Chapter 3
Chapter Three
LUCY
Idefinitely know he’s here.
I imagine him contorting his body to fit onto it, and an image of the body in question rushes into my mind unbidden: lean, inked and wet from the shower.
I can never speak this truth to anyone, obviously, but the man’s a work of art.
In a dark, dangerous kind of way, anyway.
He’s not my type at all. He’s got metal through his nipples, for God’s sake.
We’re not even going to talk about the view I got when his towel slipped, or the hint of fangs I swear I saw just before I passed out. I’m finding it hard enough to sleep as it is. Anxiety nudges my pulse up a notch until I can feel my heart beating in my ears. Mina owes me one.
I turn on my side and pull the covers over my ear until I can’t hear him at all, and then I stare at the neon numbers of the digital clock until my body finally gives in to sleep.
It’s light when I wake up, and I can’t hear the sound of snoring anymore.
I look at the clock. 8:25am.
I’ll need to check my emails soon to see if Jon’s sent me any more details on the job so I can plan my day.
I pad carefully out of the bedroom and start down to the kitchen to put the kettle on, but when I look down through the banisters, Bram’s still there.
He’s sleeping silently now, his broad chest rising and falling with his breath.
Bram.
A smile tugs at my lips. Mina wasn’t wrong – I can’t escape these damn vampires. I wonder if everyone in their family has a Dracula-inspired name.
I lower myself to sit on the stairs and watch him for a minute through the banisters.
He’s fast asleep, sprawled across the sofa like he’s had a fight with it, his long, tattooed limbs dangling in every direction.
His mouth has fallen open a little way, and as he breathes, it moves the hair that’s fallen over his face to and fro rhythmically.
Those fangs I thought I saw are nowhere to be seen now, just prominent canines which snag at his lip as it curls in his sleep.
I must have imagined them. I blame the stone monstrosity outside.
There’s something that catches at me as I watch him – some faint spark of familiarity. Have I met him before? I mean, he’s Mina’s cousin, so it’s not outside the realm of possibility. But if I have, I’ve certainly never seen him like this.
The crocheted blanket from the back of the sofa is draped over him, but he’s clearly moved so much in his sleep that now he’s wearing it like a loincloth.
He’s naked from the waist up, and my eyes catch on the planes of his body for a moment or two before I mentally scold myself and snatch my eyes away.
How would Jon feel if he knew I was looking at another man like this? I’m a little ashamed of myself.
I mean, not so ashamed that I don’t look back almost immediately, but I just want to look at his tattoos this time. I’d seen them last night of course, but in all the panic I didn’t get a chance to properly look, and they’re fascinating.
I can’t make them out clearly at this distance, but I can see the wind of an octopus’s tentacles around one of his sides, something that looks like a stingray rising up his neck from one shoulder …
I wonder if they’re all sea creatures, and then I remember Mina telling me that he grew up here, just like she did. The sea must be part of his story.
Anyway, speaking of stories, I really need to attend to this one. I sneak one more look at him and pad back up the stairs, shutting the bedroom door behind me. I pull out my laptop and boot it up, tethering it to my phone when I realise I don’t know the WiFi code and it’s too early to ask anyone.
True to form, it’s not too early for Jon, and he’s already sent three emails. I read the first, which just confirms the details of the job, deadline and word count. The usual.
The second piques my interest.
This isn’t technically related to the Goth Weekend, but there’s a wildlife sanctuary just outside Whitby currently caring for the oldest recorded bat in the country. They’re calling him Lestat. Thought this would be a fun feature to run alongside the main article.
I sit up straight as I read, that familiar warm feeling spreading through my chest. An OAP bat is right up my alley. I scan the attached press release and make a note of the contact details. This is just the thing to take the edge off this feeling I have – the feeling like I’m out of place.
It’s not helped by the other email I’ve just noticed in my personal inbox – the one from my mother.
I’m not exaggerating when I say that Millie Partridge is one of the most famous romance authors in the world, and as I’m a huge romance fan, it should be the dream, right?
But it feels more like a nightmare. It’d be better if she didn’t email me with ‘life updates’ that she’s just copied and pasted from her latest newsletter.
I’m not even kidding. One email had genuinely started with Dear Subscriber.
