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.