Exquisite Corpse

Chapter Ten

2009-05-14T15:34:00.000-07:00

SPLAT. Flutter flutter. SPLAT. Flop flop….THWACK!

Mary reached down and picked the dying bird up by a feather with her forefinger and thumb. Its wings unfolding like a tiny accordion as she lifted it from the floor where she had beaten it to death. The bird, an unwelcome and unexpected guest had flown through the open window and had not been able to make its way out again.

Her grandfather had taken her hunting once in the English countryside when she had been younger. Her mother had been against it but she was her grandfather’s only grandchild and all of his own children had been girls. She had just turned ten and her grandfather decided he had to impart his hunting wisdom on someone. Mary had the appearance of a lady, but the hunt had stayed with her all this time.

“Don’t breathe, don’t move,” he could still hear her grandfather saying to her.

She dipped the dead bird in a pot of boiling water to loosen the feathers. Some of the feathers slipped out of their hold effortlessly. With others she had to pinch the tip near the rubbery pore so hard between her fingernails that she tore the skin. The bird’s, and her own.

After gutting the poor bird she rubbed spices into its skin and slipped it in the oven. Her own little feast. The others could have some wine. Wine is the blood of Christ, after all.

As she dressed and rouged her cheeks, scenes of the last time she had seen Lessie floated though her head. “He didn’t do it for me! Mary, he did it for you!” Her husband had been sitting outside on the veranda as the women yelled back and forth. Like hell he did it for me, she thought to herself. But then, sometimes, she thought he might have.

A knock at the door brought her back to the present moment with its smell of salt and seared bird flesh.

“Betsy!”

“Hello, Mary. This is Bishop.” Bishop nodded his head graciously and stepped through the open door after Elizabeth. She had told him a bit, leaving out all the details, about how her relationship with Mary had soured.

They stepped wordlessly into the drawing room where Mary took up some glasses for the wine. “You know its curious…” she paused. “I popped out earlier to pick up a paper. Terrible the way they splash those photos all across the pages. That poor girl. I mean, well, Betsy you know how I felt about her. But, even so. To use such images to sell those damn things! But like I was saying, its curious. Well, perhaps it’s not that surprising considering....” her words trailed off.

After a few beats she continued, “…its just, in those photos…she’s wearing my clothes!”

She gestured to a stack of papers. Bishop rose from his seat and walked to the table where they sat. While taking the paper up in his hands he asked, “In the photos from the crime scene? She was wearing your clothing when she was killed?”

“Or someone put them on her after,” Elizabeth offered as she nervously bit the skin around her thumb nail.

“Well. You’re the detective. I don’t wish to speculate. I want no part in this and I had nothing to do with it. All I know is that that is my dress! I had it custom made for me by a designer friend and I don’t know how she got it. I think that’s something worth investigating! Who was it that broke into my closet! Lord knows if I find out who is trying to set me up…and who is stealing my nice things….”

“I’m sorry? I thought you wanted no part in this, Mary,” Elizabeth smirked.

Mary, who was in the middle of pouring a glass of wine set down the bottle with a heavy thud and then tossed the crystal glass of wine backwards over her shoulder, as if discarding the wrapper of a candy bar. The scent of burnt bird flesh again entered her nose. She stomped off to the kitchen to take care of it.

Chapter Nine

2009-03-19T23:19:00.001-07:00

"Manners maketh man"

He could hear his mother's voice. She seemed to be always in the kitchen, or always at the dinner table, planning or hosting dinners. She would say, "Soup should always be spooned away from you dear, " or "...fork in the left hand, knife in the right!" You could hear her exclaim at the table, "Thomas, do NOT scrape your plate!" or "That spoon is not for the desert Thomas, the soup dear, the soup!"

Bishop's brother always had a hard time with formal eating etiquette. Bishop on the other hand understood things like, men and women should be alternately seated, and the wine glass closest to you is for sherry and the the one farthest is for water and you should always bring a gift for the host and hostess. But this particular dinner would prove difficult.

Elizabeth had returned to Bishop's quarters to find Bishop and a seemingly drunk older man who was in the middle of a diatribe, something about unnecessary procedures and his men's morale. Bishop was clearly not listening and seemed to have been waiting for Elizabeth to arrive for some time. She began to equivocate regarding her whereabouts. Why was she holding back? Bishop thought. Who could she be protecting? The thoughts of a detective to be sure, but Bishop didn't just view Elizabeth as an asset with information, he had walked quickly back to his apartment to make sure she was alright. Her safety was what he told himself was important. Her health, he repeated in his mind. That's what made him rush back, he felt certain, her health.