It’d also be better if she hadn’t abandoned me when I was a kid, yet here we are.
I truly believe that Millie tried her best to be a mother, it’s just that her best …
well, it wasn’t great. And maybe she knew that.
When her fourth book took off overnight and she left six-year-old me with my grandparents, I thought she’d be coming back, but perhaps she always knew that she wouldn’t.
I was the result of an affair she’d had with her first editor – the first person who saw potential in her writing. She called him when she found out she was pregnant, and he dropped her and their plans for her future books like a stone. I wasn’t much good to her after that.
I had a great childhood, don’t get me wrong.
Nana and Grandpa were the most beautiful souls on earth, and they made me feel protected and encouraged and nurtured.
I know how lucky I was to be loved by them.
But it was never quite enough to stop me from feeling like I was disposable.
Like I have to be valuable in some way to make people want me.
Like the mere act of being me isn’t enough.
I sigh, click ‘read’ on Millie’s email without opening it, and move on to the last of Jon’s emails. It’s just a quick note – a heads up about an interview that he’s trying to set up with a couple of local business owners who are particularly invested in this weekend.
Liam and Dean, The Pier Inn, 6pm tomorrow.
I make a note of it in my phone.
Watch out for Liam, Jon’s written underneath. He’s a real piece of work. Get some dirt on him if you can, the readers will eat it up.
My stomach sinks. I’m completely out of my element here.
Normally I love interviewing people – getting to know the ins and the outs of their story, learning about their lives, hearing people talk about the things that they love.
But getting dirt on people isn’t my style at all.
I get my kicks from building people up, not bringing them down.
Even if they deserve it.
I swallow past the knot of tension in my throat and try to focus on the bat sanctuary visit.
I’ll worry about the other interview when I have to.
That’s how I’m going to survive this weekend: one step at a time.
And as I scan the rest of my emails and socials, I just about catch the soft click of the annexe door opening and shutting downstairs, and it makes me breathe a quiet sigh of relief.
He’s gone.
It’s almost eleven by the time I step out of the door, and though it’s a glorious day, there’s a definite nip of autumn in the air. I wrap my arms around myself and duck underneath the archway. I don’t need my coat – I’m not going far.
The door of Harker Cottage swings open about two seconds after I knock on it, and I’m almost bowled over by the warmth that floods out.
An older woman stands, hands on hips, a black, lace-edged apron covering her clothes, also black, and sporting two white, floury handprints. She beams as she sees me.
‘Lucy?’ she asks, and the second I nod in response she pulls me into a hug, tight and warm. She sways lightly from foot to foot, and it reminds me of the way Nana used to hug. I force down the knot in my throat.
‘I’m Mina’s Aunt Peggy,’ she says into my hair, like there was ever any doubt.
‘I’m so glad you’re here.’ She smells sweet, like honey and strawberries, and when she loosens her grip on me and takes a step back, I can see smears of red in the white handprints.
It’d be a little sinister if her vibe weren’t so desperately endearing.
There’s genuine excitement in her voice, and it’s so warm and welcoming that it feels a little like she might be my aunt too.
She whisks me inside, and I take in the interior of the cottage with a smile.
This could be Dracula’s house.
Anything which isn’t black is a deep blood red, and the few things that are neither are shiny chrome, glinting in the rays of sunlight flooding through the leaded windows.
We pass a coffin-shaped grandfather clock in the hallway, a matte black cat bed, which looks to be a perfect replica of Whitby Abbey, and its occupant, a sleek void of a cat who blinks green eyes at me as I walk past.
The kitchen is more of the same, but with a little rustic wood thrown in. The dark granite worktops are covered in flour and berries. It smells delicious.
‘You’ll have to excuse me,’ Peggy says, ‘I’m just doing a spot of baking.’ She gestures to the monk’s bench along one wall, and I sit, scanning this fascinating room as she talks.
‘It’s my thing,’ she continues as she gets back to work.
‘For the festival. My outfit is based on the Queen of Hearts, and I like to have a tray of real tarts to treat people to as I walk around.’ She chuckles to herself, busily rolling out a ball of pastry and cutting circles from it.
‘It’s silly, I know, but it makes me happy. ’
I smile. I love her already.
‘It’s not silly,’ I say. ‘Nothing that makes you happy is.’