Chapter 43
My gums tingle, a familiar heat glows beneath my ribs, my vision snaps to high definition and rage rolls through me.
Solar plexus. Fingers. Head. I push it down—I’m in a public place, NOT NOW, NOT NOW—but shit, I know this feeling.
There’s no use fighting it. It’s too strong.
I should run out of here, before I do something I can’t undo. But also . . . should I?
It’s almost poetic. Funny. I’d be performing a public service.
But more than that: I want to.
I take another gulp of my drink, then another, and I get a little buzz—it really is strong, he really wanted to make sure I went down—but not enough to have me lean against the exposed brick wall like I am right now.
Not enough to have my eyelids heavy and fluttering closed as he watches me, chatting inanely and staring at my lips.
I take another gulp, put my hand on his well-muscled leg and let my eyelids close a little more, let my words slur. And soon, he helps me to my feet.
He’s big and he’s basically carrying me out, but nobody stops him. I catch Rupert’s eye and wink at him, and he gives me a little smile.
We go outside and Red Flannel Jeff is talking in a cheery voice as he helps me, saying, ‘We’ll be home soon, baby,’ presumably for the benefit of passers-by.
I can smell his sweat—sour and musky like day-old deodorant—and hear his heart beating fast as we move across the car park.
It’s speeding up. The thrill—he gets off on the thrill.
And now we’re at his car. He has one of those tinted window SUVs and it’s parked in a dark corner, facing a wall.
I know why he parked there: he didn’t want witnesses or lighting or CCTV.
He didn’t want anyone to see him put me in the passenger seat and then hurry around to his side, like he’s doing right now.
But . . . fine with me.
My gums tingle as he gets into the car and slams his door. His keys jangle as he puts the car key into the ignition. But the moment before he turns it, he looks over at me. Reaches across, puts his hand on my knee and traces it up my leg, towards my thigh, slipping under the hem of my skirt.
‘Nice legs you have there,’ he says in a gross whisper as his hand slides a little higher.
Fuck this.
My vision blanches, my fangs come out and that volcanic rage rolls through me. I grab his hair with one hand, his shoulder with the other and stare at the vein on his neck. And then I bite.
He struggles for a moment then goes limp, and I drink and drink and drink.
His blood is laced with whisky but he must eat well because it’s sweet, nourishing, and I want to drink forever.
My vision snaps to high definition; his low and lumbered breath is like a melodic whisper, and I dig in deeper and suck a little harder.
For a moment I forget about Jonathan and his private Instagram profile, and all is well in the world and I AM A GOD!
I drink and I drink and I drink and I drink and—
Beeeeep.
A horn sounds in the distance.
I should stop, I know I should.
But also, fuck it, I don’t want to stop. I can’t stop.
I won’t stop.
I close my eyes and drink some more . . .
And then voices . . . just outside. But that’s okay, they’re not that close. It’s not like they’re tapping on the window and it’s dark outside. I have to stop.
But how? HOW?
My eyes flick open.
I think of roadkill, like Rupert said. Really revolting roadkill. Intestines and gall bladders and fur. I imagine sucking on it. My stomach turns, and I gag, but I keep on drinking and then . . . I think of that little boy’s eyes.
The terror mirrored back at me.
The rage turns to ice. I pull away and sit dead still. Staring at him. His blood is bright red and all over his neck, dripping down to his shirt.
This is how it happens, I think. This is how you end up stuck in the darkness!
Still, I reason, he kind of deserved it.
But the voices are still out there. I glance in the rear-view mirror and see a couple getting into their car. The doors slam, taillights flash red. As they drive away, I look back at Red Flannel Jeff as I wipe his blood from my face with the back of my hand.
Panic swirls through me as I take in his pale face. What have I done? I can’t just leave him here like this: unconscious with fang marks on his neck.
Rupert was wrong, he’s not here when I need him. And neither is Carmilla. And I don’t have my phone so I can’t call Oscar. Besides, what would he do anyway? He’s in London.
It’s just me. Alone.
Fuck.
FUCK. FUCK. FUCK.
Now my heart is beating even faster than his was. I didn’t think this through.
Okay, I can do this. I’ve fed twice. I must be stronger. And Oscar said once I’d fed from the vein a few times, I’d get some power.
So I quickly bite my wrist. I put some of my blood on his wound like I’ve seen Oscar do. Then I stare at it, willing it to work. Work! Work!
But what if it doesn’t work?
And then, as if by magic, I watch as the puncture marks slowly disappear.
Yes!
Oscar was right.
I lick my fingers, wiping away my blood from his neck as best I can, but his blood is still there, dripping; smeared. There’s a half empty bottle of water on the floor by my feet, so I reach for it, slosh it all over his neck.