"Are you sure you are feeling better? He asked after her ambiguous story about meeting an old friend.

"Yes, yes...I'm fine." She said, eyeing Harry.

Bishop had introduced Harry to Elizabeth. Harry, after looking Elizabeth up and down, went to the bar.

"You found enough in my fridge?" Bishop asked, putting his arm on Elizabeth's shoulder. Elizabeth wasn't sure what to make of this Harry. Exactly how much did he know about their...condition?

"Yes" she said quickly, moving away from Bishop's hand. She moved across the room, she wanted to tell Bishop everything, she was even planning to on her walk back, what words to say, how to explain everything, but now there was this human, this cop. Bishop could sense her unease.

"Harry, I'll need clearance with your boys to look over her apartment and I want a car this time. Be a good kid and do what you do best, go order people around." Harry smiled and finished off his drink. "I shall take leave of you both." With an exaggerated bow and a chuckle, he opened the door. But before he stepped out, he looked over his shoulder and said,

"You better be careful you two, the sun is almost up."

Elizabeth would have looked more surprised if she wasn't so tired. "How...?" She began. But Bishop ignored her. "Who is this old friend, and what possessed you to visit her in the middle of the night? Is she...?"

"Human?" Elizabeth finished. "Barely." She went on. "Mary Redgrave was married to Charles Redgrave, he was...how shall I put this, a fixer, in the Government Communications Headquarters. He worked closely with MI5 during the war. It's where I met him. He knew Lesie Lanchester, you've heard right? Mary always thought they were having an affair. I thought she might know something. I though I could..."

"Did she?" Bishop interrupted, a little amazed at the coincidence. His run in with Elizabeth seemed desultory, but perhaps their chance encounter was something else. He had explained his work to Elizabeth, but failed to mentioned that she had begun his investigation and had a suspect before he had even changed his tie.

"Ms. Redgrave, though loquacious, was brief on the subject."

"Ms" Bishop repeated, pouring himself and Elizabeth a glass. He was drawing the drapes on his windows as Elizabeth said, "Charlie died during the war...She invited us to dinner."

"Us?" Bishop repeated while finishing covering the windows. He made the gesture to take off his jacket but hesitated. Pieces of manners that seemed to have no use in this world still lingered in his muscles. He would of blushed at his faux pas if he had had a heartbeat...but more importantly it was 1946, men could remove their jackets without a lady's approval. Sometimes it was hard to remember.

"Yes, tomorrow. Mary will have some kind of trickery planned for us. Nothing dangerous, just socially uncomfortable. Like Harry, she can spot us easily."

"Do you think she killed Lesie?" Bishop asked, lighting his cigarette, staining the end red with the blood that still lingered on his tongue. "I can see you hate this Ms. Redgrave, but do you really think she is capable of murd-"

"Murder. Yes." Elizabeth sad down, twirling her hair with her fingers. "I think she's capable of anything."

"Well then." Bishop sighed. " I guess we will have to give her a gift. Wine or chocolate?"

Elizabeth smiled. She could get to the bottom of this. Bishop was on her side. She took off her coat and laid down on the couch. The sun was rising and she would need some rest before dinner at eight with Ms. Redgrave.

Chapter Eight

2009-03-10T22:23:00.000-07:00

Elizabeth had long fought against her nature. She had trained herself to swallow her instincts, to wait many seconds before acting, and to take as many deep breaths as possible. It was not only how she survived, but how she was able to help. Spend enough time in self-loathing and you can achieve anything.

Seeing Mary, though, Elizabeth couldn't control herself. She began to lunge across the room and, due to a deep inhale at the last second, was able to turn her lethal attack into a hard slap in the face.

Mary just laughed.

"Oh Elizabeth. Still so angry, even now?"

Elizabeth was too busy seething with rage to respond. She was quietly counting and taking deep breaths and, for a brief moment, remembering the way her son used to smile. It helped.

"I'm sorry. That was rash of me."
"Not need to apologize, love. It's nice to see you show some emotion, for once. Nice to see you have some, what do they say? Moxie."

