Lenina woke sobbing, cradling her face against folded arms. She kicked out but something held her legs, both ankles bound together by something warm and fluffy.
A cold shard of fear pierced her chest, dragging a scream from her mouth.
Wrenching sideways, arms flailing, she tumbled off the bed and hit the floor on her face. Seconds later the duvet followed, freeing her feet. Gasping, tingling with pain, she lay still, rubbing her cheek against the scratchy carpet. Somehow feeling something so normal helped numb the fear.
Her heart continued to race, hammering so hard it made her ribs jump. She opened her eyes. Beneath the bed she saw a pair of Nick’s old socks. Beside them, an earring, two mugs and a pile of empty chocolate wrappers.
She sat up. Pulled her knees to her chest. Gazed at the room. Her bedroom. Not a palace. Not an ancient room filled with treasures the like of which she had only ever seen behind glass at the museum. Not a battlefield soaked with the blood of dying men.
She saw drawers, clothes spilling out like cotton innards. The mirror above the unit of drawers, a selection of make-up, moisturisers and cleansers lined up in front of it.
All so normal.
Sunlight streamed through the window, lighting the whirling motes of dust until they glinted like airborne diamonds. Beautiful if not for the distracting headache pounding the base of her skull. She turned her back on the light, shielding her eyes with a curtain of hair.
The dream rushed back, crashing in on her senses and rolling her under.
A fading sun, warm breezes and the sadness in one man’s face. A pang in her chest as he stepped away, the rush of anger from the one named Kiya. Anger followed by Mosi’s immeasurable sadness. Her own anguish. She relived his betrayal and clutched her chest as the pain of it speared her lungs. Her damp cheeks tingled.
‘Just a dream,’ she whispered, as if to make the statement aloud would prove it true. ‘A stress nightmare.’
A lively, hip-hop jingle made her jump and she spun around, trying to locate the mobile.
She found it inside her dressing gown pocket. ‘What?’
‘Where are you?’
It took Lenina several seconds to identify the chirpy Scottish voice. She sighed and perched on the end of the bed, clutching the phone with both hands. ‘Ramona?’
‘I’m in the coffee shop but I can’t see you. Are you even here?’
‘No, I’m at home.’
‘Why? What’s wrong? You ill? Should I come over?’
Lenina held the phone away from her ear. After a deep breath, she brought it close again to interrupt the exuberant flow. ‘I’m okay, just sick.’ She touched her chest again, aware of how flushed she felt. How sweaty.
‘Sick how? Vomit sick? Lady sick? Virus sick? Hangover sick?’
‘I threw up this morning.’
‘Oh, aye? Right, we can handle that.’ A rustling sound came over the phone, followed by the quick tap of feet on the pavement. ‘I’m coming over via the chemist’s.’
‘Why?’
‘Pregnancy test.’ She hung up.
Head buzzing from the whirlwind that was conversation with Ramona, Lenina pulled her dressing gown back on before trudging downstairs.
The air swirled around her as she disturbed it with her movement, reviving the scents of old coffee, toast and peppermint. The smells soothed her and she paused to drink them in, sighing as the minty scent flooded her nostrils. With it came a thought of green eyes, long hair and a white smile.
Through the thin walls Lenina heard the soft murmurs of the neighbour’s television and the barks of an excited dog. She paused in the living room, gazing at the off-white walls and the pattern of light falling on them from the bay window. Squinting against the brightness, she crossed to it and pulled the curtains closed, plunging the room into comforting twilight.
Hugging herself, she entered the kitchen. Completed washing up and a note stuck to the fridge reminded her that her father had been there.
WASHED UP.
CALLED WORK FOR YOU; DONNA SAID DON’T WORRY.
CALL ME WHEN YOU WAKE UP.
DAD x
Letters in the note blurred beneath the appearance of tears. She filled a glass with water and carried it back to the living room, wiping her face the whole time. Her own thoughts broke the peaceful silence, thoughts of screams, shouts and the clash of weapons. Voices, some fearful, some desperate, others hot with anger.
