33. Ari
Ari
Hele House sits nestled into a valley deep in Dartmoor. The long private driveway winds through ancient woodland, screening the property from prying eyes or adventurous dog walkers.
I still remember the first time I came here.
I was eleven and a rather precocious child.
Not that anyone is likely to be surprised by that revelation.
My father worked for Andrei and had done so for the ten years since my vampire mother had died.
We act like vampires are immortal but we can die.
Or rather we can be killed. We just don’t like to talk about it, and especially not what happened the night my female ancestors were murdered.
Dad had tried to shield me as much as possible from vampire life, but I was growing up and he knew it would be unavoidable for ever.
So he bought me to Hele House to meet Clara.
At first I’d thought she was a stuck up princess who had all the adult vampires in her life wrapped around her little finger and was given whatever she wanted.
My first impression did turn out to be fairly accurate, but I quickly discovered she was also wicked fun to be around and had a penchant for pushing at the boundaries of our staid mid-eighteenth century lives in a way I found utterly beguiling.
We’ve been almost inseparable ever since.
And to his credit, if I can call it that, Andrei was always hospitable to me, treating me like one of his own, even presenting me to vampire society at one of the debutante balls he held at Hele House.
I haven’t been here since about 1930 though. It will come as no surprise that Andrei’s political leanings are not the same as mine and as the drums of war began to beat I had distanced myself from Hele House. Not from Clara though, obviously she joined me in her disdain for her father.
Coming back here brings a flood of memories and emotions and I start to wonder if this isn’t a horrible mistake.
But I’m keeping my apprehension to myself, no point in making things even more terrifying for Brody.
“You’re shivering,” I tell him, keeping my voice as quiet as possible.
Sound carries in these wide halls and it’s probably not a good thing if someone overhears us.
“It’s freezing,” Brody hisses back.
I pause in front of a portrait of Clara’s mother as a late teenager and reach out a finger to trace the intricate pattern on the gilt frame.
A tiny icicle breaks off and falls to the floor with a delicate tinkle.
“I don’t think they’re putting the heating on,” I say, even though the observation is pretty moot, given that I can see the gentle huff of cold air every time Brody exhales. This is going to be a problem.
“I’ve brought some thermals,” he says. “They just about fit under my suit, but I’m not wearing them right now.”
“You need to put them on. Quickly.” There’s an urgency to my tone.
“Roger that. Trust me, it’s the first thing I’m going to do.”
“Good. Just, in the meantime, maybe don’t breathe as much.”
He gives me a funny look.
“Sorry. I know you can’t help breathing. But just maybe…” I trail off. It’s a stupid request. Just don’t breathe as much. What a fucking idiot I am. God, sometimes I want to stick a needle in my own eye.
But Brody laughs softly and so I can’t help but join in. At least he’s seeing the ridiculousness of the situation. I just hope he isn’t downplaying the risk to himself. Andrei cannot find out what he is.
“I’ve got this under control, I promise,” he tells me, leaning close to whisper the words in my ear. So close I can feel his warm breath on my cheek. I try not to think of the kiss in the Crimson Well. Or the night in Aberystwyth and all the potential I saw that evening.
Drinks and nibbles are served in the main hall and about forty vampires are already milling around when we arrive.
This is the same room the debutante balls were held in and I still remember the feeling of fear as I stood in a floor length black silk dress like a classic vampire wedding gown, waiting to be ushered in front of all the greatest vampire families in Europe.
The room is softly lit by a huge quantity of candles, wax dripping onto the floor from a dozen free-standing candelabra.
The wood-panelled walls are covered in artwork: portraits of the Hele family, time passing not on their faces but in the clothes they wear and the style of the painting; landscapes of the Devon countryside, mainly focussed on showing the desolate beauty of Dartmoor; and a few classic pieces by famous artists, designed to demonstrate the Hele’s wealth that they can afford a real Cézanne.
“What is this?” Brody asks, staring at the canapé a waitress has just pressed into his hand. “It looks like a mini Yorkshire pudding.” He sounds horrified, like it might jump off the small napkin it is nestled in a bite him on the nose.
