Chapter Four

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

"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

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

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.”