Chapter 42
I’m anxious as we walk into the pub, because I’m guessing we’re not here for the burgers.
Carmilla and Rupert wander over to a high bar table against the wall, a tea light and a folded over newspaper in the centre.
We all sit down on bar stools and they look around, perusing the options like they’re scanning the freezer section of a supermarket.
I, on the other hand, lean forward and dip my fingertip in the wax of the candle, then start anxiously peeling it off, thinking: How do I get out of this?
Because I know the plan was to go with the flow, and I know if I don’t comply it’ll get back to Oscar, but also, the only reason I could stop feeding last night was because Oscar was there. Stopping me. The only reason the hunger abated was because he hurt Emma and that snapped me out of it.
Tonight I’d be all alone. With nobody to stop me. Nothing to snap me out of it.
I can’t do it.
I take a deep breath and look up, ready to make my case, just as Rupert and Carmilla lean in towards the centre of the table.
‘Green shirt, edge of bar,’ Rupert whispers.
We all glance over. It’s a guy, standing alone.
Carmilla nods. ‘I’m going black leather jacket, opposite side of the room.’
I turn to look. ‘But he’s with a woman,’ I say.
‘She can join . . .’ Carmilla says with a shrug. ‘Or not.’ She smiles and flashes her fangs like she doesn’t care who sees. Then she retracts them and gives me a knowing look.
‘What about you, Aubrey?’ she asks, and her voice is laced with something I can’t quite place. Challenge, maybe.
‘I . . . I don’t know,’ I say, my stomach clenching.
‘Remember what we spoke about,’ Rupert says kindly, putting his hand on mine. And even though his hand is cool, it’s still comforting. ‘Have some fun. What about the hot one in the red flannel shirt? He’s been watching you since we came in.’
I glance around the room to see who he’s talking about.
Red Flannel is sitting alone, at the end of the bar, and Rupert is right, he’s looking at me. ‘I might just sit this one out,’ I say to Rupert, anxiety bubbling under my skin. ‘I don’t think I should. Oscar said I need to make sure I don’t get us all found out.’
Solid excuse.
Carmilla gives a sigh of annoyance. ‘I knew she wouldn’t even try,’ she says, then stands up. ‘I’m going for it,’ she says and strides over to her prey.
‘Oscar told us to teach you some things, Baby-V. We’re right here if something goes wrong,’ Rupert says, reaching for my hand reassuringly. ‘Nothing bad is going to happen to you, as long as you use your head.’
‘You don’t understand, my hypnotism skills are seriously bad, I can’t control my visions yet so I can’t bond with—’
‘Oh, you don’t need-need those visions,’ Rupert says, leaning in and tucking my hair behind my ear.
‘Humans are dead easy to manipulate, even without them. You just pretend they’re the most special person you’ve ever met.
Hold eye contact. Look right into their soul.
And you don’t show your fangs until you’re somewhere safe,’ he adds, giving a little chuckle at his own joke.
I swallow hard. Shake my head, trying to show him that he doesn’t understand.
‘I don’t have a lot of self-control . . . I find it almost impossible to stop,’ I whisper. ‘So, that’s why I think it’s better I don’t. Not yet.’
He lets out a sigh. ‘Suit yourself, nobody is going to force you. But the more you feed, the more control you’ll have, the more you will be able to stop.
And in a fix, all you need is a handbrake.
For me, I imagine I’m sucking on roadkill.
It’s so revolting it jolts me out of it every time.
Anyway, do as you will, but I’ll be right here if you run into trouble.
’ He winks and says, ‘Wish me luck,’ and then he’s up and heading over to green shirt and I’m alone, and I don’t even have my phone to scroll through.
So I just sit there, listening to hearts beating around me, frowning at that tea light flame and thinking: This is fine.
I reach for the newspaper and start to flip through it. It’s the local paper, and there on page three is an article about the charity ball at Mr Oscar Carmichael’s abode. I fold the paper over, frown down at it and start to read.
‘It’s not that bad,’ a male voice interrupts me, and I look up. It’s Red Flannel. ‘I saw you were alone. Can I get you a drink?’
I’m about to say no thank you. I can smell his blood—whisky, Coke, O positive—and hear his heart beating and I don’t need the temptation.
Not after the trauma of last night. But then my gaze snaps to the phone in his hand and a lightness moves through me.
Who knows when I’ll get my phone back? While I can’t check the VHC board from his phone, I could go through to Instagram and look up Jonathan’s profile, to see his face, see if he’s posted anything new.
Maybe something to make me think he’s missing me—that I’m not just delusional.
His profile is public. It would be easy.
So I nod. ‘Sure.’
He heads to the bar and I finish reading the article—a glowing account of both Oscar and the ball—and then Red Flannel is back and sliding into Carmilla’s seat.
I put down the paper and glance over his shoulder—Carmilla is heading for the door with her couple, but Rupert is still here, standing by the bar with Green Shirt.
‘What’s your name? You from here?’ asks Red Flannel, and I recoil a little. He has that look, the one men always get around me, his gaze moving down to my neck, my chest, then up to my mouth. And I’m thinking how easy it would be to ask him to go for a walk right now. Go back to his place.
How easy to do the bad thing.
He puts his phone on the table.
‘Harriet,’ I lie. ‘And no, I’m from London. What’s your name?’
‘Jeff.’ And there’s something about the way he says it that makes me wonder if he’s lying too. But why?
‘Can I borrow your phone for a second, Jeff?’ I ask. ‘I just want to check on a friend.’
‘Sure,’ he says, shrugging and unlocking it, then handing it to me, but the moment before I take it, he stops. ‘For a kiss.’
Argh. But I smile coyly, then lean in and kiss his cheek and he lets the phone go. I tap quickly through to Instagram, type Jonathan’s handle into the search function, and hold my breath as I wait.
Helium fills my veins as it loads, anticipation coursing through me.
But then: doom.
Pure undiluted doom.
Because Jonathan’s profile . . . is now private.
Every part of me gets hot, then cold, then hot again. When did he turn his profile to private? It wasn’t private when we met, when I added him and he added me. Why would he do that unless he knew I’d be watching his page?
And if he made his page private so I couldn’t see anything . . . did he block me too?
Remove me as a follower?
My breath speeds up as I stare at the screen.
I can’t know the answer to any of these questions without logging into my account right here, right now, and I know it’s a bit extreme but who knows when I’ll find my phone again so . . . should I?
But then big hands come forward and prise the phone from my hands, and all I can do is watch that box with all the answers in it disappear into his pocket.
‘That’s enough,’ Jeff/Red Flannel/Whatever says, threading his big fingers through mine. ‘Whoa, your hands are cold. You should drink your drink,’ he says, ‘it’ll warm you up.’
Don’t freak out, Aubrey. It’s just a private Instagram account, it might mean nothing. Maybe he changed it to private ages ago. How would you know, you follow him?
I reach for my drink and take a sip. It tastes like whisky and Coke—just like his blood smells—and I don’t like either of those things, but then . . . hang on . . . There’s something else in there too.
Something not right.
My taste buds tingle and my gaze snaps to my glass. My nostrils flare. I look up at him, look him in the face—his expression is self-satisfied and smarmy. ‘That’s a good girl,’ he says with a grin, and realisation hits. Drugs might not really work on me, but this dipshit doesn’t know that.
He’s trying to roofie me.
And damn . . . it’s kind of strong.