Chapter 50
The next night, I’m lying in bed, staring out the window, when I hear tyres, then murmurs, then footsteps on the stairs and then a knock at my bedroom door.
I don’t want to answer it. It’ll be Oscar.
I’m done with him and his casual cruelty, his mind games. Maybe he could blow hot and cold with me when I was a human but not anymore.
The knock comes again so I stomp over to it, pull the door open and glare out.
But it’s not Oscar standing there.
It’s a young woman of about twenty-four, dark hair to her shoulders and that tell-tale glazed-over look in her eyes.
‘You are to feed off me,’ she says.
Oh.
I move aside so she can come in and note that she smells of citrus perfume and AB-negative blood.
My gums are tingling and I’m starving as I close the door and leave her standing there.
I need to feed. I haven’t eaten since Red Flannel Jeff three nights ago.
But there’s nobody here to stop me and this isn’t the same thing—she is smaller, weaker, more innocent.
If I couldn’t stop, if I killed her, Oscar would have won.
And that’s what would happen. I can feel that hunger growing inside me even now, I know how powerful it is once I start.
I need to fight it. Roadkill, roadkill, roadkill.
I look her dead in the eye and in the most velvety voice I have, I say, ‘Go downstairs and tell Oscar I fed.’
She nods, her eyes still blank. I lead her out of the room and close the door behind her.
It feels like that’s one small step back towards the light, my humanity.
* * *
The next night I’m sitting on the floor and drinking from the bag of blood I brought with me.
If this isn’t an ‘emergency’, I don’t know what is.
The blood has been somewhat preserved by the weather and the lack of central heating, even though the ice packs aren’t cold anymore.
But, and I hate to admit this, it tastes bland and chalky compared with Emma or Red Flannel Jeff.
I’ve drunk the whole bloody bag in one sitting and I still feel dead inside.
Okay yes, I am dead, but whatever. The levity, the strength, the jangly life force from live blood—it’s all missing.
It was better before I remembered that.
Still, I’d better get used to it again if I ever want my old life back. If I don’t want to end up heartless like the psychopath downstairs.
So I take another sip and look out through the window as it rattles.
The sky is the colour of navy ink outside and it’s maybe eleven pm.
There’s no clock in my room, so it’s hard to tell.
I reach up for the snow globe Es gave me and shake it, then watch the snowflakes fall again and again and again.
But then . . . the sound of music floats up from downstairs.
I turn to stare at my door.
It’s some sort of stringed instrument, low and soulful . . . I think it’s a cello. I frown, listening.
What is that?
Because there’s something about the piece; a strange sense of déjà vu that tugs at my insides.
A sense that it’s important somehow—vital, even—but I don’t know why.
It pulls at a memory somewhere deep beneath my ribs.
I don’t know what it is, it’s like a phrase on the tip of my tongue that I just can’t recall . . .
I go over to the door, edging it open so I can hear it better.
It’s coming from downstairs.
But the more I hear of the song, the more I feel it in my bones, like there’s a memory in my marrow. Like I know it. Like it’s going to bring me to tears.
I tiptoe down the stairs, drawn towards it, all the while knowing it could be the Pied Piper, leading the rats to drown.
It’s coming from the drawing room. The door is ajar and I can see inside, through the space between the hinge and the door. I move my eye in closer.
It’s Oscar.
He’s stooped over a cello, playing, his hair falling forward over his face as he moves with the music. His entire body sways as his hands move. He’s playing like a man who has had many lifetimes to perfect his technique.
I stand there, transfixed, watching the muscles on his arms flexing as he moves.
It’s mesmerising.
And then my lower lip quivers and I can smell the rust of tears, feel them dripping down my cheeks and what’s going on? Why does this hurt so much? There’s a twisting in my chest, like the music is wringing out my heart.
Yet I’ve never heard this song; not that I recall.
I wipe away my tears silently.
And then, the music stops. Mid-phrase.
Oscar sits there, bent over his cello like he’s sadder than anyone has ever been. I watch his shoulders heave as he lets out a huge breath. And I know I shouldn’t be watching this, it feels like a violation.
I take a step backwards, but the floorboard squeaks beneath my foot.
SHIIIIIIITTT.
