Читать книгу The Dark Heroine: Dinner with a Vampire - Abigail Gibbs, Abigail Gibbs - Страница 12

The rain still pummelled the glass when I woke up. It was dark outside and the blanket that I had pulled from the bed had slipped off my shoulders, piling in a heap on the floor. A few drops of water slid down my cheek as I prised it away from the window-pane, which I had steamed up with my breath. I slipped off the ledge and reached down to pick the blanket up. As my fingers closed around the silken sheet, there was a sharp jab in the underside of my wrist, like someone had thrust a needle into my arm. I dropped the blanket, hissing, and squeezed my wrist between my thumb and forefinger until the pain began to ease. My fingers twitched, leaving behind a dull ache, as though I had just had an injection. Clutching one arm to my chest, I inched over to the bed, patting the bedside table until I found the switch on the lamp. Flicking it on, I placed my wrist under the light.

Large welts coated my arms where Kaspar’s nails had dug in and a network of cuts and grazes extended all the way down both. My hand wandered to my neck. Vampires. It was surreal to think I was sat in a house full of them; it was all completely crazy.

Yet you can’t deny it, the voice said and I shook my head, trying to mask it with other thoughts.

A few drops of rain plummeted from the top of the window outside. I blinked. Drip, drip, drip. Behind my closed eyelids, I could see a stained body lying on the pavement.

No, I can’t deny it. I don’t want to deny it. If I do, that would mean a human had done that to another human. Vampires are monsters. Monsters do horrible things. Humans don’t.

The clock beside me read 5 o’clock in the morning. I rubbed my eyes, realizing this was the earliest I had been up in years and that it must be the next day, August 1st. One day. One day would be long enough for the police to find witnesses, set up a search party and start to find me. There was so much evidence. The friends I was with. My heels. The man who worked for my father had even seen me. Yet he had done nothing.

An uneasy feeling crept through my chest. What if he had known about vampires? Had he kept away because he knew he would put his own life at risk? It wasn’t too far a stretch to assume that people within the government would know about vampires – someone must know about them. If he knew and he didn’t do anything, does that mean they won’t come after me? I didn’t want to think about it. My father would come find me. My father wouldn’t abandon me, not even to vampires.

Or would he? said the voice in my head.

I glimpsed Lyla’s note, on the carpet. Picking it up, I read it through once more. She had mentioned being free to roam the house and I was desperate for a wash to get rid of the grime on my feet.

I dropped the note and darted towards the door, stuffing one of the sandwiches – dry and stale now – into my mouth. Pressing my ear flat to the door, I listened. It seemed to be silent outside, but the door was wooden and probably thick so that didn’t mean much. I took a deep breath and opened it, to find the corridor empty. A little way down on the opposite wall there was a door, which must lead to the bathroom that Lyla had mentioned. Opposite that, on the same wall as ‘my’ room, there was a set of double doors. They were panelled and would have blended in with the wall if they were not set back a little into an alcove. Two gas lamps hung on brackets, one either side, although they were not on, leaving the corridor to be lit by the natural light that was beginning to stream in from the window at the other end of the corridor. I edged down, tensed and ready to spring back into my room if I needed to.

Nobody came and I began to relax, allowing my hand to wrap around the knob of one of the doors. It was smooth and warmed at the touch like glass, although it had the same appearance as the marble downstairs. I placed my other hand on its twin and turned. The one on the left glided around and clicked with no effort, but the one on the right was stiff and would not turn. The left door swung open a fraction. I stared at it. Should I? The temptation was strong but curiosity really would get the cat killed this time.

Just as I started to shut the door again I heard footsteps coming from the stairs. My heart hammered and I jerked forward, bursting through the doors. Shutting it with as little noise as possible, I kept hold of the handle to stop it from turning and clicking shut.

