Blood Winter

by S. J. Coles

  We slipped into the echoing, dusty chill of a large, empty building. It smelled of dampness and rotten malt. I fumbled for the light switch and let out a sigh of relief when the luminescent bar flickered then flooded the sparse, dusty space with harsh, white light. The old sofa and armchair were still drawn up to an electric heater. An ancient television set perched on a coffee table in the corner. There was a kitchen counter against one wall, several dusty mugs on the draining board and a bowl catching water from the dripping tap in the sink. I followed Meg to the bank of windows and gazed into the dark warehouse below. I could just make out the large metal tuns and vats lurking silently in the shadows, like sleeping giants.

  “I can’t believe this is still here,” she said softly. “Wasn’t it condemned?”

  “The accountant had to do some juggling. It’s under another name now, but it’s still technically mine. No one will find us here.”

  “You could have sold it,” she said, looking around the improvised apartment space with a mixed expression. “People might not want a derelict distillery with a squat in the office space, but the land could fetch something.”

  I dumped the bags and turned on the heater. “I thought I might need it again one day.” She stood staring out over the distillery floor, not speaking. I pottered about, gathering crisp packets and empty paper coffee cups, and stuffed them in a bin bag. When I came back from making the bedrooms as habitable as possible, she was checking the lock on the door. “We’re safe here, Meg. Trust me.”

  She nodded stiffly. “I trust you.”

  The words sent a pang through me. There was real fear in her face. She picked up her case and drifted to the hall. I heard the bathroom door shut and the groaning of the water pipes. I stared around the place that had once felt more like home than anywhere else in the world. But now all I could think of was the roaring fire in the Glenroe drawing room, a space I had previously hated, now filled with the memory of heated skin, silver eyes, the feel of warm breath, the smell of clean, fine hair and a mouth filled with banked passion and sharp teeth.

  I couldn’t marry the feelings the memory generated with the reality of Meg’s revelations. I searched again for any news articles on my phone. The fact that Matthew Ogdell-Paige hadn’t shown up to a public event the previous day had generated a stir of interest, along with his wife’s and brother-in-law’s refusal to comment, but otherwise there was nothing.

  “It’s coming for us, isn’t it?” Meg was stood in the doorway, looking wan, shadows under her eyes. She’d changed into pajamas and a hooded top. Her shoulders were slightly slumped. She looked very young. I was suddenly reminded of the only sleepover I’d ever been to as a child. I’d told ghost stories that had frightened everyone, even David, and Meg was the only one who’d talked to me at school the next day.

  “We don’t know that.”

  “What else could it be?” she said, speaking in a low voice like we were going to be overheard. “First that politician and now Matthew?”

  “You said yourself that Karlsson is dangerous.”

  She frowned. “The dealer?”

  I ran a hand through my hair. “He came to see me this morning. He and Ogdell are going to pin Brody’s death on me unless I sell them Glenroe.”

  Her face flattened. “He said that?”

  “In so many words.”

  She shook her head. “It can’t…no. The disappearances aren’t them, Alec. I told you, Jon’s just as terrified as us.”

  “Karlsson wasn’t scared.”

  “Maybe he doesn’t know,” she snapped. “Why aren’t you taking this seriously? You’ve heard what’s been happening in London…”

  “It can’t be—”

  “This is real,” she cut me off, voice high. “Don’t you get it, Alec? If the police don’t get us, the vampire will.”

  I put a hand on her face without thinking. She drew in a breath sharply and I wondered if I’d made a mistake. Her eyes were very large and very brown, the rich color of sun-warmed earth. “I don’t believe he would hurt us.”

  “He?” She stepped back out of my reach. “You called it that before.”

  I hesitated. “You didn’t see him, Meg.”

  “It killed Brody—”

  “I know.” I hadn’t meant to snap, but I couldn’t keep the emotion in check. “I know,” I continued in a softer voice. “I was there.”

  “You were?” she said, her eyes widening.

