Chapter 26
I’m trying on a new dress, admiring my muted reflection in the bedroom mirror, when Alexander drops a newspaper onto the dressing table. ‘I thought you might be interested in this.’
The headline screams ‘Jack l’éventreur Frappe à Nouveau!’
Curiously, I pick up the newspaper and scan it.
But even after a month in Paris, my French is still hideously poor since I’m not mingling with humans to practise.
‘Bonjour’, ‘au revoir’, and ‘je veux sucer ton sang’ are the extent of my language skills.
Alexander, of course, is fluent. That’s why he suggested coming here. He can parley-voo with anyone.
‘What does the headline say?’ I demand.
‘It says, “Jack the Ripper Strikes Again”. Apparently, there’s been a fifth female victim. I can tell you the details if you want, but this one was extremely gory and distasteful, so I don’t advise asking me.’
Alexander removes his shoes and lies on the bed, closing his eyes.
His face wears a sated expression. It’s the look he gets whenever he’s been out prowling the streets of Paris for supper.
He never tells me where he goes or what he does.
He says it’s best I feed from him for now and don’t ask questions.
I stare at him. ‘But that’s impossible. There must be some mistake. I drained that bastard and ripped him to shreds.’
Alexander shrugs, still with his eyes closed. ‘It’s probably someone copying him because they want the fame. I wouldn’t rattle my crypt over it if I were you.’
I leap onto the wooden chest at the end of the bed and crouch there, growling.
One of Alexander’s eyes cracks open, and he sighs.
‘Are you miffed, my love?’
Miffed is the understatement of the century. ‘We have to go back to London. Now,’ I say in a low dangerous voice to impart how important it is.
‘Back?’ Alexander echoes. ‘What on earth for?’
‘So I can find the second killer and finish him, of course!’
Alexander tuts. ‘Just let the police do their job. It’s none of our business.’
‘But I can help, Alexander!’ I cry in frustration. ‘The police aren’t doing anything. They don’t even realise it’s someone else!’
Alexander licks at the corner of his mouth with his tongue, then looks at me carefully. ‘Don’t go getting a god complex, Florence. You’re not some kind of saviour. We keep in the shadows. We keep our heads down.’
‘What if it’s Charlie?’ I hiss. ‘Would that change your mind?’
Alexander reaches across for a manicure stick to clean dried blood from underneath his fingernails.
‘I can tell you right now that it’s not Charlie.
He may be impulsive, but he’s not stupid enough to leave a mess like that.
Now drop it please.’ There’s something definitive and slightly threatening about that last sentence that makes me decide not to push my luck.
Chastened by my master, I jump off the chest and head over to my usual spot by the window.
Being a vampire in Paris isn’t as fun as I thought it would be.
Alexander refuses to take me out with him in case I can’t control myself.
So after I wake up at dusk, I prowl around our townhouse, waiting for him to return.
Most nights, I stand by the window, looking out at the rooftops and at the people strolling past in the street below.
But this evening, he did bring me a new dress after I complained that wearing dead women’s clothing was creeping me out. That shows he listens to me some of the time—even if he is actively ignoring all my other grumbles about being left alone.
‘I was thinking I should write to Aunt Ivy,’ I say, turning around from the window. ‘What if she visits your house in Belgravia and I’m not there?’ And Charlie lures her inside and takes a bite out of her neck to spite me.
‘She won’t,’ says Alexander, lazily scratching his own neck. ‘I wrote to her when we first arrived and said that we were in Paris on a short family holiday. And, as my son needed to keep up with his lessons, I had invited you along too. So I’ve saved you the trouble.’
He undoes a cufflink and rolls up his sleeve. ‘Come, my little governess. It’s time for your supper.’
I slink to the bed, hating that I can’t control myself when his blood is on offer.
It tastes like sweet honey pouring down my throat and tingling through my veins.
It’s the highlight of my existence. And when he makes love to me and takes his own fill, our nightly ritual is complete.
My master washes me clean of all the anger and discontent I hoard.
He shows me my true purpose: I’m here to serve him.
***
I’m bored. Bored bored bored!
