Sophie Morgan (Book 1): Relative Strangers (A Modern Vampire Story) (11 page)

But clearly the venom has its limits, both with healing and with memory. Excessive feeding and violence had led to multiple deaths in Antwerp a decade or so ago, and probably elsewhere too. If a vampire got carried away, then it appeared that little could be done to save the victim. Perhaps, I wondered, it was a case of the vampire merely taking too much blood, too quickly. I shuddered, painfully aware that if Mickey hadn't come and saved me when he did, then that could have happened to me. I'd have ended up dead in the doorway, covered in my own blood with nobody there to comfort me, to explain what had happened to me, to tell my story.

Seamus' cousin had regained some of her memory after a few months. Perhaps she didn't get the right amount of venom, or maybe it's like many drugs and some people have flashbacks.

Fourthly, with great relief and contrary to many horror films, being bitten by a vampire didn’t appear to be sufficient in itself to turn you into one. Forty years on and Maggie was still walking about and talking like a regular person, so I was reasonably confident that she'd remained human all these years. I had no reason to believe that she was actually a vamp on the sly.

Of course, that didn't rule out the possibility that you might become one when you eventually die. For all I knew, drop dead at eighty in my armchair and be walking around with all the other bloodsuckers at some yet to be determined point afterwards.

It seemed unlikely, though. I'm pretty sure that there'd be lots of bemused mourners wondering why caskets and graves were empty if that were the case. I never really understood that about horror movies - if you claw your way out of the grave, who backfills it? Surely people would suspect something was afoot when they went to visit the grave and all that's left is a big hole below the gravestone?

Finally, and most reassuringly, I was confident that you could kill a vampire and thankfully, it didn’t mean whittling stakes out of chair legs. Substantial head trauma appeared to be adequate. That should mean that decapitation would also work. I couldn’t be confident about any other methods. Drowning, staking or fire could all be effective for all I knew, but until I’d seen evidence of that I wasn’t going to count on it. So far, vampire lore and legend, according to my limited knowledge, had not proved too accurate.

All in all, my conclusions left me with the feeling that I could be confident about very little. There was also the nagging concern that we couldn’t be sure that other people, even officials, knew about the existence of vampires and weren't doing anything about it. Although reluctant to accept conspiracy theories, I was finding it increasingly difficult to believe that vampires were merrily wandering around, killing and maiming, without anyone with any power knowing about it.

My relaxing bath did not have the desired effect. Rather than washing away my troubles, I was making myself crazy. No good would come from letting my mind get carried away with ifs and maybes. Trying to answer a lot of questions by applying logic was not going to help in this situation; after all, it isn't logical for a supernatural being to exist in the first place.

I decided on an alternative tactic to calm myself down. I got out of the bath and grabbed a small bottle of red wine and chocolate-covered raisins from the mini bar. Switching on the TV, I sat on my towel on the bed, with my stash of dried fruit and my wine poured into one of the two plastic glasses from the bathroom. I usually wouldn’t pay to use the overpriced mini bar, but given the circumstances I gave myself permission. I flicked through the television channels until I found an old black and white film, which was subtitled, but still in its original English. I was about a third of the way through it when I finally closed my eyes and drifted off to sleep.

My dreams were a psychedelic cocktail of exploding blood vessels, burning perspiration and my teeth falling out, dropping into my hands to reveal snake-like fangs left in their place. I danced alone to the sound of a guitar on an empty dance floor while strange men sat at tables looking on. When the music stopped, I fell to the floor, lying in a pool of blood, not knowing if it were my own. I reached for my face and felt blood dripping from my eyes and mouth. I screamed and the audience stood up and applauded.

Rachel hadn't felt so good in years. The colours of the world were vibrant and laid out before her like a beautiful carpet, a glorious vibrating kaleidoscope of nature. Birdsong echoed in her ears like a concerto and the golden welcome of the rising sun made the world look like a furnace, molten lava pouring over it all.

She sipped the coffee that she had made. It tasted bitter and she spat it out over the perfectly dressed window sill. She'd made it out of habit. Ferrers had instructed her to appear as ordinary as possible. The routine of everyday existence would eventually help her contain her urges, or rather the singularly dangerous one, the one to kill. So far, it wasn't working. Perhaps it was time to succumb to the hunger and to all the other suppressed desires now angrily bubbling to the surface.

Her reflection in the window surprised her. She had half expected it to be absent. Her hair looked thick and luxurious; her eyes sparkled and the hazel flecks in her irises danced in the sunlight. It had been years since she'd felt this good, hell, maybe a lifetime, maybe never at all. She felt strong, powerful, and alive. Had she always looked this beautiful, she wondered. Had her new vampire state made her better, or only imbued her with a new found confidence? Either way, she liked it. She could feel every nerve ending in her body, everything performing in precisely the right way, like a well-oiled machine. It was magnificent.