Mary laughed at this, and Elizabeth felt that if she could blush she would be deep red. Women like Mary had always rubbed Elizabeth the wrong way, always been contrary to how she was, with gossip and parties and...conniving. And with Mary had done--possibly was still doing...and yet, Elizabeth still felt like a tormented schoolgirl.

"You know why I'm here," Elizabeth managed to get out.
"I do indeed. I heard it on the radio. A tragedy, of course. But it's not surprising given the life she lead. The only strange thing is that she didn't die in a bomb attack or by a Nazi bullet. She would have liked that better. It would have been more noble."

"Is that why she did it?" thought Elizabeth. "To deny her of a noble death."

"Look," said Mary "There's no need for us to pretend we're old friends. You're here because you think I had a hand in this and I know I can't convince you otherwise, at least not right now. So how about I fetch you a cup of tea and we talk?"

Tea. The thought made Elizabeth nausea and from the smirk on Mary's face--the cruelty behind the most benign gestures--she knew that didn't hide it well.

"So you're saying you're not responsible?"
"Heavens, no! I think I have better things to think about these days. More lofty aspirations."
"But we both saw--we both saw her. And him. It would be...understandable, Mary." She didn't add "It would be only human."

"I'm afraid I have no idea what you're talking about. No idea at all."

Elizabeth bit the inside of her lip and sighed. This was going badly. She had started too aggressive and the conversation was shot to hell.

"I think I better go, Mary. I have someone who will be worried about me."
"Oh? So soon back in town and you have someone? You won't stay for just a cup of tea? Some old friends to catch up?"
"No, I think it's best that I go. I don't want to keep you all morning, not with all your lofty aspirations to deal with."

The last bit was too snide. Elizabeth regretted saying it immediately, but if the damage was done, Mary's face showed no sign of it.

"Well, you must stop by again--let's say tomorrow, for dinner? You can bring this new someone."
"I...I really don't want to impose."
"Nonsense, Betsy, it would be a gift."

Elizabeth cringed at the nickname, but knew when she was bested.

"Alright then, dinner tomorrow."
"Excellent. I shall expect you at 7pm sharp."

After a few more pleasantries, Elizabeth was opening the door when Mary, leading her out gave her parting shot.

"Oh, and Betsy, I can't begin tell you how sorry I am for the loss of your son. he was such a sweet little boy and I miss him terribly. When I heard the news....dreadful, the war was. Dreadful."

With that, and her smirk, she closed the door.

"What a god damned insufferable cow" Elizabeth screamed inside her head. "What I wouldn't do to rip her throat and dry her out completely." And dreaming of violence and revenge--and dreading tomorrow--she walked back to Bishops in the shadows.

Chapter Seven

2009-02-23T08:55:00.001-08:00

There was a part of town that seemed unaffected by the economic situation in London, and that part of town belonged to Mary. It was here that rations did not apply, here that expensive foreign alcohol poured from fancy glasses down rich throats into rich bellies clothed in the finest silks. Where under the silk clothed skin, slip hems were bordered by the finest embroidered laces. Sure, it wasn’t exactly like before the war, there were less of them, but Mary didn’t care. The war was over and her life was good, at least superficially. Superficially was all that mattered to her anyways.

Mary opened the blinds in her apartment to let the day in. She stared out over the river and let out a sigh of relief. She reeked of alcohol and cigarette smoke. Last night she had attended a charity ball. They were few and far between these days as not many had the money to attend such an event. She was there though. She came from old money and wasn’t afraid to flaunt it. Her husband, who had been killed a few years back, had always begged her to be more gentle. Gentle with money, gentle with people, gentle towards life. Gentle was not a word she understood well. Though she used to lack this “gentle” quality her husband accused her of lacking, after her husband died she fell over the edge. She had been extravagant with money before, but now she spent it like she was going to die tomorrow, and maybe she was.

Before her husband passed, and especially before the war, she had been the life and envy of every person, at every party, every event. Now people looked at her and didn’t think, rich powerful girl with lots of money. No. They just felt sorry for her and felt at times she should be put in a straight jacket and carted off to somewhere where she couldn’t do herself any harm. She felt her new insanity suited her just fine.