I waited, petrified, and only when everything went silent again did I allow myself to take in the room. It was huge – much bigger than the one I had slept in. All the walls were wood-panelled, and an all-black, wrought-iron four-poster dominated the one side and a fireplace the other. Above the mantle, which was strewn with magazines, there hung a painting of a man and a woman. The man resembled Kaspar, although he looked older. I took a guess that it was his father in his younger days. The woman beside him must be his wife, Kaspar’s mother, judging by the hand of the man placed on her bare shoulder. She sat upon a stool, her emerald dress hugging a curvaceous figure, dark chestnut curls tumbling down to her waist, which was so tiny it must have been encased in a corset. Her eyes were wide and bright, full of the same colour and sheen as her dress. But what really caught my gaze was her skin: whilst her husband’s was pale and papery, her skin had a tinge of olive in it, although the sunken sockets of her eyes were encircled by deep purple rings – she was without doubt a vampire.

I trod as softly as I could around the bed, almost tripping over a guitar that poked out from under the bedstead. A breeze stirred my ankles and, as I neared the fireplace, the black drapes that hung around the open French doors moved. A feeling of unease crept up my arms. Doors are left open when someone is not far away. The lamps dotted about the room had been left on too, although first light was beginning to filter through the trees and across the grounds.

Forcing myself to be calm, I reached up on my tiptoes and ran a finger across the canvas of the painting. It was thick with dust and as I wiped it off it floated away in clouds, smelling heavily of musk mixed with that of expensive cologne, which already hung in the air. I waved my hands in front of me, coughing and spluttering. I can see – or rather smell – why they left the doors open. I grabbed one of the magazines to try waft the dust away, but took one look at what was on the cover, blushed, and dropped it, realizing just who this room must belong to.

‘Crap,’ I breathed, backing away towards the door. I didn’t bother to check whether anyone was outside as I practically fell out of one door and through another into the bathroom. It slammed behind me and I was relieved to find it had a chunky bolt for a lock, which I slid across.

Turning, I was once again struck by the grandeur. The whole room was almost entirely made out of red marble, even the bath. The shower was of the same larger-than-it-needs-to-be proportions and would fit three and still leave room to move. It was spotless too: there wasn’t an old toothbrush or squeezed-to-death tube of toothpaste in sight.

I fiddled about with the shower dials for a while, confused by the settings until water poured from the shower head. I began to strip down, but caught sight of my reflection in the mirror and stopped. I was not a pretty sight.

My hair looked as though electricity had been passed through it and bits of twig clung to the knots. There were countless cuts and grazes dotted about my neck and mud was smeared across my face, mixed in with my smudged make-up. The rest of my body did not look any better. Dried blood caked my arms and my feet were brown and muddy and I realized I must stink. But it was my eyes that looked the most pitiful. They looked old and weary, as though they had seen a hundred years of suffering, not two days.

I shook my head and turned away, disgusted and angry. I continued to strip down and stepped in, letting the water run over my sore muscles.

I got out when the water ceased to feel warm on my skin. I grabbed a towel, dried myself and got dressed, slipping back into the T-shirt and jeans. I wrung as much water as I could out of my hair and darted back to ‘my’ bedroom, freezing as I noticed somebody had been in and tidied up.

The blanket that I had moved the day before had been spread back out on the bed, the sheets tucked in. The plate of food had been removed and, right on cue, my stomach growled. I ignored it, dropping onto the bed. But it only got worse and I realized I would have to go and search for Lyla to get some more food. She didn’t seem that bad, but the prospect still wasn’t a great one.

Outside in the corridor, things were still quiet, although I sensed that wasn’t because everyone was asleep. I passed the double doors, unnerved at the fact the room must belong to Kaspar. When I reached the top of the staircase, I leaned over, thinking I could ask the butler where Lyla was. Just as I did, Fabian emerged from the downstairs corridor. I jumped, trying to scamper back into the shadows but he spotted me and smiled.

‘Morning,’ he said cheerfully, stopping. I didn’t reply but eased back towards the banisters, eyeing him with caution. ‘Hungry?’ he asked. The mention of food set my stomach off growling again and he chuckled. ‘Guess so. Come on, I’ll find you something.’ He gestured for me to follow him and started walking towards the living-room door. When I didn’t follow him, he paused, smiling again. ‘I’m not going to do anything to you. I promise.’