Who would have thought life could turn out like this? She certainly didn't. A few weeks ago, she had been logging on and grinding with the other junior partners in her law firm; nothing as exciting as criminal law though, just corporate law. Her speciality was acquisitions and mergers, but as she wasn't based in London, most of her time was spent on day to day contracts and routine matters. Her plan had been to make Partner, perhaps even move on eventually and set up her own practice. She had been in line for a promotion when she'd got the news. There had been no point planning for the future any longer. How was she supposed to focus on the present, making the most out of her life? She didn't even have one. No real family or friends to speak of. The doctor had asserted that there was nothing she could do. Ovarian cancer and it had metastasized. Basically, she was fucked.

It was ironic really that it was her feminine organs which had let her down, since she'd not actually used them. Everything had been sacrificed to work and it had all seemed worth it. She didn't have a boyfriend, not even a cat, but she had an excellent job, savings and a lovely home. She had told herself that she would have time to find a mate when she was older; she was still young after all. Until then, she'd work and be rewarded, be a good person and do a good job for her clients. In time, it would all pay off. Her late mother, the archetypal anti-feminist, would be waiting for her in heaven with an "I told you so". Her father had always supported her choices, but she doubted he would be in favour of this one. It was strange, she didn't even care.

For a while things had been going well for Rachel, her plan was beginning to pay off. She'd been the youngest in her graduating class to make Associate and she had a portfolio of clients with whom she'd worked hard to develop successful relationships. She was at their beck and call whenever they needed her. It never impinged on her social life - she didn't have one. No holidays, no hangovers, no distracting romantic interludes. Rachel gave good advice, understood her clients’ businesses and knew her boundaries. She took work home with her continually and reviewed files on the train during her daily commute. She remembered their birthdays, spouses’ names and golf handicaps in case she needed to make idle conversation. As she only saw them occasionally, this was something which her clients noted and appreciated.

Charles Ferrers had been with her for a little under six months when the game-changing event happened. When they first met, his long standing solicitor had died suddenly and he needed someone discreet and efficient to handle a number of simple, but urgent, contract renegotiations. His business interests were varied, ranging from owning a number of commercial buildings and restaurants to investments in theatre productions. Mr Ferrers was quite the Renaissance man, although he revealed nothing of his personal life or background. Rachel suspected that he must have come from old money, possibly inheriting a number of the properties he owned in the process. Many of the buildings were hundreds of years old, often listed or in prime locations, where it was practically impossible to find anything for sale now. From what she could gather they were in immaculate condition, much like the man himself.

She'd met with Mr Ferrers no more than half a dozen times, and each appointment had been informative and efficient. Time flew when she was with him and she often wondered how their half hour slot could have gone by so quickly. He wasted no time getting into the details of his requirements, although he always remained polite and quite charming. Then one day, completely out of the blue, he leaned in towards her, retaining his delicately folded hands on his crossed knee, and quietly told her that she was going to die.

Her reaction was, understandably, hysterical. Rachel had told him a little of her life, let alone her health. They had only spent a matter of hours together in total. At first she thought it was a threat, and then wondered if it was an appalling joke. Neither seemed in keeping with the eloquent, well-dressed man she had been dealing with.

After crying for half an hour in the toilet, she'd returned to her office to discover it empty. Charles Ferrers had left, but not before tucking a copy of his business card between the buttons of her keyboard. On the reverse, he'd written 'I will be waiting for your call'. He had beautiful penmanship, but that didn't excuse his behaviour. She'd never had a client so much as raise his voice to her, let alone threaten her life, if that's what he had, in fact, meant by his spontaneous declaration. She couldn't be sure of anything anymore. Rachel had been attracted to corporate law as she didn't want to deal with the emotionally volatile clients of criminal law or the trauma of marital breakdowns which formed the bread and butter of family law. She ripped the card up and threw it in the bin before going for a large coffee and the Times crossword in a coffee shop near her office - anything to help focus her mind and calm her down.

As the days passed, Rachel couldn't shake off the doubts about her health that Ferrers had put in her head. She'd always considered herself to be in magnificent health, nothing more than a few cramps once a month and an occasional headache. Of course, she felt run down, but who wouldn't be after putting in a seventy-hour week at the office? She didn't have much in the way of colour, but she rarely saw daylight - she was either at her desk or on the train. There weren't enough hours in the day to work that hard, and sleep; no wonder there were circles under her eyes. Yes, she felt nauseous sometimes but she often had to skip meals in order to see clients or finish a piece of work. If there was something really wrong with her, wouldn't she know? And wouldn't she know before a practical stranger did? What was he, psychic?

Deciding to err on the side of caution, whilst simultaneously berating herself for being a hypochondriac, she booked in for a full health screening courtesy of her private medical plan. It was a work perk she'd never had to use before.

