Chapter 31
Oscar has a black Aston Martin and he’s driving fast, his eyes trained on the narrow, curling country lane ahead as he speeds around the corners, his headlights illuminating the little mounds of dirty snow either side of the lane.
Rap music blasts from the speakers and we haven’t spoken the entire journey.
I’ve just sat here, looking out through tinted windows, at paddocks with cows and sheep, watching the stars glow brighter and brighter in the dark purple sky the further we get from the lights of London.
I glance down at the blue-white light of my phone screen, holding it against my side so Oscar doesn’t ask what I’m doing, then scan the VHC board for the tenth time. Nothing more about Kenny. No comments from Riley.
Yet.
We take a sharp turn, my breath catches and I look up at the road ahead, if indeed it can even be called a road.
It’s getting narrower and more precarious the further we get.
If someone comes at us from the other direction we’ll have a head-on collision—I don’t fancy a car crash right now, they don’t kill me, no, but they’re not a good time.
And what if we kill someone else? That doesn’t seem to bother Oscar.
‘Be careful,’ I say.
Oscar ignores me, and I watch the speedometer go up even more. All the while the rapper keeps rapping about hoes and drugs and how the hell did I end up here?
I sit back and close my eyes and tell myself, It’s just until the new year.
That’s only eight nights, how bad can it get in eight little nights?
The problem is, I’ve seen what can happen in just one night: you can lose your soul, you can meet your soulmate, you can be turned into a motherfucking vampire.
Finally, we slow down and my eyes flick open.
In front of us stands an old cast-iron gate. On either side are high hedges.
Oscar presses a button on his keys and the gate staggers open.
We drive in and up a driveway with rolling lawns on either side and trees in the distance.
As we get to the top of the hill, I can see where we’re going.
The driveway dips again, into another valley, and then there, standing high on the next hill is .
. . I’m not really sure what to call it. House doesn’t seem grand enough.
Because it’s HUGE.
It’s like one of those enormous manor homes you see in period dramas.
There’s a large fountain out the front, the driveway curling around it.
And the closer we get, gravel crunching under the tyres, the bigger it seems. It’s made of grey stone, with creepers on some of the walls and so many windows .
. . how many rooms must there be? As I take it in, irritation simmers beneath my skin—while I’ve been working night jobs and staying invisible, hustling for blood, pushing down my feelings, all alone and confused, he’s been here, living like this.
I get a flash of what my last 150 years might have been like if he hadn’t abandoned me.
Although . . . then maybe I wouldn’t have held on to my humanity. Maybe I’d have turned out just like him, seeing others as mere pawns to get what I want. Maybe I too would be a ruthless killer, the human part of me extinguished long ago. Then Jonathan and I would never have had a chance.
Maybe Oscar did me a favour.
As we park near a hedge, I sneak a quick final look at the VHC board—still nothing new about Kenny—and am about to lock my phone when, so quickly that I can’t react, Oscar grabs it.
‘What are you so fascinated by?’ he asks, peering down at the screen.
I watch him, helpless, getting a little dizzy. The VHC noticeboard reflects in his eyes.
‘What the fuck is this?’ He seethes as he scrolls through the posts, then his eyes dart to the top, to the banner that reads Vampire Hunters’ Collective and then to the top right, to the icons for my settings and inbox. He glares at me. ‘You’re a member?’
I swallow. ‘I . . . I only went on that site looking for you,’ I say, defensive.
And there’s part of me that hopes this will make him feel guilty, but .
. . it doesn’t. It seems to piss him off even more.
He stares in front of him, through the glass of the windscreen, like he’s trying to calm himself down.
And I dare not say anything else. If he knew about the bits of information I’d let slip, that I’d gone to a meet-up, how all that might genuinely get me found out, he’d completely lose his shit. And I don’t know what he’d do, or to whom.
Then he takes a deep breath, opens the glove compartment, drops my phone inside and slams it closed. ‘You’re fucking confounding,’ he says under his breath, getting out of the car and slamming the door after him.
I stare at the glove compartment, needing my phone back. I need to know what’s happening. With Jonathan. With the VHC. Dare I take it back? But before I can do anything, Oscar opens my door.
‘Come on, it’s already seven,’ he says through his teeth, clearly still pissed off. ‘We’ve only got an hour before everyone arrives. And you need to get changed.’
So I get out of the car and follow him up the stairs to the front door—thin arched windows on either side—and go inside.
The entry hall is tiled in black and white, with two huge wooden staircases winding up to the upper level on either side and a large chandelier sparkling above us.
It smells like furniture polish and fireplaces and roses, which makes sense, there’s an enormous bouquet of red roses sitting in the middle of a big circular table.
They, like me, are stuck in their prime, unable to see the natural cycle of life through . . .
I watch as Oscar goes over to a side table and drops his keys into a big silver bowl. Then I look to my left; it’s a hive of activity, lots of people dressed in black and white bustling around.
‘Mr Parker will show you to your room,’ Oscar says, and I turn. Beside him stands a man of around fifty-five with greying hair, holding my suitcase. Then Oscar adds, ‘There is an outfit for you in the closet. Put it on.’
Then Mr Parker starts heading up the stairs to our right, and I don’t know what else to do, so I follow him.