With her hair still done up from the night before, her diamond earrings still clinging to her earlobes, and her luxurious silk dress still hugging her movie star figure, she sauntered into her kitchen. Her hired help had disappeared recently without notifying her so she was left taking care of the place herself. After pouring herself some cool water into a crystal wine glass she flipped on the radio.

“If you are just tuning in, Ms. Lanchester, England’s most famous army nurse, has been found dead! Ms. Lanchester served both in North Africa, Italy, and in Germany…” She turned it off. A profanity leaked out of her lips as the crystal glass shattered on the floor. She hadn’t wanted it to turn out this way. She knew who was responsible and he was going to be hearing from her god dammit. Stepping gingerly across the floor she cuts her foot on the tiny pieces of crystal. God…dammit. The hundreds of tiny diamonds spread across the floor seem to mock her as she limps to the bathroom to tend to her wound.
As she sits on the toilet seat and begins to remove the pieces she is surprised to hear a knock at the door. No one called on her these days. While she didn’t go out of her way to avoid people, people definitely avoided her.

She opened the door, slowly at first, then all the way. The woman at the door wore a cloak covering her head and as the rays of sunlight from the room fell over her she hissed and spread the cloak further over her face.

“Hello Elizabeth.”

Chapter Six

2009-01-17T21:13:00.000-08:00

Harry said it was because he was left handed. Instead of dragging his words out, he had to push them out, that's why it seemed like he was always yelling. His face was almost constantly red and his 57 year old body moved like a boiling kettle on an uneven burner. Harry's ex wife described him as a coke bottle that had been shaken, with a simple motion, he could explode. But his words never ran together into a single mass of frustration. When he said, "You god damn worthless bastard!" each syllable was distinct, you heard ever word, and the force of them could almost knock you over.

Bishop was the only one who seemed unfazed by the bulgy eyed police constable. Perhaps this was because he had known the man for over 40 years. As a constable for the Metropolitan Police Service, dealing with black markets, prostitution and burglaries had become common during the war. The MPS was still wrapping up a case involving a group who had a system worked out during air raids. But tonight, Harry was dealing with the dead woman.

Bishop walked to the front of his office, the door was already unlocked. Harry was sitting at Bishop's desk, loosening the top of a bottle. He took the cigarette out of his mouth and wrapped his coat around his body tighter and opened the door.

"I can't believe you had Bernie call me." Bishop said with a friendly sneer.

"Lesie Lanchester!" Harry, as always, began each conversation with his voice raised.

"I know, I know. I found her body." Bishop walked on, pulled out another cigarette from his coat pocket and handed it to Harry.

"I know you found her body," Harry said, unusually quiet.

Bishop raised his eyebrow.

"Doc says someone broke her neck. Threw her into the river." Harry was now pouring himself a drink with his back to Bishop.

"Yes." Bishop said.

.Harry turned around. "Though the Doc couldn't come up with an explanation about the bite mark. He chalked it up to damage from river debris."

Bishop looked straight at Harry. Harry took a deep drink, brushed his lips, and began to yell again.

"God damn reporters! It's all over the radio!" Harry began to insult every newspaper and radio entity in all of Britain. Bishop pulled out his lighter and wondered how Elizabeth was doing.

Elizabeth was listening to the radio. She had just taken a bath and was wrapped up in one of Bishop's robes. She listened as a reporter announced the death of Lesie Lanchester. The reporter began with, "If you are just tuning in, Ms. Lanchester, England's most famous army nurse, had been found dead! Ms. Lanchester served both in North Africa, Italy and in Germany, was taken captive in the Philippines and was currently living in London to help women and children left homeless due to the blitz. She was awarded numerous metals including the George Star for her actions in the South Pacific. Much of her writing from the war front was published all over the world and Hollywood was currently casting her biopic..."he kept talking. When Elizabeth refocused, all you could hear from the radio now was sobbing as some local woman was being interviewed. A child's voice was heard int he background. Elizabeth turned over on her side to think.

"Why would anyone want to hurt her? Bishop thought as Harry was yelling about the special task force that was being organized to find the person or people responsible. He was shouting about pressure from above, loosing autonomy, he was about to spill his drink when Bishop interrupted by asking, "Harry, what would you like me to do?"