Now the blood is gone but he’s starting to regain consciousness, so I lock my eyes on his and in the most velvety voice I can muster, I say, ‘You won’t remember any of this. You will only remember going out to a bar, and realising you never want to harm another woman again.’
But screw it, that’s not enough.
‘If you ever want to do this again, you will pee yourself, no matter where you are. And . . . you will take your bag of roofies to the police and confess to every assault you have ever committed.’
He nods.
‘Good boy,’ I say, feeling my fangs retract.
I get out of the car and practically skip back to the pub. Because Rupert was right, this IS fun. It feels good to be the hunter, not the hunted for a moment, the predator, not the prey. To have some sort of agency. Power.
And I’m still good, right? Surely this doesn’t count.
Red Flannel Jeff was bad, and he started it, and I didn’t even kill him . . .
Oh wow. Have I found a moral loophole?
Or is this just how it starts? The descent into darkness, the loosening of morals.
I can’t tell. Right now, I don’t care. I just know that I feel AMAZING. I’ve probably saved countless other women from that dirtbag. I just want to revel in this moment because for the first time, possibly ever, I like being a vampire . . .
Scrap that. Right now, I love it.
I want to print it on a T-shirt, sky-write it, etch it in stone somewhere . . . maybe buy a car and put on personalised number plates.
Rupert is standing outside the pub, smoking a cigarette with Green Shirt. ‘Back already?’ he asks, frowning and looking behind me for my guy. Adrenaline pulses through me.
I nod, pirouette and give a little curtsy, then reach for his cigarette and take a deep drag, then hand it back to him. ‘I’m tired, I need to go home. Can I have the key?’
‘Carmilla wants you to wait,’ he says. But then he pulls the key out of his pocket and hands it to me with a grin. ‘Just leave the gate open and the door unlocked.’ As I take the key, a cab pulls up and someone gets out, and it feels like the cosmos has aligned for me at last.
‘See you later,’ I say to Rupert,
‘Ciao,’ he says, and blows me a kiss.
I run to the cab, lean into the open window and say, ‘Umm . . .’
Because that’s when I realise I don’t know Oscar’s address. But buoyed by my accomplishments, I improvise. ‘I’m going that way, just out of town,’ I say, pointing to the left, the way we came in. ‘It’s at the very top of the hill.’
‘Mr Carmichael’s place?’ the driver asks, looking impressed, and I nod.
‘Get in,’ he says.
And ah shit, all I can smell is his A-negative blood. NO, AUbrEY. But that hunger is there, growling like a pet I have to feed.
‘You a friend of Mr Carmichael’s?’ the driver asks as we head out of the village.
‘Yes,’ I say, taking deep breaths. ‘I’m just staying for Christmas.’
I can see his neck from where I’m sitting, hear the gentle tapping of his pulse . . . I focus on roadkill, sucking it dry.
‘Wild parties he throws, yeah? Never been myself, always working. But I read about it in the paper. He does it every year, they say. Both Christmas Eve and New Year’s Eve. Driven a few friends home for him, they say he’s a nice chap?’
He’s glancing back at me now in the rear-view mirror and I can tell from the inflection of his voice that he’s wants me to weigh in. But I don’t want to talk, I’m too busy focusing on locking my jaw. ‘He’s lovely, very kind,’ I lie.
‘Charitable, too. He paid for the school to be repaired after it flooded three years back. Imagine that?’
I smile and nod and take slow, deep breaths, thinking, Well of course he did, he didn’t want anyone to believe one of his victims if they said something bad about him.
I think of Emma. On Christmas. What does her family think happened to her?
But kudos to Oscar, he’s creating the perfect cover. Far easier to hide in plain sight.
‘So how do you know Mr Carmichael?’
I swallow, pray my fangs don’t pop out and say, ‘I’m . . . I work with him in London.’
‘Oh, nice.’
And Oscar’s gates are just up ahead, FINALLY, so I press the button on the key and they open and we drive inside. The cab driver pulls to a stop and says, ‘That’ll be nine pound, love.’
That’s when I realise I don’t have my phone. Or money. Or any way to pay.
‘I . . . I don’t have my wallet,’ I say, my voice small. Please don’t kick up a fuss, please be understanding. I’m really trying here. I don’t want to bite you (although I do, I REALLY DO).
He smiles calmly, clearly unaware of my mental turmoil, and says, ‘No worries, I’ll put it on Mr Carmichael’s tab.’
I nod, relieved, and as I watch him drive away, I finally exhale properly. But as I look around, scanning the grounds, lit up by some outside lights, I realise I’m here alone. Just me and the howling wind.
Oscar’s car is still gone and Rupert and Carmilla aren’t here. I have the house all to myself, and the life-force blood sparkling through my veins is telling me that if ever there was a time to look for my phone, this is it.