an electronic one, for all of their phones had been shut off and packed away for the sake of traveling incognito.
“Holt, if you were born in this part of England, why do you need directions?” Luke asked. During the train journey west, he had begun to relax his guard around Holt.
“I’ve never driven myself to Langley before.”
“Did you travel by horse-drawn coach in the past? Peter told me how old you are.”
“Yes, by coach. Then, as the year
s went on, a trusted retainer would meet me secretly in Bath with one of the new horseless carriages.”
“Who lives at the Langley estate, nowadays?
“Almost no one. The manor house is empty and only a caretaker and his wife live in a nearby cottage. Some of the other cottages on the estate are rented during the summer season.” They had come to a crossroads, and Holt slowed the car. “Which road shall I take, Luke?”
Luke gave him directions to turn east, adding wryly, “From what you told me, Langley lies south of here. In the States, if you wanted to go south, you’d take a road heading south. But here, you go east.”
Holt chuckled. “We’re no longer in America, my friend. We’re in England.”
“Do you want to know what’s even stranger than the roads, Holt?” added Luke. “It’s the names of some of the towns I can see on my map, like Chew Magna and Combe Hay.” Everyone laughed, even Holt, for the names were so quaint and improbable. “And here’s another one called Wells. It sounds like it was named after some water wells, but that would make too much sense. It was probably named after something else that’s been long forgotten by now.”
“No, you’re wrong,” said Holt. “The village takes its name from the springs of water that emerge there.”
“Are they hot springs, like the ones in Bath?” asked Tressa curiously.
“No, the water is cold and fresh. The ancient British settled there, and later the Romans used the site. Then a grand cathedral was built there in the Middle Ages. It still stands in the center of the village, near the wells.”
“Wells. That’s a name that actually makes sense,” said Luke.
“The English are an eccentric race, I admit,” said Holt. “But the land itself is so full of hills and vales, pockets and sudden views. Who would deny that such a landscape could have shaped English souls? Time itself flows differently in England, I vow. It skips and plays, running away like a truant schoolboy into the fields to escape the strictness of a too-steady tempo.”
Holt’s voice had softened as he spoke. His love of his native land was so obvious to Tressa that she wondered once again if he’d remain in England now that he was turning human. Her mood sank, for she’d be returning to her job in the States as soon as the danger of capture had lessened.
Suddenly remembering the strange men who had broken into her apartment, she turned around to peer out the rear window. No other vehicles could be seen.
The narrow country road soon began to climb. Sweeping hills rose up to meet the twilight sky. “The landscape changes quickly, just like you said, Holt,” Tressa commented. “I never expected to see such rugged terrain in England.”
“Yes, the land is wild here, isn’t it? These slopes are called the Mendip Hills.”
“Picturesque, but lacking in amenities,” said Luke a bit wistfully. “We’re going to need some grub to eat sooner or later. We can’t live on nothing, like you,” he said to Holt.
“It’s too risky to stop,” began Holt.
Peter interrupted, groaning. “Please don’t tell me we’re going to skip dinner.”
“I was about to add that you’ll have a chance to dine when we arrive at Langley,” Holt said as he swung the car around a curve.
Nightfall came as they traveled onward, cloaking the landscape in darkness. After a while, Tressa felt the car descending from the heights of the Mendip Hills and following a course through the rolling slopes of a gentler landscape. The car turned onto a small byway that was little more than a deeply sunken channel between twin banks. Shadowy vegetation clambered over a pair of rough stone walls on either side of the headlights.
Then at last, the car slowed, turned sharply, and passed through a tunnel of trees that laced together overhead with heavy, arching branches. Their vehicle rolled along, bumping over the rutted, unpaved lane, and then trundled over a little stone bridge. The car rolled on, and soon, through the trunks of the trees, Tressa could see the twinkle of lights.
An ancient cottage came into view, built along generous lines. Diamond-paned windows glowed brightly under the broad brow of a thatched roof. Driving closer, Holt parked the rental car in a turnout alongside another vehicle.
“The cottage looks so old!” Tressa breathed in wonder as she stepped from the car.
Holt turned to give the structure a considering look. “Arbor Cottage? I suppose it is, from an American’s point of view. It was built about four hundred years ago, not a particularly vast stretch of time in England.”
“But Holt, it looks just like an old painting!” Tressa wandered closer, feeling drawn to the place and its historic atmosphere like a moth to a flame. Beyond the front gate, she could see a flagstone walkway leading to the door, where a mass of climbing vines grew over an arbor. In June it would probably be covered with rose blossoms, she thought.