Harry stopped yelling, looked at Bishop and said. "Help us, what else? There is no evidence of a murder besides a dead body. Doc hasn't even figured out how she broke her neck. There aren't any visible signs on the outside. Nobody has seen anything. The woman had no enemies. Her family thought she was in Madrid. Her apartment is clean, her car is nicely parked. The clothes she was wearing aren't hers! She..."

"Ok, ok, I got it kid. Let's go. I want to see all the files and I want to search her place."

Bishop gathered his things and headed for the door.

"Good!" Harry took one last gulp and with a wide smile put his jacket on.

"Before we go to headquarters, I need to stop by my place." Bishop said quickly.

"I agree, you look terrible!" Harry roared.

"...I think I might need some extra help on this one." Bishop said as he put his hands in his pocket and headed for home.

Chapter Five

2009-01-16T17:12:00.000-08:00

Elizabeth rarely felt at ease. Despite her kinds reputation as loners, there were pack tendencies. She despised the mentality of the groups, the familial simulacra, when all anyone in them cared about was hunting and feeding.

Sometimes she wasn't sure.

She sat up and took in her surroundings. She examined the placement of the windows and the doors. She memorized the floor-plan. She made a mental She made a mental note to peer outside later and take in the street. She needed an escape route for when things would go badly. She wanted to make sure she could leave, if she was wrong about Bishop. She hoped the planning would avoid a scene later.

And yet, as she settled back into the couch and entered the not-quite-awake state she called sleep, she realized she wasn't worried about escaping too much this time. That a twinge of hope was growing in her. And then, as she drifted off, she murmured "I miss my son."

***

Bishop liked his coat.

No. More than that. He loved it. It had a certain heaviness to it. A musty smell. A certain importance hung about it.

It made him feel like a man.

Not a man as defined by what was between his legs, but rather a man as defined by the sound of a heartbeat and the breath one could see on a cold, damp morning like the one he had stepped out into. The manhood that surrounded him in his city as he began the dark, familiar path to work.

Bishop missed his manhood. He missed things he never would have expected. Scraped knees from falling down. Sweaty palms. Paper cuts. He missed the horrible feeling of a flushed, warm face when a pretty girl turned to him. He wish he could have blushed for Elizabeth. It would have made her more relaxed.

He had gained confidence and looks when he had changed, but he had never lost his sense of the awkward man he was.

Bishop was rarely part of a group. As a human he had been too inept and shy. As a vampire, he was too different in his habits and desires. He had always been an observer and loner, and it was why he was such a good detective, albeit a non-traditional one.

He rounded the finale corner to his office and lit a cigarette. The nicotine had no effect and the effort of inhaling was almost too much work, but he loved the way it made him look, for a moment, like a man in a warm coat on a cold day.

Chapter Four

2008-12-24T19:31:00.000-08:00

She awoke, confused, in a cool, damp room. He sat, not quite smug looking, reading a newspaper just a few yards away.

“How are you feeling,” he offered.

“Fine, I’m always fine,” she snapped as she sat up and rummaged about her looking for her things.

“There, just under the table,” he paused before continuing as she grabbed her satchel and began looking for something within its depths. “I would offer you something, a glass of water, but, well…I’ve just never seen one of us faint quite like that, and stay unconscious for so long. Really, are you sure you are alright?”

“Yes”

“Well I guess I should explain myself a bit…if you like.” Bishop had always been good with people, at making them feel comfortable. He’d had a difficult life, and some under similar circumstances would have turned out bitter, cold, vowing to never give the world another chance. It seemed as if this woman was of this very mindset. Her clothes were dirty and torn and since she had awoken from her dreamlike slumber she’d worn a suspicious scowl around her mouth and a creased line between her eyes. But he could tell that she had once been beautiful and that she might be in this very moment were it not for her attitude towards this moment. But her beauty, or lack-there-of, was not a concern of his. Chiefly, he was concerned with gaining the trust of this woman, and with making sure she was, well, trustworthy herself.

He told her his full name, James Bishop. She seemed to flinch when he mentioned his first name, but seemed happy that he went only by Bishop. He told her that he used to work as a private investigator, before the war, and that he had lived mostly in London his whole life, and that like most of them, he had moved away for different lengths of time either to experience something new or to help remain under the radar of others. He said he had found the body that morning and had then contacted the police, but he left out the part about his moment of pathetic desperation when he had sat alone with the body.