She felt embarrassed as she sat in the waiting room with all the sick people. She was uncomfortable when she got asked a million one questions about every aspect of her life and claustrophobic during the MRI scan. That was followed by shock in the consultant's room, denial in the cab home and anger at herself and the world in her kitchen as she downed a bottle of wine.

Through the all-consuming darkness of each emotion, one word burned through them all: inoperable. It didn't matter that there was a forty percent chance of having more than six months. All she heard was that she was going to die. Something which she wasn't even aware of was going to ravage her body from the inside out, and it didn't feel like there was anything she could do about it. Crying into her Chardonnay, she wished that she at least had a cat.

The buff folder sat on her desk for several days before she finally decided to open it and scan the contents for her client's telephone number. He sounded as if he'd been expecting her call. He didn't pass any comment on her rash departure at their last meeting, or question her desire to meet him somewhere quiet, but public. She proposed a wine bar which she knew in a quiet side street, which was popular with professionals, but would be quiet on a weekday evening.

They met at seven o'clock. Rachel was the first to arrive and waited nervously for him at the table she'd called ahead to reserve, adjusting her pashmina and skirt hem several times as she did so.

He slid gracefully onto the seat opposite her, unbuttoning his jacket as he did so to make sure it hung properly on his slender frame. The waiter came to take his order and presented him with a wine list, which he politely refused. The young solicitor smiled nervously and clutched her glass of crisp white wine so she had something to do with her hands.

"I don't imbibe, except communion wine," Ferrers replied with a dry smile. "Old habits can be so hard to break."

She couldn't be sure if he were joking or trying to intimidate her.

Ferrer's returned his attention to the leather-bound menu. "Perhaps some water?" he suggested to the waiter, who promptly scurried off towards the bar. Rachel didn't know why he was so nervous - little did she know that a large share of the venue was owned by one of Ferrer's holding companies. He never revealed everything about his business interests, no matter what she thought.

Neither party spoke until the water was delivered. Rachel attempted to speak, but while her mouth opened, words didn't form. None of the sentences which she had carefully rehearsed prior to their meeting sounded right. Words flashed before her eyes, but her brain failed to connect them into coherent speech. Ferrers sipped his water slowly before deciding to instigate the parley off formerly. When he did, Rachel couldn't speak anyway. She just sat in quiet disbelief and listened.

"Vampires are
real?
" she hissed across the table, clutching her now lukewarm Chardonnay.

"Yes, Rachel, that is if I may call you Rachel. I feel like I know you so well." Of course, he did. Unknown to her, he had tasted her blood on more than one occasion; so skilled was he in the art of extraction.

"Yes, that's fine." She nodded." No, wait... what? Seriously? Vampires are real and you're a vampire? You're actually one? You genuinely expect me to believe that, do you?"

"Yes."

She couldn't figure out if he found her tiresome or was just being direct. This whole thing was overwhelming. If this was meant to be a joke at her expense, it wasn't funny. She was in no mood to play games. She paused for a moment to process his answer.

"And you want to make me one?" she eventually whispered, leaning across the glass table top and studying his reaction.

"If you would like, it's entirely up to you. If you prefer, we can leave this place and you go back to your life. It will be like we've never had this conversation. The choice, however, is yours."

Not entirely convinced by what she was hearing, she sat back in her chair to consider the options before she responded. She reviewed the situation in her head. It was likely that she would have at least a few months left in reasonable health. Her healthcare cover would provide the best treatment she could get, and financially she had no worries. The last few months of her life could be spent in relative comfort, but she'd still be dead, dead and alone at twenty-eight.

But what was the alternative? She wasn't even sure that Mr Ferrers was entirely sane. She didn't even know if she believed in vampires in the first place. The whole thing was incredulous, but here was a client telling her that she'd have a life as long as she wanted, could continue working, could travel the world and meet exciting people. All she had to do was say yes. Okay, there'd be no children, but that clearly wasn't going to happen anyway.

Currently, all she had was a few good months, followed by a few horrific ones. Even if he was going to take her into an alley and kill her now, what was the difference? It surely couldn't be any worse, and if everything he was saying was true, then perhaps she had everything to gain. He'd been right about her dying after all. Perhaps he was right about the type of future she could have. She'd worked her whole life for the big pay-out, maybe this was it. It wasn't conventional but perhaps that was a good thing.

"Why me?" she eventually asked him," why not her?" She nodded towards a tall, slender woman with supermodel looks who was ordering champagne at the bar.

"Why on earth would you want to be like her?" he asked. "Wouldn't you rather be you, but better?"

And on that note, she finished the last drop of wine from her glass and placed it confidently on the table. She was going to allow him to give her the best compliment she'd ever had.