He looked sincere enough and I scrambled down the stairs until I caught up with him. He opened the door and led me across the living room and through another door. It was like stepping through a time portal. Whereas the main entrance hall didn’t look as though it had changed in hundreds of years, the passage we walked down was thoroughly modern and, as we entered the kitchen, I was hit by an array of stainless steel and glass counters, cabinets and tables, although the floor was made of the same marble as the entrance.

Fabian rounded the breakfast bar and began searching through the cupboards. ‘Do you like toast?’ he asked, his head popping up above the counter. I nodded, hoisting myself up onto a stool. ‘Toast it is then,’ he said, dropping a couple of slices of brown bread into a toaster. I watched him as he pulled a plate from another cupboard, fascinated by his fluid movements. He met my gaze.

‘Hey, I know I’m inhumanly hot, but you don’t have to stare.’ A huge grin appeared on his face and he winked.

I blushed a tomato red and my eyes hit the floor before bouncing back up to him. ‘I wasn’t staring.’

He put his hands in the air. ‘Sure,’ he chuckled. ‘Good to see you talking though. You don’t strike me as the shy type.’

He’s right, I thought. I’m not usually shy, but then again, I’m not usually being held captive by vampires.

I continued to watch him as he pulled the door of the fridge open and took the butter out. Before he closed it again, I caught a glimpse of several tall bottles containing a red liquid that didn’t look like wine. I shuddered.

‘I’m sorry I can’t do anything nicer than toast, but we only keep snacks in here,’ he nattered, spreading the butter on the bread, which was burnt around the crust. ‘The servants usually cook downstairs when we actually want food and not blood.’

He slid the plate towards me, took one look at my face and then spoke again. ‘Okay, you have questions.’

I nodded, biting on my lower lip. ‘Can I ask anything?’

For a second, a flicker of doubt crossed his face, but it soon disappeared. ‘Of course,’ he replied. I didn’t speak for another minute or two as I rehearsed what I wanted to say in my head. He said nothing, pouring a glass of juice and pushing that in my direction too.

‘It’s real, all of this, isn’t it?’

He placed his elbows on the counter and rested his chin in his hands, watching me with as much fascination as I had watched him. ‘Yes. Why?’

‘I don’t want to believe any of this, but I do. I’ve seen too much not to.’ I tugged on a strand of hair, picking out patterns in the marble floor.

‘‘How many have you killed?’

‘I’m not sure I should tell you that,’ he murmured.

‘How many?’ I repeated.

‘Hundreds, thousands, maybe … I lost count,’ he said. I felt my eyes widen and I leaned away from him. That many? He shook his head. ‘Don’t look at me like that, that is a pretty good track record considering I am two hundred-and-one.’ The calm blue of his eyes dissolved and became black.

‘What about the others?’ I managed to whisper, my voice hoarse as I fought back the horror.

‘Kaspar, thousands, and Cain, around thirty, but only because he isn’t full-fledged yet. I’m not sure about the others.’

My fingers gripped the edge of the steel counter, warming the spot they touched. ‘Can’t you drink donor stuff?’

‘We could.’

‘But you choose to kill people instead.’

‘No,’ he hissed and I was taken aback at his sudden change of tone. ‘We choose to drink from humans. We don’t set out to kill them.’

‘Oh, I see,’ I breathed. ‘Was that the plan when you killed all those men in Trafalgar Square? Because it didn’t look like you were just dropping by for a pint to me.’

His eyebrows lowered. ‘That was different.’

‘Was it?’

He didn’t answer and I went back to my toast. Aware that he was watching me, I lowered my head and hid behind my hair, which was drying and twisting into ringlets. It chilled me that he could talk of the people he had killed as though they were just numbers and not people with loved ones and hopes and dreams. It chilled me even more that he wanted my approval. But they were his prey and it was probably easier for him to think like that.

‘I know you think that we’re murderers, Violet. And I know you would do anything right now to get out of here, but maybe, for your own sake, it would be better if you hold judgement until you know us better.’

I didn’t move my gaze away from the plate, afraid he might see my eyebrows arching in disbelief. I’m not going to get to know you any better, I thought. I’m not going to hang around for long enough.

Don’t be so sure, the voice in my head chuckled. It wasn’t my mind imagining someone chuckling, but the actual sound, bouncing off my skull. I heard Fabian say something and I blinked a few times, coming back to my senses.