He also mentioned having fought in the war, but spoke of it as if it were a distant, insignificant memory, as if the war hadn’t just ended, as if the war hadn’t been any big deal. And maybe it wasn’t, shouldn’t have been, for their kind. She softened at the mention of his fighting in the war, thinking of the fight she had fought with herself at that time, and of the help she had tried to give others. She looked at him as he spoke with a slightly softened scowl but not letting it go completely, not allowing herself to feel any of the emotional warmth that radiated from this man. She liked him, he was serious but kind, straightforward and impeccably clean. She wondered how she looked to him, with her dirty clothes and matted hair.

It was only at this moment that she looked around her, examining where she was. She thought it was probably an apartment, but couldn’t tell on what floor, red velvet curtains were drawn across all the windows. There were lots of windows. She sat, too, on a couch covered in red velvet. Bishop’s newspaper lay on the wooden coffee table between them and Bishop sat on one of two nicely crafted wooden chairs opposite the couch. If this was where he lived, and she gathered that it was, he must not have many guests. They would find this place unnerving, because though it held remnants of humanity, like the chairs for sitting, it held no warmth save for the red velvet, which was strangely cold. Aside from the few pieces of furniture, the room was quite sparse. No paintings, no pictures, no personal items of importance. Through a crack in a door to the left of where she sat, she eyed a wall covered floor to ceiling in books, his study she wondered?

He finished speaking and waited to see if she would offer information about herself. She said her name was Elizabeth and then asked about the girl who had been found. He said, “Well that’s a complicated issue you see, and I’m not sure if I should really get into it.” The phone rang and he stood slowly and walked into the room full of books. She heard him pick up the receiver. “Well yeah if that’s what you want…I know its been a while….Sure sure….Well I don’t think that’s necessarily the case….yeah….OK Bernie…..” He hung up the phone and walked back into the room where she sat. “Now I don’t really know your situation but I can see that you are still a bit shaken up. If only I could judge your health by the color in your face.” He laughed to himself the same laugh that had unconsciously drawn her to him in the first place. “I have to head out, would you like me to take you home on the way to where I am going? It would be my pleasure.”

Home, she thought. The only home she had was in her head, and it was barely there. “Actually I…” She began to say.

“You know what,” he interrupted, “How about you stay here for a bit. I shouldn’t be out long, and I haven’t properly gotten to know you yet.” The truth was that he didn’t think she had a home to go to and that he wasn’t sure if he could trust her enough to let her go, knowing what little she did about the dead body in the river. There wasn’t anything but books and furniture in his apartment, so she couldn’t get herself into trouble, and in a weird inexplicable way, he had the feeling she might end up being a help with this new case.

A feeling of relief came over her and she almost accidentally smiled. Before another word was said, Bishop turned, placed a hat upon his head, shimmied into his coat and walked through the study and then out through another door beyond that.

She gazed down at her hands which held the object she had rummaged through her purse for earlier. It was a stone the length of a newborn’s fist, the width of a newborn’s finger, polished from years of rubbing it when she felt nervous. Her aunt had given it to her when she was a child. It was her only possession from the other life. “It’s called a worry stone,” She had said. “When you are scared just rub it and it will absorb your worries and you will feel calm again.” The stone had absorbed more than its fair share of worries throughout its life. She lay back on the cool velvet couch and closed her eyes. She wished she could make herself faint again. It wasn’t so much as a faint as a denial of life, of thought, of vision. Sometimes she would just shut down and everything would go blank. She rested there pretending to be unconscious again, pretending that she was asleep and that she was dreaming. She thought again of James as she rubbed the small stone and she found herself hoping that Bishop would come back soon.

Chapter Three

2008-12-20T10:49:00.000-08:00

"That's why I hate a bear...you look right in their face and they got no remorse."

The Yearling was playing in her head as she watched them pull a swollen body from the river. There were few times where she felt like she could blend in with people. No Man's Land, Oklahoma 1936. Berlin, Germany 1918. Galveston, Texas 1900. But there were two constant places where she felt people didn't stare at her, didn't ask her questions, didn't cross their arms or suddenly put their jackets back on when she entered a room; one was a movie theater and the other a crime scene.

The police had gathered. The photographer was busy. The ambulance stood idle. She had joined the onlookers. The eager, the curious, the horrified; they were all there. Consumed by the spectacle, these crowds attributed the coldness they suddenly felt to the scene before them.