  “Yes.” I lifted a hand to touch her again, saw the look on her face and dropped it. “I watched him kill Brody and I’ll never forget it. But you didn’t see him after.”

  I remembered him crying out into the storm, that lost, desolate sound like a wounded animal. I remembered him bathed in firelight, impenetrable but tinged with sadness. The way his hands had moved on me, the way his mouth had felt against my skin. The sound he’d made when he started to kiss me back. He was closed and distant, like an ancient book in some lost language, but when I remembered how that had felt, how he’d felt… Blood or no Blood, he couldn’t have made me feel like that unless he knew what it was to need, to want release, comfort, the touch of another living thing.

  “He wouldn’t hurt us,” I said with conviction.

  “How do you know?” she asked, her dark eyes wary.

  “I just know.”

  “What aren’t you telling me?”

  “He didn’t hurt me,” I insisted.

  “Did he do anything else to you?” Blood flooded my face but kept my mouth shut. “Alec?” I turned away and set about filling a saucepan with water and rummaging in the carrier bags of supplies. “Oh my God…”

  “It’s not what you think.”

  “What exactly do you think I’m thinking? Because you can’t possibly be thinking what I’m thinking because what I’m thinking is… It can’t… You can’t…” I put the pan on the hotplate with a clang. “Alec,” she snapped, “tell me you didn’t fuck the vampire.”

  I dropped pasta into the water. “I didn’t fuck the vampire, Meg.”

  “Look me in the eye and tell me that.”

  I met her look squarely. “First, vampires don’t exist—”

  “For Christ’s sake, Alec—”

  “Second,” I went on firmly as the pasta started to bubble. “We didn’t… I didn’t… No, we didn’t do that.”

  “But you did do something.”

  I glared at the wall, feeling something between us start to crumble. “Yes.”

  Her face creased. “How…? Why…?” She shook her head and made an inarticulate noise. “He killed someone, Alec.”

  “I know—”

  “Do you?”

  “Yes, Meg. I was there.”

  “Then how could you…?”

  “You don’t understand.”

  “You’re fucking right I don’t.”

  I came forward again but she took a step back and folded her arms. “You’re scared. I get it.”

  “I’m not scared. I’m bloody terrified—”

  “I get it,” I repeated in what I hoped was a soothing voice. “I’m scared too. Something’s happening here. I just don’t think it’s what it looks like.”

  “What else could it be?”

  I dropped my gaze. “I don’t know.”

  “They’re dangerous, Alec. Whatever the legislators say, they’re dangerous. They kill people. And eat them.”

  “They don’t eat people, Meg.”

  “Drink from them, whatever. Alec, you can’t be serious about this. Tell me you’re not serious.”

  She was searching for something in my face, but I didn’t know what I could say that would make it better. I wasn’t even sure I wanted to make it better. The thought gave me a stab of guilt but didn’t make the feeling go away.

  “We’ll lie low here until we’ve figured something out,” I said again, hoping the repetition would make it true. The pasta was boiling. I turned the plate off and drained the water. She stood by the sofa, arms wrapped around herself, glar
ing at the wall.

  “He didn’t run off like you said?” she asked quietly.

  “No,” I said, stirring sauce and grated cheese into the pasta.

  “He was there…at Glenroe…with you?”

  “Yes.” She was chewing her manicured fingernail. Holding the bowl out to her broke the spell. She took it stiffly, not looking at me. “He’s not going to hurt us, Meg.”

  “You don’t know what you’re talking about, Alec. You can’t understand them. No one can understand them.” Emotion swept through me but she continued before I could speak. “Besides, even if it really does have a weird inter-species crush on you—and sorry, Alec, I know you’re cute, but cute enough to raise the dead?” I made a disparaging noise but she raised a hand to cut me off. “Just listen to me. Let’s say for the sake of argument that you’re right and it wouldn’t hurt you. And, for your sake, let’s say, that maybe it wouldn’t even hurt me…” She was quiet for a while. When she raised her eyes to meet mine, they were dark and loaded. “Say it kills everyone else who was at that party, but not us. Is that really okay? Could you live with that?”