His stance stiffens just a little, like he knows I’m here.
A flash of two nights ago. His hand around my throat. His eyes flaming.
I hold my breath and stand dead still. What’s he going to do?
Then he says, ‘Aubrey, come inside.’
His voice is hoarse, not like it usually is. I move into the doorway and his eyes meet mine; he notices my tears and looks away. I watch as his jaw clenches, and I can hear him swallow.
‘I do care, of course I care,’ he says, his voice a bit stronger now.
‘But Aubrey,’ he says slowly, his eyes on mine again, ‘I care the way a maker cares about the one he makes. I am bound to protect you, to make sure you are safe. But that’s as far as it goes.
Similarly, any feelings you have for me are not real; they’re purely because you’re sired to me.
Which is why it’s forbidden that we be together.
Vampire lore cannot be broken. So whatever you feel, forget it.
Okay?’ And he’s saying it in a way that tells me he needs me to understand.
I think of that moment that passed between us in the garden, that electric jolt that I could feel in my core. This is what that was.
I nod. Shrug, as though it’s fine. Nothing.
But there’s a flare beneath my ribs, like by him saying that, acknowledging that this thing between us is there and real, forbidden or not, he’s given that little ember I’ve been fighting since the night I saw those photographs a good dose of oxygen.
He swallows, like he’s about to say something else.
‘I won’t hurt Jonathan or do anything bad to Daphne.
I’ll get the evidence from her flat the next time I’m in London.
I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have threatened that.
All I want is to make sure you can protect yourself.
Because I can’t be there for you. I want you to be happy.
But Aubrey, be careful getting involved with a human. It never ends well.’
‘Okay,’ I say. ‘Oscar . . .’
He looks at me.
‘Can you tell me about myself, as a human?’ I ask.
He lets out a sigh. ‘Not really,’ he says. ‘I didn’t know you that well. I’m sorry, I wish I could tell you more.’ Sadness swirls in my stomach.
‘But . . . I loved you?’ I ask, as I think of that little box of love I gave him.
He nods slowly. ‘I seduced you, and you thought it was love, but it wasn’t. None of this is your fault, Aubrey. I shouldn’t have turned you. I’m sorry. I was reckless that night. But what’s done is done.’
I give a little nod.
He takes a deep breath. ‘But I know you didn’t feed off Tiffany last night,’ he says. ‘You really are going to have to eat something soon,’ he continues, changing tack abruptly. ‘I can get you someone to feed o—’
‘I . . . I brought a bag with me,’ I say, unsure of how he’ll react.
He gives me a sad little smile and nods; he doesn’t fight me on it. And I realise we’ve come to a new understanding. Which should be a good thing, I’ll get to live on my own terms, but it feels cold and isolating.
He turns back to his cello and starts to play another song, so I go back upstairs and get into bed and tell myself everything is fine.
But everything is not fine.
Every part of me is . . . missing him. That’s what it feels like, missing him. Which is all wrong.
I put in my earplugs and pull on my eye mask and lie there in the dark, trying my hardest to think about Jonathan, to conjure his face, and erase whatever just happened.
But he’s . . . not there. I search for his heartbeat, the warmth of his breath on my ear, the smell of his cologne.
I can’t make out the lines of his face. I can’t hear his voice.
I try to imagine him reaching forward to touch my face .
. . Then he’s there, fuzzy, but there. I think of him saying, I love that you’re so sensitive.
But then Jonathan changes before my eyes.
My feelings are still there, but now I see . . . Oscar. His eyes. His face.
My breath catches and my eyes flick open. As I stare at the ceiling in the dark my heart speeds up faster than it should and I’m shaking.
This is all wrong. What is happening to me?
Whatever it is, it’s dangerous. And it feels like the longer I stay in Oscar’s orbit, the more I lose myself to the murkiness.
Because that invisible cord that has always linked me to Jonathan has loosened.
Now, in its place is another. Whether I like it or not, whether I understand it or not, it is tying me to Oscar . . .
I could leave.
He said he wouldn’t hurt Jonathan or Daphne. I could get up and walk out the door, never look back. But the most confusing part is that I don’t want to go. And that’s all wrong, I should want to get away from him. But I don’t.
Besides, it’s just one more night here. What could happen in one more night?