Chapter V
V
London, England
“Happy anniversary, my love.”
Charlotte is standing on the terrace, watching the night settle over London, when Sabine comes up behind her and whispers the words in her ear.
They have been together now one hundred years.
A century.
On paper, the word looks so much smaller than its worth.
“We’ll celebrate,” purrs Sabine, “but first . . .” She turns Charlotte in her arms. “A gift.”
It lies there in her open palm.
A small gold pendant on a matching chain.
It is lovely, but the longer Charlotte studies it, the more certain she is that she’s seen it before, though she can’t remember where or when.
Not until she sees that the small letter etched into its front, which at first she took for a C, is in fact a G, and that the pendant is in fact a cuff link, hammered flat.
A strange pit forms in her stomach, and she knows, even though it’s been a hundred years, that it belonged to George Preston. Her first kill.
The young man with the water-blue eyes, and the floppy blond hair, and the body that made such an awful sound when it toppled down the cellar steps.
Charlotte stares at the pendant, torn between amazement that Sabine has kept it all this time, and horror at the fact, and the idea that Sabine, who knows her mind so well, would ever think she’d want it.
Charlotte has always found Sabine’s collection morbid. The way she takes these tokens like trophies from her kills, while Charlotte rids herself of any evidence, wishes she could shed the memories as well, so they could never haunt her.
Charlotte wants to recoil from the trinket, to fling it off the balcony.
But it is their anniversary, and Sabine’s mood is high, her eyes alight with happiness, and so Charlotte only smiles, grateful that she’s spent the last few years learning to put up walls around her mind, to shield the thoughts that are not safe to share.
And so Sabine believes her when she calls the trinket lovely, when she turns and lifts her curls so she can put it on.
“To the next one hundred years,” murmurs Sabine, and Charlotte shivers as the necklace settles, cold and heavy, at her throat.
Sabine wants to paint the town red, and so they do.
Four bodies dropped into the Thames before Big Ben strikes one, and then, giddy and blood-drunk, they end up at the Cavalcade, one of the few clubs that not only turns the other cheek to the nature of its clients, but seems to revel in its oddness.
A place where some women wear suits, and some men wear makeup, and no one cares who you dance with, who you kiss.
The air is full of jazz, and want, and gin. Heartbeats to every side, their hunger beating like a drum, and they are dancing, and Charlotte is so glad she did not make a fuss about the gift, because they’re happy.
Sabine is radiant in lace and emerald crepe, her charms and pendants looped like pearls, copper hair pinned up beneath a sequined band, while Charlotte is awash in cream, fringe flaring just above her knees with every turn.
They dance, and even though it’s been a hundred years, they move within that fateful wind, and they are happy, just the two of them inside the storm.
Until Sabine’s attention snags on something.
Charlotte turns to look, assuming she’s found another mark, someone to slake that endless appetite, is surprised to find she’s staring at a man.
He’s handsome, with rich brown skin and raven hair, dressed in a crisp white shirt and red suspenders, elbows leaning on a burnished rail.
And the longer Charlotte stares, the more she understands why Sabine was drawn.
There is something about him—a stillness at odds with the raging club, a sense of being out of time or place.
And then, between one moment and the next, a woman appears at his side.
She is black and gold, her dress shining like light against her dark skin, and the strange feeling expands, surrounds the two of them—an uncanny quiet, a feline grace—and if Charlotte had a pulse, it would begin to race, because in that instant, she knows.
The strangers are like her.
Like them.
The woman locks eyes with Charlotte, and as she does, the club around them seems to peel apart, the floor to tip forward, Charlotte tipping with it.
The entire moment lasts a lifetime, and a single trumpet roar, and then Sabine is there, drawing her back, a silent no in the flexing of her hand, and by the time she steals another glance, the railing is empty, the two figures gone.
Charlotte’s spirit gutters.
A hundred years, apart, alone, with no one but Sabine.
A hundred years without another confidante, or friend.
A hundred years of waiting, wanting, and then at last, they were right there. She was so close. She could have caught the woman’s hand. Could have heard the man’s voice. Could have asked if there were others.
The loss is so sudden, so acute, but Charlotte knows better than to show it.
To let her lover see, or feel, or hear. So she turns, puts her back to the empty rail, her focus on Sabine.
