“So, how have things been going with Amanda?” I ask, turning my attention to Lucas.
His golden eyes shift to me, and his smile shows off just the barest tip of a fang. “Very well, I have grown somewhat fond of her oddly coloured hair and the metal she wears through her nose.”
I knock back a gulp of whiskey before replying, “You do know that I’ll hunt you down and torture you if anything even remotely negative happens to her when she’s with you, right?”
Lucas swallows down the last of his drink and gets up. “I wouldn’t have it any other way,” he answers smugly, before leaving the room.
I shake my head and continue to sip on the alcohol, which is helping me to numb the after effects of the fear and pain and anxiety I’ve been through tonight. All of a sudden I’m hyper aware of the fact that I’m alone with Ethan. Memories of last night flood my head and I have to actively drown them out. I twirl my now empty glass around and around on the surface of the bar out of nervousness.
“I’m still unhappy about what happened with Drusilla,” says Ethan in a low voice, not looking at me.
“There’s no reason for you to be unhappy,” I tell him. “It wasn’t a rational decision that I made, I’ll admit that. I just couldn’t think straight and needed somebody to take the pain away. That’s all there was to it. I know you suspect it was more than that, but you’re wrong.” I let out a long breath and then go to refill my glass. Ethan grabs my wrist before I get to the bottle.
“You know,” he says, voice still low. “I have had nothing but trouble since you walked into my life.”
“I’d walk straight back out of it if only you’d let me.” I reply, pulling my wrist free and taking the bottle, tipping the last bit into my glass.
Ethan leans back in his stool, regarding me somewhat fondly. “Nah,” he says after a long minute of silence. “As Lucas said, I wouldn’t have it any other way.” Then he brushes my hair back from my face, plants a lingering kiss on my lips and leaves me alone at the bar. I swallow back the rest of the Jack Daniels and call Nicky, asking her if she’d be interested in giving me a lift home.
After the night I’ve had, it actually surprises me when I don’t sleep through most of the next day. I wake up early and go about tidying my apartment and putting some clothes in the washing machine. I really am insane. It takes the threat of a supernatural war for me to finally do some basic housework. Although I do feel a certain sense of dread at the very back of my brain at the fact that I’m getting so used to thinking about vampires and magic without laughing at myself for being so ridiculous.
No longer am I the sceptical disbeliever I once was. When I’m finished with my chores I decide to treat myself and read another of Matthew’s poems. I pull the box out from the bottom of my wardrobe and place it carefully on the bed. I don’t linger over the other items this time, I only do that when I’m very, very sad and miss him very, very much. It’s not that I no longer miss him, I’m just getting better at handling my grief. If there’s one good thing about what’s been going on in my life it’s that it provides me with a distraction from the melancholy I wish to avoid.
I go straight to his poem book and flick to the page where I left off last. The next poem is entitled “The White Queen” and again it’s written in neat, perfect handwriting. No messy squiggles like I remember. His frame of mind must have changed drastically when he began writing this new set of poems. The first verse reads:
The white queen comes
And finds me sometimes
She takes away a piece of me
Bit by bit
Drop by drop
I stop for a minute before venturing to read on. I wonder what he means by this. Perhaps the white queen is a metaphor for the depression that slowly took away his sanity piece by piece. I move on to the second verse:
The white queen comes
And makes me forget sometimes
That she had ever come at all
A black cloud fogs my mind
But pictures I recall
Of bleeding and of biting
I hope for her
Never to return
This verse alarms me more so than the first. Two lines in particular, the second, “and makes me forget sometimes” and the sixth, “of bleeding and of biting”. These are things that vampires do to humans, they use their compulsion to make them forget, and they bite them and make them bleed. Suddenly feeling distinctly sick, I push the notebook away from me harshly and it tips over onto the floor. I instantly regret this and crouch down to retrieve it, hoping I didn’t damage it.
One loose page has fallen from the book, a piece of sketching paper. The side facing up is blank, but I can see the outline of a picture drawn in pencil on the other side. For some reason my hands go all shaky as I pick it up and I’m reluctant to turn it over. I place it on the duvet, still blank side up, and fold my hands beneath my arms. Why on earth am I so frightened to look at this sketch? The pit of my stomach goes all strange and fizzy as I raise my left hand above it, tip my fingers over its surface.
