Sophie Morgan (Book 1): Relative Strangers (A Modern Vampire Story) (28 page)

I didn’t know if I should laugh or cry when I saw who stood in front of me. His black hair had grown even longer than when I'd last seen him, and it was scraped back off his face. Sodden, the rain dripped from his curls, down his neck and shoulders and onto a poor excuse for a jacket. His baseball boots squelched as he shifted his weight from one foot to another in an effort to keep warm. His hands were red raw from the cold and latched onto a rucksack, which had seen better days.

Reaching out, I pried his fingers from the bag’s strap and swung it through the door and into the hall. It landed with a wet sounding thud and I nudged it with my toe towards the piping hot radiator.

"You better come in Michael," I instructed and closed the door behind him.

Mickey sat in silence for a little while as I set about making a percolator of coffee and found a tin of soup in the cupboard. I found a pan, warmed it through and placed the bowl of oxtail in front of him. I wasn’t sure if he liked it or would want it, but he was soaked through, cold, and looked like he hadn’t eaten properly in a long time. I cut two large slices of bread from the tiger loaf I’d bought the day before and set it down on a small plate next to him. Once the first cup of coffee had dripped through the machine, I set a mug of it on the table, next to a bowl of sugar and a small jug of milk. I then poured myself a smaller cup and sat down.

"I’m sorry for turning up like this."

"Eat," I ordered.

"I’m fine, really," he asserted, shivering. "I just needed to see you. We need to talk."

"Eat first." I pushed the bowl of steaming soup in his direction. "Then we’ll talk".

I leaned back into my pine chair, sipped my coffee and watched him wolf down the soup and bread in silence. Halfway through his meal, I nipped into the small utility room next to my kitchen, picked up a clean towel from the radiator and wrapped it around his shoulders while he ate. He smiled at me whilst simultaneously trying to slurp his soup and take the worst of the rain out of his sodden hair.

When he had finished his meal, he finished drying his hair, rubbing vigorously with the towel with both hands. I gently took the towel out of his hands, wiping the drips from the back of his neck and the longer hair at the nape of his neck. I had the urge to bend down and kiss the top of his bed. I settled for placing a hand on his shoulder, which he reached up and held with one of his own.

"I wanted to call you," he said quietly. I didn’t reply. Now was not the time for recriminations. "It was just with Sean, there wasn’t time. There wasn’t the right time."

"I understand," I assured him.

I wasn’t sure if I did, but frankly, I didn’t care. He’d been through too much. I’d been through too much. There were bigger things to worry about than who should have done what to whom when. The important thing was that we’d somehow managed to find each again that he needed a friend and he’d chosen me. I was grateful for his company, for the friendship that he could extend. I was honoured that, in his time of grief, he would turn to me for help. I would say anything he needed, give him whatever he needed to get through this. He deserved that. We both did.

He held my hand tightly as he dropped his head and looked away from me. His shoulders bobbed up and down. It didn’t take a genius to know he was crying. He was broken and I felt tears form in the corners of my eyes.

Without me asking, he told me everything that had happened. He described how he and Sean were close to getting out of Antwerp altogether when the attack happened. All the plans were in place. They'd even told Maggie that they were going to be leaving. It was only a matter of weeks and they’d have had enough money to book a flight. They even helped Maggie advertise for replacement staff. There hadn’t been any trouble at all since I left, but then some men came in. The men were different from their usual customers. They’d come in and sit in a corner, quietly, not even drinking most of the time.

On the third night that they came in, they waited for last orders, still not drinking, just sitting in the corner, muttering to each other on occasion, exchanging odd looks.

Maggie didn’t like them at all and she asked them to leave, but they didn't go very far. The gang had waited in a small courtyard to the rear of O’Malley’s, where the lorries would come and drop off their deliveries. Mickey declared that it should have been him; it should have been him that they went after. But Sean was being helpful and offered to take out the empty crates out the back. They were there waiting for him.

"What happened?" I asked, stroking his damp hair from behind, helping to dry it with every movement of my fingers.