  I pronged some pasta. I couldn’t find an answer. We ate in silence.

  “How long can you get out of work?” I murmured as we were clearing up.

  “You think that’s necessary?” Her voice was deliberately flat as she dried the bowls, but I could see the tension in her shoulders.

  “Until we know more, it might be best for neither of us to be where anyone would expect us to be.”

  She nodded stiffly. “I can make arrangements for a week at least, maybe two.”

  “Okay. Clem can manage without me for—”

  “Goodnight, Alec.” She headed for the bedrooms. I heard one of the doors shut, then silence descended. I looked around at the threadbare sofa, the windows looking out onto the distilling floor, the worn but familiar rugs and posters of cars on the wall. I’d lived here alone during Sixth Form then for years after Cambridge, but it had never felt this empty before.

  Chapter Five

  I lay awake listening to the distant noise of the city just on the edge of my hearing, like a storm out at sea. The streetlight shone between the ill-fitting curtains to cast a beam of white across the tiled ceiling. This room, this bed, held some very good and very private memories. This was where David and I had first discovered what we really felt for each other. I had always slept well here. But tonight, sleep wouldn’t take me.

  I wrestled with my mind. It was like trying to strip myself of burning clothing without scorching my hands. Every time I even came close to being objective about what might be happening, a taste ghosted across my tongue, like the afterburn of whisky, filling my mouth with saliva and making my pulse quicken.

  I turned over to stare at the wall. Old pop punk and F1 posters were familiar shapes in the gloom. It started to rain. The steady drum on the window reminded me of Glenroe and finally allowed me drift away.

  The dreams came, as usual. I floated through them, sensing the new layer of unease in the background, tainting them, turning the sweet tastes bitter and lacing the heated feelings with fear and guilt. I dreamed that someone was at the window, but when I drew the curtain aside, there was nothing but freezing rain and blurred streetlight.

  It was late morning when I woke, groggy, unrested and with a familiar ache in my groin that I wasn’t able to enjoy. I padded through to the sitting room, thinking of coffee, but paused in the doorway.

  Meg was curled on the end of the sofa, her legs tucked under her like a child. Her face was drawn, lines showing that I’d never noticed before. Her phone lay limp in her hand and she was staring at the TV. I blinked at the screen. She had the volume off but the subtitles on. There was a reporter stood outside the glass doors of the Glasgow Hilton.

  “Staff raised concerns this morning when Olivia Ogdell-Paige didn’t place her regular breakfast order. The socialite has been staying at the Hilton whilst the police investigation of her home after the abduction of her husband continues. No signs of a struggle were found and both the door and windows were secured, but the hotel have confirmed all her belongs are still in situ and there is nothing on CCTV to show her leaving the premises. Police are concerned.”

  Meg turned it off. Her brown eyes were asking me for something I didn’t know how to give.

  “We’re safe here,” I stated. I spooned instant coffee into two mugs and fetched the milk from the otherwise-empty fridge. She came and stood at my shoulder in silence until I turned around.

  “David called me.”

  I stared at her. “Why?”

  “He’s seen the news. He’s worried.”

  “How much does he know?” I asked, my voice tight.

  “I had to talk to someone, Alec. You were cut off for days. I was scared.”

  “You told him?”

  “Yes.” I ran both hands through my hair as the kettle spewed steam. “We have to trust someone,” she continued, her eyes pleading. “And he knows things. Living in London, he has some idea—”

  “David?” It came out sharper than I intended.

  Her face hardened. “Put away your bruised ego for a second and remember he’s my brother—and your oldest friend.”

  We’re not friends. I managed not to stay it out loud. She pressed her lips together and poured the hot water into the mugs. “He’s coming up.”

  “He’s what?”

  “Stop talking to me like I’m the enemy,” she said in a very level voice, stirring the coffee.

  “I told you I could keep us safe.”

  “You don’t know how to keep us safe. Neither of us do.”

  “And David does?”