Water slopped over her hands. While her fingers clutched the glass and her body trembled, Lenina tried to think about something else. Anything else. Shoes. Dresses. The wedding. Catering.
Each time she managed to steer herself away from the horrors of her dreams, they returned with a stinging snap, filling her mind with horrific detail.
More sips water. A quick flick through a magazine. Day time talk shows and local news. None of it helped.
Lenina sat on the sofa and curled her knees up to her chest, hugging her shins. Long moments she sat that way, stubbornly resisting the wild, peculiar urge to think.
‘Why is this happening to me?’ she murmured, brushing tears from her cheeks.
The images flashed across her eyes again. The tall, slender man with choppy dark hair and serious eyes. Something troubled her about his expression, his words, his manner but what bothered her more was the chest-tightening sensation of longing each time she pictured his face. The sense of loss mingled with raw, white-hot anger.
It had to mean something. Dreams often linked to the unconscious mind as it tried to work through a problem. Everyone knew that.
But two men arguing over whether or not to kill the king had nothing to do with anything happening in her life. Not even if the king happened to be one her job required her to specialise in.
She thought again of the palace, the names, the clothes. Then further back, to the first dream and the tower in the distance, half-shrouded from view by clouds of dust. Enough historical and archaeological texts discussed that incredible building to make it instantly recognisable. At least to her.
The Pharos of Alexandria; one of the world’s first lighthouses which once stood at the end of a mile-long stretch of sand and silt connecting the coastline to the island of Pharos upon which it sat.
But even that made no sense. Work at the museum hadn’t touched on that part of Egypt for very many months, focused instead on the Incan Empire and new finds from South America.
Lenina lowered her legs and took a deep breath.
The presence of the Pharos dated her dream at no earlier than 293 BC and pinned it inescapably in Egypt. Talk of Cleopatra, Octavian and Antony narrowed the range still further; close to the end of the Ptolemaic Dynasty, before Egypt became part of Rome’s republic in 30 BC.
Another deep breath.
Thinking about the dreams in those terms steadied her heart rate. She risked another sip of water, pleased when her hands successfully brought the glass to her lips and back again without spillage.
Leaving it behind, she approached the bookcase near the TV and skimmed the contents. The top two shelves held Nick’s books: westerns, science fiction epics and the occasional piece of horror. The next two, an explosion of pink and purple spines, held Lenina’s preferred reading material: general romance, fantasy and a huge section dedicated to Mills and Boon. The last shelf held old textbooks, notes and journals from her archaeology degree.
From there she pulled down Ptolemaic Egypt: End of the Hellenistic Period and flipped it open to the index.
No entry for Saar. While Romans, Antony, Octavian and Cleopatra featured heavily, she saw nothing directly related to the man in her dream. She left the book and selected three others. Fifteen minutes later Lenina closed Cleopatra: Queen of Kings and exhaled a long, slow breath through her nose.
Again, nothing. Saar wasn’t real.
As she returned her text books she stared at Nick’s collection of ugly black, brown and grey covers. Towards the middle, the words ‘Bram Stoker’ beckoned. On the cover she saw a man in a black suit,
with pale skin, dark hair and a pronounced widow’s peak. Dracula of course.
Lenina scoffed, prepared to tuck the book back into place when she noticed the small white fangs peeping from between his stylised lips. Her right brain, fuelled by sudden terror, raced through different scenarios in which the word ‘vampire’ featured prominently. Despite that, her left brain growled and insisted on a more rational explanation that didn’t involve fantasy and make-believe.
But hadn’t the stranger bitten her throat? Sucked at the blood? What else could that be if not—
The doorbell rang.
Lenina screamed, spinning on the spot to face the unexpected sound.
‘Nina? You okay?’ Ramona’s voice floated through, muffled by the door between them.
Rushing to the door, Lenina flung it open. ‘I’m so glad you’re here.’
‘Aye, I heard about the caterers. Bummer.’ Ramona flounced into the living room like a bubbly red-haired puppy. She dropped a carrier bag near the sofa and crossed the room to fling open the curtains. ‘Don’t sit around in the dark moping. It’s bad for you.’