Alexander has just gone out again and left me to my own devices, but within the confines of the house. I’m starting to wonder if I’m really such a risk to society or if he’s embarrassed to be seen with me. Or is it something else?
I stand at the window in my nightgown, watching him leap jauntily into a carriage below in his evening black. He’s just keeping us both fed, I tell myself. But after six months of this, it’s getting harder to believe Alexander’s motivations are purely altruistic.
Opening the Juliet balcony doors, I step outside and lean on the railing, enjoying the feel of the cool night breeze on my skin.
With my excellent vision, I can see Parisians in the opposite apartments, enjoying their evenings.
There’s a couple eating supper together, a woman reading a story to her child in bed, a woman playing the piano for a small group of people.
My old friends—anger, despair, and loneliness—well up in me, and I close my eyes and clutch the railing tightly.
This is what Alexander has taken from me.
I might have got married, had a child, or at least had friends.
But no. I’m stuck here alone in Paris for the foreseeable future because Alexander doesn’t seem to have any intention of going back to London.
I let out a ‘feeling sorry for myself’ whine. I can’t even cry because vampires apparently don’t do that.
Glancing along the rooftops, I get a glimmer of an idea—a way that I can escape this prison.
But I can’t do it in a white nightgown.
Setting my jaw determinedly, I head back inside and proceed to fashion myself a climbing outfit from Alexander’s one-piece black woollen long johns that he never wears.
They’re too big for me, but I roll up the sleeves and cut the feet off.
I pull on some black socks and my boots, then tuck my hair under a black knitted cap I discover in his drawer.
When I’m done, I stare at my wavering reflection in the mirror and let out a giggle. I look ridiculous, like a beggar who’s lost his jacket and trousers. But unless anyone decides to take a nightly stroll along the rooftops, my appalling fashion sense is safe from prying eyes.
Back out on the balcony, I nimbly scale the drainpipe, all the while watching the houses across the street in case anyone happens to look out. But the squares of yellow light are now plunged into darkness. It’s past midnight, after all, and only the creatures of the night are out and about.
Reaching the top of the guttering, I clamber over the eaves and crawl up the roof valley, careful not to disturb any tiles.
The slate is slippery, but I make it to the top without any trouble.
Standing upright on the ridge of the roof, I’m delighted to find I now have an excellent view of the city. I can see right across Paris.
Somewhere down there, Alexander is biting someone’s neck. The thought makes me laugh, even though it’s not particularly funny. My daring escape, and the relief of being outside, is making me giddy. But if Alexander’s going to be all mysterious, why can’t I have a few secrets of my own?
I dance a little jig in the moonlight, congratulating myself on my cunning and—
My foot slips.
One second, I’m enjoying myself; the next, I’m rolling down the other side of the ridge. Before I careen over the edge of the eaves, I manage to hook my fingers over the guttering and hang there precariously with my legs dangling over the back garden.
I let out a nervous chuckle. That was close! It’s a sizeable drop into the garden below, at least six storeys, and I’m not sure what would happen if I let go. Would I bounce or break my legs? I have no clue, having never been in this position before.
Fortunately, I don’t have to find out because I can simply swing myself—
The old lead guttering gives a jolt under my weight as I move my hips, and a part of it tears away from the wall. Instantly, I keep still, my fingers digging into the metal to adjust my grip. I hiss out a curse.
The guttering gives another jolt. I let out a tiny scream as the part I’m holding on to pulls out of the wall entirely, and I’m suspended in mid-air.
I squeeze my eyes shut, waiting for the sickening drop and the thud .
.. But nothing happens. There’s no rush of air or crack of breaking bones.
Slowly, I open my eyes to find myself hovering, still clutching the ancient piece of guttering.
I fling it into the bushes below, and my body bumps lightly against the side of the wall.
I make a breaststroke motion with my hands but go nowhere. I kick my feet, but that’s ineffective as well. How the hell do I get back onto the roof so I can go inside?
But that’s the trick. As soon as I focus on the rooftop and will myself, my body moves of its own accord, and I rise and land lightly on the ridge.
A thrill rushes through me.
Oh my god, no wonder Alexander is hell-bent on keeping me locked up inside.
I can fly!