"I thought Sean had been gone a while, longer than he needed to be, I panicked", he said, sniffing back the tears. "By the time I'd got there, they'd started on him. They were tormenting him, kicking him, pulling and pushing him between them, asking him questions that he couldn’t answer. I told them to get away, but one of them pushed me to the ground. There were more than had been in the pub earlier, maybe five of them. We didn’t stand a chance."

"Vampires?" I asked, dreading the answer which I already knew in my gut. He nodded.

"Yeah, and you won’t believe it Soph, one of them was that vampire that had attacked us, the one in the van that Maggie let go. He came back and he was with them. He was kicking him, stamping on him. Sean was crying and I couldn’t get to him. It was over in minutes. They came for me, but then another one of them walked in and called them away. I don’t know why, but they left me. They left me and killed Sean. Oh God Soph, it should have been me, why wasn’t it me?"

There was no point trying to pick apart his reasoning. Like anyone who has lost someone so close to them, he wished he’d been taken in his brother’s place. But he couldn’t, it could have been him, but it wasn’t. His brother had died because of bad luck and, awful as it was, he’d have to find a way to accept it. I knew that he wouldn’t; although we were still relative strangers, I knew it in my gut. He’d always blame himself.

"Why did he come back, what was he after?"

"You Soph, they were after
you
".

It was the longest night I’d ever known. Mickey told me everything about the arrangements he’d made to get his brother’s body home to Ireland to be buried. It had been a long and lengthy process, involving an inquest and an inordinate amount of red tape.

He’d spent a couple of weeks in hospital recovering from a concussion and mild amnesia. Without a reliable witness, the authorities chalked the attack up to some anonymous assailants who were probably just after a thrill, a gang initiation or similar. Mickey had forbidden his parents from making the journey to Belgium. They didn’t need the extra stress; they’d just lost their son after all. He was eventually discharged from hospital and he and the body flew back to Ireland.

A suitable period of mourning had been observed, although not enough to help console his mother who took to her bed and refused to leave it for four weeks. In his grief, Mickey had cut himself off from the world, drinking whiskey in his bedroom and listening to his brother's favourite albums. It was during that time that his memory returned. They were like dreams at first, but slowly he was able to put the fragments back together.

It was only a couple of weeks ago that he’d finally completed the picture, and only then did he feel strong enough to contact me, angry enough to pull himself out of his grief. It was only then that he checked his email, answered his phone, and re-joined the world. By then he was too embarrassed and ashamed to contact me, feeling that he’d failed me as well.

When the sun came up, we both felt relief. We had survived. He’d shared the darkest of his times with me and I listened, understanding everything that he felt and why. I told him about Ferrers and his insistence that I was somehow special that he might turn me, make me one of his; perhaps one day, he would.

I didn’t know why any of these vampires were so interested in me, if they’d come for me or what they’d do with me when they did. Maybe they’d turn me into one of them; maybe they’d just kill me. I didn’t even know how long I’d have Mickey for, how long it would be before he’d have to go home and try to build a new life for himself. But for now, I knew that we both were exactly where we needed to be, together.

As the birds sang their morning chorus, I tentatively reached for the Mickey’s hand and led him upstairs to my bedroom. We were tired and needed comforting. I wasn’t sure what would happen when we got there, but that was okay. For now, this was enough. We’d kill vampires, another time; kill them when they came for us. Perhaps, if we were lucky, they never would. After all, what could they possibly want with me?

The vampire walked into the bar alone. He’d spent the last two decades travelling across Europe without any particular purpose, moving on whenever he or his companions became bored or began to arouse suspicion. This has been his first time in the city and he wanted to explore it away from the others in his group.

Although the youngest in the group, by all standards, he had the greatest self-control. If he had chosen to live alone, he could have easily stayed in one place for years, remained until those close to him noticed that he didn’t seem to age. He was blessed with an eye for beauty, gaining satisfaction from the most basic of things, and this furnished him with the desire to preserve, rather than destroy. Of course, it had taken him some time to develop the skill of self-restraint; t was an art which vampires had to learn if they wished it. His maker had told him that.