Lenina flinched beneath the sudden stab of sunlight.
Ramona gasped. ‘What happened to your face? And your neck— is that a bandage? What happened to you?’
Lenina slumped on to the sofa and cradled her head in her hands. ‘It’s a long story.’
‘Aye, then make it short. I’m listening.’
But Lenina had no idea what to say. Her recent revelation about vampires skimmed across the surface of her thoughts like a drop of fat on a skillet. Her tongue felt thick and refused to form the words she wanted.
‘Come on, you can tell me anything. Were you shaving? Do you have a hair problem? My aunt has the same thing. Nobody knew until I caught her stealing razors from the supermarket.’
‘I don’t have a hair problem,’ she snapped.
Ramona gave her a pointed look.
Lenina launched into her story, starting at the boutique car park, through to that morning when her father had left her in bed. Despite ample opportunity, she couldn’t bring herself to mention the dreams. Or Tristen’s solo visit.
Ramona listened in uncharacteristic silence, her eyes widening with every word. When the tale finished, she scratched the trail of freckles across her nose and cheeks and closed her mouth. ‘And you say nothing ever happens to you. You okay? Need a hug?’
Surprisingly, the offer was exactly what Lenina needed. She leaned over and wrapped her arms around Ramona’s shoulders. The balm of physical touch soothed instantly and in the wake of that hug she gathered the last traces of her dreams and packed them away at the back of her mind. Instead she closed her eyes and enjoyed the tickle of Ramona’s hair against her nose. The red strands curled all over the place, carrying the scent of pencil shavings and fresh paper run through a photocopier.
Ramona patted her back. ‘Are you crying, honey? Lots of sniffing going on.’
‘No.’
‘Maybe you have a cold?’
‘I’m fine.’ But Lenina kept sniffing, focused on something beneath the familiar natural perfume of her friend’s clothes and skin. Something sweeter. Warmer.
When she buried her face in the space between Ramona’s neck and shoulders she saw the source. A vein pulsing gently behind her ear.
Blood.
A fine tingling spread through Lenina’s gums. Sharp points scratched her tongue.
How she knew, Lenina couldn’t be sure, but the fact remained the same; Ramona smelled like blood and the blood smelled like . . .
She clung tighter and sniffed again, this time to snort back tears.
Another pat on back. ‘Don’t worry, honey, it’s over now. Let’s get you something to eat.’
‘I’m not hungry,’ she murmured.
As if to prove the lie, her stomach gurgled. Saliva flooded her mouth and she thought again of the blood rushing hot and sweet beneath the flimsy protection of Ramona’s skin.
She jerked free and put her hands in her lap.
‘When did you last eat?’
‘Last night.’
‘Then you threw up this morning. There’s the test by the way.’ Ramona nudged the bag with her toe. ‘Of course you’re hungry. You pee on that there stick. I’ll make sandwiches.’
‘No.’ She could think of nothing worse.
‘That thing about ignorance being bliss is a lie, Nina. Believe me.’ She tipped her head and narrowed her eyes, adopting her ‘teacher face.’ It worked on sixteen- and seventeen-year-olds and Lenina flinched beneath it too. But it did offer the chance to escape and catch her stampeding imagination before it carried her straight into a psychiatric facility.
In the bathroom, she dropped everything and focused on the mirror. Her wide, startled eyes gazed back at her, pupils dilated to huge black pools, lower lip quivering. She caught a flash of something white and opened her mouth to get a better look.
Fangs. Six of them; sharp, bright and white.
She touched one and an unmistakable bead of blood at the end of the finger dissolved any doubts.
Definitely real.
Lenina turned her back on the mirror, aware her chest was heaving again. She heard blood rushing in her ears and the pound of her pulse in every sensitive spot from her throat to her wrists. The lights seemed suddenly far too bright and she yanked the cord near the door, plunging the room into darkness. Perching on the toilet she buried her face in her hands and hugged herself. Rocking back and forth, she did her best to focus on her breathing. To slow it down.
Though her breathing took time to steady, the fangs in her mouth did recede. The sharp points shrank down to the straight edges of her teeth that eighteen months of braces and retainers gifted her during her teenage years.