‘What does full-fledged mean?’

He walked around the counter and pulled up a stool beside me. I shifted my stool back. ‘Changing the subject, are we?’ His eyes had returned to blue and a watery sheen coated them, making them twinkle in the light that slipped through the small windows high up the walls. ‘A fully-fledged vampire is an adult vampire.’

Seeing my confused face, he smiled. ‘A vampire born into vampirism – yes, most vampires are born and not turned,’ he added, interrupting himself. ‘A born vampire ages normally until he or she is eighteen. As in each year, they look a year older. They are not fully grown yet, so they are slightly weaker and not as thirsty. Cain is sixteen, so he won’t be full-fledged for another two years. Get it?’

I flicked a crumb across the plate. ‘Sort of. But what happens when a vampire reaches eighteen?’

I went to flick another crumb, but the plate tipped and fell off the edge of the counter. I cringed, waiting for it to smash. But the sound never came as Fabian reached down and snatched it from midair. Unfazed, he placed it back on the counter, brushing the remaining crumbs onto the floor.

‘We get faster and stronger,’ he said in a low voice, watching me watching him, my mouth ajar. He had moved so fast; so effortlessly. ‘And we start to age, but very slowly. Centuries pass and it doesn’t put a year on us.’

‘So vampires aren’t immortal?’ I asked, feeling a slight spark of interest.

‘Theoretically, no. But it’s such a slow process, we practically are. The oldest vampire in the Kingdom is hundreds of thousands of years old and he is still going strong.’

‘Wow,’ I breathed. I couldn’t even grasp being that old. A thousand questions popped into my mind, as I buried the initial repulsion. ‘Can you go out in sunlight?’

‘Yes, but we’re at risk of getting really bad sunburn. So pushing me outside won’t kill me if you are thinking about it,’ he said, pulling funny faces and making it look as though he was melting. ‘And if you are thinking of bumping me off, feeding me garlic bread will just make my breath smell; buying me a necklace with a cross on it will just make me look religious and giving me a shower in holy water will make me smell rather pleasant.’

I snorted into my drink at his mockery. ‘How do you kill a vampire then?’

‘You can push a stake through his heart and break his neck or break and bite his neck or suck him dry,’ he explained, a wicked look in his eyes. ‘The remains are often burnt, although you don’t have to do that.’

‘Brutal. Can you turn into a bat?’

His lips quivered and I could tell he was trying not to laugh. ‘No.’

‘Can you cross running water?’

‘Yes.’

‘Can you enter a house uninvited?’

‘No.’

‘Why?’

‘Because that would be rude. And to answer your next question, the only way a human can become a vampire is if they have their blood drained by a vampire whilst they also drink the vampire’s blood and yes, our eyes change colour according to mood.’

I crossed my arms over my chest, shifting away again. ‘How did you know I was going to ask that?’

He tapped his temple with a finger and grinned, his cheeks becoming round and puffed. ‘Psychic.’

I raised an eyebrow. ‘Are you being serious?’

‘Yes, and we’re telepathic too, but not with humans,’ he stated in a matter-of-fact way. ‘And I’ll let you in on a trade secret. As long as you are here, lock everything private in your mind in boxes and just focus on one thing if someone tries to get in your mind. I know, it sounds crazy, but you will stop smiling when you realize there are some here who won’t respect your privacy.’

I sobered. ‘Like Kaspar?’

‘Perhaps.’ He shrugged, spinning around in the seat to look over his shoulder. ‘Speaking of …’

Kaspar appeared beside the fridge and in the time it took to blink, the dark-haired boy with the glasses had dropped onto a stool beside me and spread the newspaper he had tucked beneath his arm out on the counter. He started to read, peering over the top of his glasses.

More vampires were not far behind. The ease that I had begun to settle into with just Fabian around disappeared along with the warmth of the room.

‘Morning, I told you my clothes would fit,’ Lyla said brightly in my direction. ‘And I hear that this rude bunch have not introduced themselves,’ she chirped. ‘That’s Charlie,’ she nodded her head towards the fair-haired boy who nodded his head in reply. ‘That’s Felix.’ The boy with the flaming-red hair waved. ‘And that is Declan.’ The last boy looked up from his newspaper.