Ste stood watching him. The scenes from the Yearling seemed to brighten in her mind as she starred at him; flickers of the log cabin, bursts of Gregory Peck, flashes of the quick black eyes of a grown deer, it's throat quivering and expanding and retracting.

He had not noticed her yet. She wanted to escape, but knew it was too late. It was too late when she walked over, his laughter, so familiar, drew her close. He was speaking with a police officer, a man he apparently knew, when he stopped giving orders and turned his head suddenly. He caught her in his sight. And again he laughed.

She shuddered and started to back away. The newspapermen were circling the scene, someone had shouted something and now the audience seemed to swell, swell like that body but unlike that body it grew louder and louder. What had been said? The identity of the body? She had missed the name and the words being spoken now rushed by her quickly. The crowd was a swarm of crying and shocked people. She wanted to run. She did not want to hear that laughter ever again. She pushed her way through commuters clasping their briefcases, waiters clenching their aprons, shoppers choking their bags.

She wished she had never left the movie theater. It was like seeing the sunrise. Siting there, surrounded by darkness and then, a beam of light! Something appears ahead, the room is illuminated and she becomes lost and forgetful. The theater had become a kind of refuge; a refuge from people, a refuge from herself.

As she reached the edge of the crowd, the name of the victim was repeated. This time she heard it. She stopped clawing her way out. Her face now matched the humans beside her. She was shocked.

"Are you really that surprised?"

She turned around slowly. The vampire was standing behind her. His pea coat was open, his hat in his arms. He first looked amused but then, truly seeing the condition she was in, his face fell. Her satchel grew heavy. The noise of the crowd seemed to echo and echo in her ears and skull. He said something, this creature-but now everything was silent and she was falling. She was falling away from this cloudy broken London, from this murder scene, from him. Bishop caught Elizabeth in his arms just as they lifted the body into the ambulance.

Chapter Two

2008-12-18T17:16:00.000-08:00

She has not been in London for four years. It was not so long ago, but with the upheaval and loss and renewal and war and peace, those four years felt like an eternity. The last time she had seen the city, it was covered in darkness.

The blackout had been such a blessing. For the first time in so long, night truly became night. The fires of bombs from The Blitz would light the sky up, attempting to drive those in the city out, but it only made people fight harder for it. It was as if the blackness had been crafted to bring out the best in everyone, including her.

It had its downsides. Fires burned nearly constantly. People were more on edge. And her normal meals--stray cats and horses and such--were being taken by less-than-savory restaurateurs due to rations. But the bodies lying inside of smashed houses more than made up for it. Sure, the blood of the dead lacks a certain warmth and coziness to it, but it sufficed.

The freedom of those long nights made her feel at ease, but it was the terror of the civilians that made her magnanimous. Those who had once lived in neat little flats and walked along beautiful roads and shopped in sweet-smelling markets, now cowered in basements, scared of the noises they did not want to hear and the sky lit with a brightness they did not want to see. It was more than pity that caused her to reach out to them--it was understanding.

And so, flush with civic pride, and Rule Britannia spirit, she pitched in. If she had been human, her duties would have been limited to nursing and baking and comforting. But being as she was, she made herself useful elsewhere. She was discreet. She traded her dresses for men's clothes. She avoided talking. She would simply go and help. She lifted and cleared rubble, pulled people out of collapsed buildings, and got them to safety faster than anyone else could. She was doing so good at not killing anyone.

And then there was the baby.

She found it, mewling, on her way home. Dawn was soon to break and she had been assisting a block clear its street for too long. She was rushing and then she the heard screams. Tiny, piercing screams.

He was hidden behind the body of a family dog. The house had been destroyed in the last few days, but the remaining burning embers told her it wasn't fresh. This baby had been crying for a while. He was a truly pathetic sight. His tiny arm was broken, his head smeared with blood and excrement.

Her options were limited. The nearing sun told her she should simply let him be and hope someone else would find it. She would not have time to rush him to any shelter and, presumably, his parents were either dead or abandoners. There was a tragedy here, but no time to examine it. She braced herself, and then acted on instinct.

Baby blood was amazing. It was more life-affirming, more filling, more flavorful, than anything she had ever tasted before. It was intoxicating.