  “I don’t know, Alec,” she said, her tone measured and firm, like someone keeping their temper in check with an effort. “But I, for one, would feel happier not being alone.”

  “You’re not alone, Meg.”

  She gave me a long look, part accusing, part regretful, then took her mug toward the bedrooms. “I’m going out.”

  “Out?”

  “Yes. I need some air, some headspace.”

  “You’re safer here.”

  “It’s daytime,” she pointed out mildly, then sighed. “I am grateful to you, Alec. And I trust you, I do. But we’re in over our heads. And if I stay in this place, staring at the wall until nighttime, I’ll…” She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. When she opened them again, she seemed steadier. “And I’ll be damned if we’re having pasta and sauce for dinner again.”

  She went to her bedroom and shut the door. I sipped the coffee, wondering if it was really as bitter as it tasted. I hesitated then flicked the TV back on. The news had moved on to a terrorist attack in Paris. I sat on the edge of the sofa, watching a different newsreader outside a different hotel with an equally grim expression.

  Meg re-emerged, dressed in her overcoat, designer jeans and boots. Her expression was warmer but her face was still drawn. She kissed me on cheek then disappeared out into the rain. I finished the coffee but couldn’t summon the energy or inclination to eat. I showered and dressed in a sort of fog, paced the cluttered living space for a period that could have been anything from ten minutes to an hour, then caved in and grabbed my coat and keys.

  I took the subway to a part of the city I didn’t know well, found a corner in an anonymous cafe and ordered a much stronger coffee. It was rich and filled my head with the rush of heat and caffeine. I ordered another and a bacon roll, took out my phone and began scanning the news. The doom-mongers were already out in force. No one had, so far, mentioned anything about donors or revenge kidnappings, but speculation about the Glasgow disappearances was rife and the haemophile spokesman Ivor Novák was being pressed for a statement.

  I thought of Meg’s drawn face and the punch I’d felt in my gut when I’d learned she’d reached out to David. I stopped myself twice from phoning Karlsson. I didn’t know if I was going to demand answers or beg for help. I left the cafe and drank spiced tea from a street vend
or to try to calm my tumultuous anxiety. The rain soaked the streets and buildings. It dripped from the hood of my waterproof jacket, splashed up and soaked my jeans. The air smelled like car fumes and wet rubbish. The day wore on. I switched from tea to whisky. I avoided bars with TV screens, deciding I didn’t want to know any more.

  It was only when they turned the lights on in the dingy pub I’d ended up in that I realized the shadows had started to lengthen. I also remembered that I had the only key to the distillery flat in my pocket. I hurried to the nearest subway, cursing myself under my breath. The rain had turned into sleet, stinging and cold. I reached the distillery just as a nearby church bell chimed four. It was already dim and shadowy in the alley.

  I almost didn’t see the slim figure leaning against the wall. It was the smell from his cigarette I noticed before anything else. I stopped. He watched me in grim silence. His hair had grown out and was standing in a dark cloud around his head, pinpricked with droplets of rain. He was thinner and there were smudges under his eyes. Stubble blackened the hard lines of his jaw. His clothes were drab, worn and wet. It should have made him appear wasted, scruffy, but it worked on him. Everything that shouldn’t work on anyone worked on him.

  The sight of him there, real, not in my mind’s eye, sent a jolt through me like electricity from a faulty socket. He leveled a dark look at me with eyes the color of good coffee and dropped his cigarette stub to the ground.

  “What are you doing here?” I was proud my voice stayed level when I finally found it.

  “Meg called me.”

  “No, she didn’t. You called her.”

  He laughed softly. “You always did like to think you were closer to her than me. And closer to me than she was, come to think of it.”

  “What do you want, David?”

  “I’m taking her away.”

  “Don’t be stupid,” I retorted, pushing past him and stomping up the stairs.

  “And staying here is the smart choice?”

  I banged the door open. He got himself in behind me before I could slam it shut again. “We’re safe here,” I insisted, forcing the words to be steady.