She lets the music drown her, sinks beneath the beat until it stops.
Until the club is closing, and they are ushered out into the late-night air.
And there they are.
The two strangers, idling beneath a streetlamp, a photograph amid the noise and bustle of the West End. Her—lounging in the front seat of a roadster, a pearl cigarette holder perched between her lips, and him—leaning back against the polished side, flicking a lighter absently against his slacks.
They are striking, yes, but more than that, they are familiar.
It’s not just the light that shines behind their eyes, or the quiet absence of their hearts.
They feel in tune, like the same song played on different instruments.
Or perhaps the same instrument, playing different songs.
Charlotte always thought that music, that resonance, came from Sabine alone.
But now, she understands. It is the nature of them that brings that quiet harmony.
Charlotte feels her legs carrying her forward, her body tipping toward them once again, before Sabine takes a single, fluid step, putting herself in front of Charlotte, as if they pose a threat.
The woman cocks her head, and plucks the holder from between her lips, and grins, revealing the tips of pointed teeth.
“There they are,” she says, an edge of laughter in her voice. “See, Jack? I told you it was worth sticking around. A city this big, ain’t every night you meet a friend.” Her accent knocks the last letters off of half the words.
“You say we’ve met.” Sabine inclines her head, her face a placid mask. “I do not think we have.”
The woman’s smile doesn’t falter. But it’s her companion, Jack, who speaks.
“What a lapse on our part,” he says in a crisp English voice. “Allow us to make amends.”
He gestures at the roadster. Sabine doesn’t move, and so, neither does Charlotte.
“Come on now,” the woman adds in that strange drawl. “Surely you aren’t planning on turning in just yet. Not when the night’s so young. Hop in,” she says. “I know a place that serves till dawn.”
Charlotte bites her bottom lip, feels like she is full of bees, humming with the sheer force of curiosity and want.
She wants to surge forward, into the waiting car, but she remembers how angry Sabine got when Charlotte had merely asked if there were others like them in the world, so she’s prepared for the refusal, the rebuke.
Instead, Sabine rests her fingers at the base of Charlotte’s back and says, “Well, what shall we do?”
Charlotte looks up at her, as if it is a trick, a trap, but Sabine’s expression is a placid mask. “This is your night,” she says, “so you decide.”
Charlotte should have hesitated, she knows that now, feigned reluctance at the very least. But she can’t contain her excitement anymore. She breaks into a happy smile. “Let’s go with them,” she says, buzzing with hope. “It will be fun.”
Sabine smiles back, and kisses Charlotte’s temple before nudging her ahead.
The woman slaps the side of the car with her open palm. “Come on, then. Jack, be a good sport and get the door.”
The night air whistles and the engine roars.
The car tears through the London streets, the woman—Antonia—behind the wheel. When she said her name, her accent made it four beats instead of three—a melody of high and low.
By the time the roadster comes to a stop in Southwark, only Antonia’s hair remains unscathed, the glossy black finger waves snug as a cap against her head.
Jack combs his own hair back in order but Charlotte’s curls have run wild in the open air, and filaments of copper have come loose from Sabine’s sequined band.
She tosses the ornament away, and her hair uncoils.
Antonia parks before a warehouse of sorts, one of the many structures throughout the city that at first glance looks like it’s not just closed but boarded up. Abandoned.
But this is the twenties, and things are almost never what they seem.
Indeed, Charlotte can hear the music wafting up from down below like steam. Sabine’s fingers twine with hers as Jack brings his hand to rest against the warehouse door, looks back at them, and winks.
Years later, Charlotte can remember the way that door fell open onto honey-colored light. But she still can’t define the feeling of that place.
The dreaminess, the languid grace. The colors, like a sunrise just before it starts. The promise of a day. Imagine a cabaret, only the tempo has been slowed, the volume dropped by half, rendering the whole thing softer and more intimate.
Guests of all genders and complexions gather at small tables, heads together and voices low as, perched above them, women wearing little more than well-placed feathers contort themselves with feline ease.
Servers, some dark and others fair, and all in fine suits and holding silver trays, weave between the tables, while on a round stage a man with silent-film good looks and a somber voice adds a thread of music to the room.