His companions had no desire to control either their hunger or their habits. They frequently killed and had to keep moving on. He turned a blind eye to it as long as they were discrete, picking victims that nobody would miss. They were much younger than he and still new. He tried to be sympathetic, or at least what he remembered that emotion to be, but it was difficult. His vampire status was still something which created conflict in him. He hated vampires, but he needed company. At least his companions didn't masquerade as anything other than they were. Not like his maker, not like Ferrers, pretending that he cared about him by stealing his life from him.

On some levels, he reluctantly enjoyed his companions’ abandon, but he still admired the beauty of humankind. Aging fascinated him. He liked to wander the streets watching people grow and adapt to their physical limitations or developing capabilities. He had collected hundreds of scrapbooks over the years, crammed with photos and snapshots he had taken when no one was looking. His books contained pictures of everyone, from the dying to new born babies, to couples sightseeing in Paris to diplomats in Brussels.

Belgium was a place he’d visited before, but this was the first time he’d been to Antwerp. He had previously stayed at the Hotel Astoria in Brussels but had recommended that they venture out to see the canals of Antwerp and Bruges, where they would have more freedom. He hadn't told the others that they weren't welcome in the city, that the "Queen" of Brussels thought they were beneath her and had refused his request to allow the group to stay.

He wasn't sure how long they'd be able to remain in Antwerp. Some of his companions had made some mistakes and killed a family. It had made the news, which wasn't good. Then they'd attacked a couple, and two of them had got themselves killed in the process - and by an old woman. It was shameful, and also dangerous.

Thankfully, word hadn't gotten around about their indiscretions and in the following weeks he'd been successful in persuading his comrades to keep a low profile. The Old Ones sent Enforcers to deal with that type of behaviour; he wasn't going to be punished because of them.

Kasper had assumed control of the group because it was needed, but he needed to be away from them sometimes, to have some time to himself. At the same time, it seemed prudent to check out the neighbourhood where his comrades had been killed. He didn't want any more trouble. If the victims were still around, he wanted to know who they were and make sure they didn't remember one way or another. He found that threats and bribes could work as well as venom in the appropriate circumstance. Violence was his last resort, although he was terrifyingly good at it - another thing he'd learned from Ferrers.

He took a seat at the bar alone. His companions were out hunting, under instructions to feed only, no killing. He had fed on a drunk tourist who had fallen asleep on a bench in the park. The victim would have no memory of it. He was gentle with him and the small insertion he had made with his fingernail would heal completely by morning. He had been taught that trick in the early days; it’s a cleaner cut and less noticeable than a large bite mark.

He ordered a vodka from the bar so that he could sip it slowly, giving the illusion of humanity while he watched the interactions between strangers and friends. He enjoyed the warmth of the alcohol. Although he could still eat and drink, if he wished, it had no effect on him. He occasionally did it, as it reminded him of being alive.

A girl flashed a grin at him from a bar stool a few feet away. He knew he was attractive and often utilised the fact, but she had no interest for him. She was little more than a teenager and, while pretty, looked much like most girls. There were never any interesting women about anymore.

It was then that one caught his eye. She wasn’t sitting at the bar, but she was in a photograph behind it. He couldn’t believe it, it looked exactly like
her
. The hair wasn’t red, it was darker, browner. In the right light, it could have been blonde. But it had to be her, her but with his eyes. It couldn’t be though, could it?

Sliding off the stool, he walked over to the glass frame. He didn’t need to, his perfect vision allowed him to trace every line from ten feet away, but the photograph somehow compelled him.

This defied every law he knew, every law of man and supernatural. She wasn’t a vampire, he was sure of that, she was very much alive, awkward looking, surprised even, but alive
. Really alive
. How was that possible?
This couldn't be? Could it?

"Excuse me," he asked the young, red-headed lad wiping down the table next to him, "could you tell me who this girl is?"

"That’s Sophie," he replied. "She’s sweet.My brother’s pals with her. She was here on her holidays; she’s gone back home now. Do you know her?"

The vampire stood staring at the glass frame for a long time. The barman eventually carried on his business, satisfied that he wasn't going to get an answer from his customer. He wouldn't have heard the tall, dark haired man's reply, the man who could easily have passed for his brother in years. The lips of the twenty-three-year-old vampire barely moved as the words quietly left his mouth.

"You could say we’re family, "the vampire replied. Then he disappeared.