I peer more closely at it. “Beef and horseradish in a mini yorkie,” I confirm.
“Like human beef?”
“Like cow beef.”
He blushes and I instinctively step in front of him so no one can see. I’m going to have to put some makeup on him to make sure we cover up that so very human reaction. “I meant like human safe to eat. Not that… you know…” he makes a face. “Vampires don’t eat human flesh.”
He sounds so certain. So positive in his assertion.
He’s wrong of course. There was a time when human flesh was considered something of a delicacy among the vampire population.
Or at least amongst certain factions. I’ve never eaten it myself, let’s just be very clear about that.
But I know for a fact that Andrei used to serve it regularly back in the 18th century.
“You can eat it,” I reassure him. Perhaps one day he’ll find out the true depth of the depravity of some of my kind, but I don’t really want to be the one who bursts his bubble.
He takes a tentative bite and then a look of abject horror sweeps across hi features. “What the—” but he cuts himself off and spits the offending morsel into the napkin.
“What’s wrong with it,” I ask, picturing all the worst things. Like if it actually was human.
He grabs the glass of champagne from my hand and downs it. “Burning. Mouth,” he says, the words distorted. He sticks out his tongue and rubs it with his finger.
“Are you OK?”
“No.” He grabs another champagne from a passing waiter and this time he dunks his tongue into it. A look of relief crossing his features. Eventually he extracts the offending appendage. “Jesus. What the actual fuck is in horseradish?”
“That was because of the horseradish?” I ask, trying to stop myself from laughing. Vampire children eat horseradish. It’s a nursery staple. He’s acting like it’s strong.
“What is it? It’s like fire paste.” He sticks his tongue back into the champagne. “I’ll never taste anything else again.”
We stay towards the edge of the room, not wanting to mingle too closely with some of the other guests.
But you can’t avoid everyone at an event like this and eventually we’re cornered by a couple who look to be in their mid-forties.
Mid-forties in human years, I mean. In vampire years they’re well over three hundred years old.
Despite this being the more informal of the days, he’s wearing the ubiquitous penguin suit and she’s trussed up in a corset and a full skirt to the floor in dark shades of velvet with plenty of ruffles.
I’ve met the Gallaghers a few times but it isn’t me they’re interested in talking to.
“I don’t think we’ve met,” Lady Gallagher says with a purr as she extends her hand to Brody.
“I don’t believe we have,” he replies and there’s a smoothness I’ve not witnessed before. He goes to shake her hand and I almost pull him back, but then I notice she’s wearing a pair of silk gloves to the elbow.
“Lady Gallagher.”
“Brody. A pleasure to meet you.”
“And where are you from, Brody?” she asks. I stiffen slightly at the edge of something in her tone.
“I was born in Newton Abbot,” he replies.
“You’re from the Courteney line?”
Brody’s gaze flashes towards me. Fuck. We really should have worked on his back story a little more. But we were far too concerned with the whole business plan. Stupid. Stupid. If we fail to pass him off as vampire, the business plan won’t matter one tiny little bit.
But Brody smiles. “Only distantly related. My parents came from the old country.”
Lady Gallagher nods her head. “Welcome to Hele Hall.”
She moves away and I turn to face him. “How did you know to say that?” I ask, almost impressed at how quickly he turned the conversation around with the Gallaghers.
He shrugs. “It’s what Matt always says when people delve too far into his lineage. He doesn’t know his father.” He adds the last bit quickly.
“Oh.” Vampires are obsessed with family and origin and all that jazz.
It’s a preoccupation that comes from having lived for far too many years without enough to keep them interested.
The vampire world would be a much better place if everyone spent a little less time worrying about where people came from and maybe picked up a book or switched on the TV and revelled in the progress all around them.
But “the old country”? That’s basically code for those vampires who have been displaced, chased away from their homelands by overzealous humans who wish to control them.
It’s the perfect answer to the question raised by someone like Lady Gallagher.
Hopefully that titbit will spread around the other guests and avoid a few future awkward questions.