Ramona knocked the door some minutes later. ‘Nina, honey? Can I come in?’
‘No.’
‘Are you crying? Is it the test? Did you do it? Can I see?’
‘No.’
‘It can’t be that bad. Let me help.’
Lenina fought the urge to pound her fists on the door shrieking. No, you can’t! No one can!
Instead she made a show of using the toilet and flushing it. She even dribbled a little urine on the test stick, fumbling with the packet while she sat.
Wiping her eyes on her sleeve she opened the door and pressed the stick into Ramona’s hands.
Her friend frowned past her shoulder. ‘Why were you sitting in the dark?’
Only then did Lenina realise that she’d performed a handful of complex motions in the pitch dark. Repressing a shudder she switched the light back on and opted not to answer.
Ramona stared at the white stick of plastic. Seconds later her shoulders slumped. She let out a huge sigh. ‘Not pregnant. Thank God. Not that you wouldn’t make a great mum,’ she hastened to add. ‘But if you got pregnant now, I’d never hear the end of it from Verni. You’re already getting married, she hasn’t stopped pestering me.’
Lenina thought again of the fangs in her mouth and the horrible bruises on Nick’s face. She even thought of Tristen and the gorgeous twist of his smile. His peppermint breath. His warm, soft hands on hers and her heart’s flutter each time he looked her way.
‘I can’t get married,’ she whispered.
Ramona cocked an eyebrow.
‘I mean— I can’t— like this. I’m a mess. The caterers pulled out, I hate my dress, Nick looks like a boxer, and we still haven’t decided on goodie bags for the guests.’
‘Calm down. Don’t let this,’ she waved the stick, ‘worry you. Nick won’t mind waiting. And you’ll have fun trying, aye?’
Lenina shook her head.
How could she possibly explain that babies were the last thing on her mind? Especially without mentioning the dreams?
Ramona tossed the test stick in the bin. ‘Come have a sandwich. I made loads: tuna, ham or cheese.’
Once again Lenina opened her mouth to decline, but her stomach clenched tight and gurgled so lo
udly that it seemed churlish to do so.
Back in the living room, now lit by the overhead lights, Ramona lifted the plate of sandwiches and held it across her palm like a waitress. ‘Madam?’
Lenina selected a tuna sandwich and nibbled from the one corner while listening to Ramona talk about her latest batch of maths students. Halfway into an explanation about the changing curriculum for A-level, Lenina zoned out and focused instead on what she’d seen in the mirror.
It isn’t possible, she thought, still munching. How could it be? Perhaps a trick of the light or a result of the stress?
People couldn’t just spontaneously grow fangs like a sabre-tooth. And then shrink them again . . .
She lowered her hand to the plate again, but found only crumbs. ‘Wow, Ramona, don’t I get any?’
Her friend stopped mid-flow. She glanced at the plate. Her eyes popped. ‘Me? This is my first one.’ She waved the remaining corner of a cheese sandwich. ‘What did you do, inhale them?’
Lenina stared. ‘I didn’t. I can’t have.’
‘And you said you weren’t hungry. Aye . . . maybe we should do another test. I did buy two.’
‘I’m not pregnant.’
‘But with an appetite like that—’
‘Romey, I’m not pregnant. Stop badgering me.’
The smile faded from Ramona’s face. She shuffled in her seat while avoiding Lenina’s gaze then finished the last of her sandwich. ‘I’m just worried.’
So was Lenina. Aloud she said, ‘Sorry. I’m a bit tense.’
‘I’ll say.’ Ramona brushed crumbs from her hands. ‘Let’s go for a walk then.’
‘Now?’
‘Aye. It’s gorgeous out there, blue skies, gold leaves. Fresh air will do you good.’ Enlivened and comforted by her new role of mother hen, she stood and clapped her hands. ‘Chop, chop. Get dressed. We’ll talk about why you suddenly hate your beautiful dress.’
All the talk in the world couldn’t fix Lenina’s real problem. Just the same she sighed, turned and trudged up the stairs.
Chapter Eleven