Chapter 40
As I reach the top of the stairs, I can hear moans coming from the drawing room.
I close the door behind me to shut them out.
I can still taste Emma’s blood—sweet, light, with dark chocolate overtones—and I hate Oscar but I think I hate myself more.
For liking it. I rush over to the bathroom and shake as I rinse out my mouth, brush my teeth.
I spit, rinse again, and splash my face with water.
And then I reach back for the clasp on the necklace and take it off, banging it down on the marble countertop.
I will never be like him.
I take back anything good I ever thought about him—he’s just as bad as I believed. No, he’s worse.
I go over to my bed, glancing out the window as I pass.
I can see Emma’s car there. Waiting for her.
But she won’t be coming back. All because she was a good little girl, just as she was told.
Just like me. I pull my suitcase out from beneath the bed, find the cooler bag and check my backup bag of blood is still there.
Now terrified Oscar might have somehow sniffed it out and taken it.
I wouldn’t put it past him. But it’s still there.
Still cool. And a calm comes over me as I see it.
Because who knows how many times he’s going to make me do this, how bad it’ll get? At least I have a safety blanket.
Then my gaze shifts to just beside it, to Es’s Christmas present. A flash of the night she gave it to me—the same night I agreed to Oscar’s terms. I reach for it, trace the wrapping paper with my fingertip. It’s Christmas.
I push my suitcase back under the bed and sit down on the mattress. There’s a tiny card stuck to the paper with sticky tape. MERRY XMAS!!! LOVE YOU!!! Xxxxx
My insides ache as I rip off the paper, revealing . . . a snow globe. It’s of Covent Garden market. There’s a tree with baubles and little carollers all in a line and the entrance to the market with a tiny green wreath above it. I shake it up and watch as snowflakes swirl and fall.
And all I want right now is Cat and Es and Daphne and my work and Jonathan and to be e-stalking Olivia from my sofa like any other heartbroken woman. I don’t want to be here. Feeding on people. Fighting the worst parts of myself.
I shake up Es’s snow globe once more, leave it on the writing table and get into bed, pulling the covers up to my chin.
I can still hear Carmilla and Oscar and their guests downstairs, and Oscar is wrong, I’m not judgy.
People can have whatever kind of sex they want—hell, wear a gimp suit if you fancy.
I certainly tried it all when I was first turned, so desperate for anything that could take the edge off existence.
But it didn’t work. Not for me at least. It just left me feeling emptier and more alone—more aware of the fact that it didn’t matter how many sets of sheets twisted around my legs, I would never be able to let anyone close enough that it could turn into real love.
I look across at the window, through the space between the curtains, and the moon is right there, staring back at me from an inky sky.
It’s bright and almost full—55,020 moons now—and as I look at it, I think about Jonathan.
I can still remember the exact rhythm of his heartbeat.
Still conjure the feeling of his stubble beneath my fingertips.
The exact shade of his eyes. The way he bites his lip when he’s trying not to laugh.
And that tug on my ribs is back, just as strong as ever, and I need him.
I really need him. I need the version of me he can tether me to. Human-me.
* * *
By the time dawn comes, its apricot glow seeping through the gap in the curtains, the moans have stopped, the guests have left and the whole house is silent. I’ve been lying here all night, awake and thinking, and now my eyes are finally fluttering closed. But I can’t sleep, not yet.
Because everyone else is asleep and it’s dawn on Boxing Day. And I need to check my phone. Anything could have happened.
Jonathan might have texted me Merry Christmas, the VHC board might have another post about Kenny. I have no idea how I used to wait for letters to arrive or the blinking light of an answering machine back in the day.
I get up, pull on my dressing gown and tiptoe to the bedroom door in my socks.
I slowly open the door, creep over to the banister and gently make my way down the stairs, staying to the side so the steps don’t creak.
When I get to the bottom, I go over to the silver bowl and slowly, carefully, reach for Oscar’s keys, holding them tight in my palm so they don’t jangle.
Then I edge open the front door and, under a sky that’s quickly turning baby blue, streaks of cloud tinted pink and apricot at the rims, I run over to Oscar’s car.
The gravel cuts into my socked feet as I look around.
Emma’s car has gone. He must have moved it.
Covered his tracks like he did with Felix.
Where did he put her?
All around me the world is waking up: birds singing, a thin morning mist clinging to the air, and winter frost sparkling on the grass.
And even though my head is thick with the fog that daybreak brings and I’m squinting in the low light, there’s an awe-inspiring beauty to it all.
A world I long to be a part of again—a world of sunshine, warm on my skin; a world that cares about the smell of cinnamon and newspapers, not blood—is rousing.
But I need to hurry before the sun gets any higher, before I feel any worse.
The taillights flash red as I get to the car. I hear the doors click open, and I quickly get inside.
I look back at the manor; nobody is coming. Then I duck down and reach for the glove compartment. But when I open it and reach inside for my phone, all I feel is the leather of the car’s manual.
My phone is gone.