Just then, the front door opened. An older man with a white shock of hair stepped forth, looking very surprised by their arrival.
Holt moved swiftly up the path to speak with him. The white-haired resident of the cottage, who was dressed in a plaid wool shirt and seemed very hale and alert for all his years, shot a keen glance at Tressa and her brothers, and then he nodded. As the pair came down the walkway together, Tressa heard the older man murmur, “Very good, sir.”
In an undertone, Holt replied firmly, “Not sir. You must call me Holt, just Holt.”
As they reached the front gate, Holt calmly performed introductions. Tressa learned that the hearty older man was Hugh, the caretaker of the Langley estate, and that he lived at Arbor Cottage with his wife, who was ill and staying at the local hospital for a few days.
Soon everyone was seated in the cozy living room of Arbor Cottage where a fire crackled in the grate, warming them. Thick wooden beams supported the ceiling overhead and all about the room stood worn but comfortable furnishings.
In a far corner, Tressa spotted a large desk that held a very old telephone, the kind of retro model that could be seen in black-and-white movies. Next to it rested a stack of notebooks that looked just as old, and a number of other office supplies that seemed similarly outdated.
Before long, Hugh emerged from the kitchen with a huge platter of bread and crumbly cheese. Everyone but Holt filled plates and sampled the fare eagerly.
Tressa turned to Hugh after a few bites. “I’ve never tasted such delicious cheese.”
Hugh nodded and spoke something in reply, but his words mystified Tressa. After the caretaker had returned to the kitchen, Holt eyed her humorously.
“Hugh wishes to thank you. Did you have trouble understanding his West Country accent? To be fair, Hugh could barely understand your American accent,” he added with amusement.
Hugh returned from the kitchen just then, bearing a hefty jug. He began pouring an amber liquid into glasses.
“Somerset cider,” said Holt, bringing a glass to Tressa. “One of the local specialties. Try some,” he urged her. He took another glass for himself and drank.
Tressa was relieved to see him drinking a fluid other than water. She wondered if he’d finally try a bite of normal, human food tonight.
She lifted her own glass for a drink. The cider tasted of apples, but she wasn’t prepared for the way it seared its way down her throat. She lowered the glass, sputtering. “What’s in this? Whisky?”
“No, the cider has been fermented. Very traditional.”
“Holt, what about something healthy to drink?” she asked. “And food?”
“Don’t fuss over me, Tressa,” he said sharply. He frowned as he filled his glass with more of the alcoholic cider and raised it in a humorous but defiant little toast to her. Before she could respond, he disappeared into the kitchen with his drink.
The hearty bread and cheese were soon finished, and the large jug of cider stood empty on a side table. Feeling very full and sleepy, Tressa curled up in a comfortable chair near Peter and Luke and watched the embers in the fireplace as a companionable silence reigned.
Holt never rejoined t
hem after leaving the room, but Hugh appeared before long and gestured for them to come outside the cottage, where he led them a short distance down the lane. Tressa had seen only darkness in that direction upon their arrival, but now lights were shining in the latticed windows of a second cottage, and smoke was emerging from its chimney.
Fortunately, Luke was able to understand the old caretaker despite his broad West Country accent. According to Hugh, the cottage ahead would be their lodgings for the duration of their stay. He added that the dwelling had been named Cup Cottage because of a small spring of water that emerged from a cup-like cleft in the rocky hillside behind the cottage.
Thanks to Luke’s skill at translating, they also learned from the old caretaker that Holt would be staying farther down the lane at a third cottage named Windy Top. Tressa peered in that direction, but she could see nothing, not even the shadowy outline of a thatched roof. Only dark hedgerows and trees met her searching gaze.
Hugh led them inside and gave them a tour of the rooms within Cup Cottage, and then he departed for the night. As Peter and Luke settled into their shared bedchamber on the second floor, Tressa entered her own chamber across the hall from theirs. Within it stood a large, four-poster bed, its wood darkened with age. Above Tressa’s head, the ceiling sloped gently down to meet the latticed windows.
She crossed the room to one of the windows and peered outside. Cool, bluish light from a half-moon shone down upon the little lane below. Arching hedgerows grew on either side of the lane, untrimmed and vigorous. On the far side of the lane stood a small woodland. The branches tossed softly in a night breeze, and between their shifting leaves, pale, moonlit fields could just be seen, sweeping off into the distance.
Ever since they had left London that afternoon, Tressa had been worried they’d been followed by the pair of strange men who had attacked Peter and Holt, or by the two vampires who had been watching her near Westminster Abbey. But her eyes could detect no shadows moving through the trees or near the hedgerows.
They were safe at Langley.