It was so hard to stop. So tempting to drain him. If he hadn't peed on her, she might have given into that desire. Instead, she opened her shirt and slashed her breast. Pulling the dying infant to her, she let him suckle.

Was her blood as good as a mothers milk? All she knew is that as she ran home from the coming sun, he became colder, and quieter, and then fell asleep.

She swaddled him in coats, though there was no need and then sat down, realizing what she had done. She hadn't drank from a human in years. She hadn't sired in even longer. And now...if she had been able to, she would have vomited. Instead she contemplated throwing him out onto the street, into the sun. Only him awakening and biting her hand with his new fangs shocked her out of such thoughts.

The first few days she let him feed on her. It made her weaker, but she gained happiness from his growing strength. She found herself, if not attached, than at least less horrified. His tiny teeth were as perfect as could be, his cold pale toes a delight to come home and play with. She began opening up. Never before had she felt so good about someplace she lived, but London became a home, a place to store her love for the infant. He was the most horrible creation on Gods Earth, but she adored him more every day. He would never walk, never talk, never live, but the first time he fed on a rat she clapped and laugh with the same parental joy.

She named him James.

But that was so long ago. Now she carries her limited possessions in a shoulder bag and walks along the Thames. The air is cool and empty. People are still not used to being outside after dark and so she can walk without fear of being noticed. She is lost in thought, mulling over where to settle, what was still left, distracting herself from thoughts of the past.

And then saw one of her own. It had been a while since she had seen another.

She thought about how it was dangerous to linger and how she should move faster and get away quickly. Bonding was not an option for her.

But she heard the other one laugh. It was a pitiful, bitter laugh. And the part of her that remembered a time when she didn't travel alone, the part of her breast that ached a bit, even now, walked towards the noise.

Chapter One

2008-12-15T10:09:00.000-08:00

It was February 1, 1946, and the sun was just beginning to rise over the city of London. It was hard to tell there was a sun at all; the air was so filled with pollution and despair. The war was over but food rationing was still in effect. Even the birds were so thin it was a wonder they had enough weight to land after taking flight.

It was so cold outside that it seemed the River Thames might freeze over. He knew better. Despite all the years that had passed, he could still remember the feeling of how cold it had been on this day in 1814, the last time the River Thames froze over. He had been a young boy then. His father, William, had taken him to the Frost Fair and they had watched together as someone led an elephant across the ice under Blackfriars Bridge. He remembered trembling, thinking that the elephant would fall through the ice at any moment, and he remembered his father telling him it would be alright, and he remembered the feeling he had when his father had grabbed his little hands and peeled them off of his face so that he could watch as the elephant made it safely to the other side. This was one of the few happy memories he held onto from before his descent from humanity. That night after putting his son to bed, William walked into the kitchen and sat down to have a drink before bed. The next morning, he was found dead on the floor.

He had learned to block out the second part of that memory and just focus on his father’s loving touch and how they had laughed together at the sight of the elephant slipping on the ice. He sat now, once again below Blackfriars Bridge. He liked to sit here as the sun came up after his long nights awake wandering through the streets. London was a good place for him, the sun rarely breaking through the layers of fog to reach his skin.

He tricked himself into believing that time held some meaning when he saw the sun rise. “There,” he would say to himself, “A new day has begun”. He sat crouched on a rock as he said this to himself today, the tails of his navy pea coat flayed behind him, when a sound reached his ears. It sounded like the slap of a seal’s fin on ice, but he knew the polluted river had not seen a seal in at least a hundred years. He leaned over the edge of the rock and saw the body of a young woman lapping back and forth between the edge of the river and the base of the bridge. With the agility of a cat, he leapt down to investigate. It was her dress that gave her away as a young woman, but her dead skin, strangely swollen considering the temperature of the water, aged her many years. She couldn’t have been dead for more than a day. Her blood is surely frozen, he thought to himself. Despite his certainty, he reached down and brought her icy wrist to his mouth. More like a dog than a leech this time, he bit through her frozen skin and down to her veins. A few icy chunks of blood found their way into his mouth. It reminded him of the cherry popsicles he saw people enjoy in the summer months years ago before the war. Spitting out the frozen blood, he laughed at his own pathetic state and then slowly placed her arm back at her side in the water. He sat down and looked back up towards the sky, strangely consumed with emotion.

“Yes, a new day has begun.”