‘Pleasure, I’m sure,’ he said in a thick Irish accent – so thick I had trouble working out what he was saying.

‘You know my idiot brothers.’ She pinched Cain’s cheeks and he shoved her away, groaning in embarrassment. ‘And Fabian, of course.’ Her mouth curled a little and she sat down on the other side of him as one of the red bottles and several glasses were passed around.

‘Kaspar,’ muttered Declan in a dark undertone as he turned a page of his paper over. ‘You should see this.’

Kaspar darted over and Declan wordlessly slid the paper across so he could read. I shuffled my stool across a few inches and looked over his shoulder. My eyes bulged.

Dominating a double-page spread was an aerial photograph of Trafalgar Square, cordoned off, and for the most part, shielded from public view by large white tents. The photo was black-and-white, but areas of the paving were dark where pools of blood had gathered. Printed in large, bold font above it was the headline LONDON’S BLOODBATH: MASS MURDER IN TRAFALGAR SQUARE.

I realized I had stood up and I gripped the breakfast bar, fighting to stay on my feet.

In the early hours of yesterday morning, London awoke to one of the worst mass murders in centuries, after thirty victims, all male, were found lying dead in Trafalgar Square.

The Metropolitan Police cordoned off the scene at approximately 3 a.m. on July 31st. The victims were pronounced dead upon arrival at the scene. All thirty, as yet unidentified, were found with broken necks and serious flesh wounds, also to the neck. Nine had also been found to be drained of their blood, sparking controversy among the public.

John Charles, head of the Metropolitan Police, said, ‘We are deeply shocked by this horrific incident, and we are determined to bring these evil and very dangerous killers to justice. We have forensic teams working at the scene, but we are appealing to witnesses who may have been in the area between the hours of midnight and 2 a.m. on July 31st to please come forward.’

Miss Ruby Jones, who discovered the scene, was unable to comment and is being treated for shock at the Chelsea and Westminster Hospital.

A pair of high-heeled shoes have also been found and are being treated as evidence, although insiders have reported they may belong to a young woman, believed to have been at the scene during the incident. It is feared that she may have been taken by the murderer[s], although confirmation is yet to be released.

This gruesome murder is being compared to the infamous ‘Kent Bloodsucker’ incident, where three young women were found dead near Tunbridge Wells two and a half years ago. All three had broken necks and had been drained of their blood.

Any witnesses are being urged by the Met. Police to either visit a local police station or call a special hotline on 05603 826111. All identities remain anonymous.

For further images, turn to page 9. For opinions, turn to page 23.

By Phillip Bashford.

I lifted the corner of the page, wanting to turn to the pictures, but Declan laid a hand on the print, holding it down so firmly that as I tried to lift it, it tore down the middle. I let go and he folded it up, leaving the sport page face-up. I tasted salt on my lips and realized I was crying.

It was sickening. But I was crying because Ruby had found the scene. She wasn’t as strong as me.

I looked up and saw Kaspar standing behind me, holding a glass of blood in his hand. I rounded on him. ‘Why did you do it?’

His brow lowered and small creases appeared around the corners of his eyes as he narrowed them, surveying me. ‘You wouldn’t understand,’ he murmured, his lips barely moving.

‘Wouldn’t I?’ I challenged, taking a step closer.

‘No.’ His lips parted even further and he looked as though he wanted to say something else, but chose not to. The room was silent, other than the sound of my heavy, irregular breathing.

‘Those men had families!’

‘So do we,’ he muttered.

I shook my head. ‘You’re sick,’ I spat, placing two hands on the shirt stretched over his chest. I shoved, pouring every emotion into the thought of hurting him. To my complete surprise he took a step back. It wasn’t a stumble: I hadn’t forced him to move. He just let me push him back without a word. ‘Sick,’ I repeated.

I pushed past him and fled the room, tears flowing unchecked now. The thought of those men, lying in a pool of their own blood kept bouncing around my mind, making my stomach turn. I ran upstairs to the bathroom and it was my turn to be sick.