Slowly I turn it over and find that a close up of a woman’s face has been drawn onto the page in dark pencil. Had Matthew drawn this? Every feature is drawn in such detail, but that’s not what immediately catches my attention. What holds my attention are the two fangs sticking out of the woman’s mouth. I shift back on the bed, my heart beating a mile a minute. It is only after several seconds tick by that I recognise the face staring out at me. Antonia.
Then I remember something that Delilah mentioned casually that first time I’d met Antonia. That she liked to take her blood from young men who were unwilling to be donors. That she would use her compulsion to force them to allow her to feed on them. And Matthew had been one of her victims. Oh God.
Rage fills me to my very core. If Antonia hadn’t preyed on Matthew then he would surely not have taken his own life. He would not have lost his mind the way that he did. I lie back on my bed and cry for a while, the salty tears stinging my cheeks. Then I begin to carry out an inner dialogue about how I am going to kill Antonia very slowly and very painfully the first chance I get.
But when will I ever get a chance like that? Firstly I would have to get past her bodyguards, one of whom has sort of become my friend. But then what would I do? I will never be strong enough to take on a vampire like her.
I feel like bashing my head against the wall in frustration. It seems that the vampires had been a part of my life long before I even knew they existed. Antonia is going to pay for what she did. I’m just going to have to get over my anger and hate and notions of revenge and bide my time. My phone begins to ring and it snaps me out of my inner turmoil.
“Hello Rita,” I answer, a little too harshly, the build-up of my anger coming out in my words.
“Jesus, someone got out of bed on the wrong side this morning,” she replies in a snooty voice, though behind that she seems amused.
“Actually I got out of bed on the right side, it’s what followed getting out of bed that pissed me off.”
“Sounds bad, you want to talk about it?”
“No. That’s okay, I’ll be fine. What were you calling me about?”
A long sigh seems to escape her before she answers, “I’ve been at Gabriel’s all morning working on that thing you asked me to do.”
“Yeah and…” I prompt, wondering why she’s being so cryptic. Perhaps she suspects Theodore of tapping the phone lines.
“Sorry. Marcel just showed up a couple minutes ago so I’m hiding in the bathroom. He’s already suspicious of Gabriel’s allegiances, so we can’t afford him finding out what we’re up to.”
“Okay, well maybe you should whisper then, just in case he hears you.” I tell her.
“All right then,” Rita replies, whispering now. “Anyway, I’m calling you because I think I know a spell that will get rid of Theodore, well, it won’t exactly kill him but it will banish him into a hell dimension for a couple of decades. It’s just, I haven’t told Ga
briel about it yet.”
“Why not?” I ask, rubbing the palm of my hand over my forehead. I’m going to end up with a whole bunch of new wrinkles by the time I’m finished with this mess.
“Because one of the ingredients I need is sort of impossible to get. Well not impossible, I could get it, it’s just that Gabriel will want to know how I got it, and that’s something I can’t tell him.”
“Well what is it?”
A long stretch of silence drags out before she answers, “I need a vial of your blood, Tegan.”
“Right,” I reply, sucking in my breath.
“I’m sorry. I should never have asked. We’ll just have to find another way,” says Rita, rambling nervously.
“No don’t do that. Just – give me a couple of hours to think about this.”
“Okay. We’ll talk later,” she says quietly before hanging up the phone.
Just when I thought I was getting used to the drama it goes and gets ten times worse. If I give Rita my blood to use in her spell, then Gabriel is going to begin asking questions as to how she came across such a rare ingredient, who the source of it was. If she tells him it was me, that I am die Äußerste Macht, then my secret is out and every vampire and slayer in the city is going to want to capture me. But perhaps Gabriel will agree to keep my secret too, perhaps I can trust him with it in the same way I trust Rita and Alvie.
Gabriel is just too difficult to read. Sometimes it feels like he’s on my side and then other times it feels like he isn’t. How do I know he’ll keep my secret? That’s just it, I don’t. What I need to do, in order to keep the peace in this city and get rid of Theodore, is to give Rita the blood she needs, and then let her tell Gabriel what I am. After that I will disappear somewhere nobody will think to find me. I’ll cut my hair, change my appearance, even change my name, so that when the vampires and slayers decide to come for me, it will be like searching for a needle in a hay stack.
It will hurt me to leave behind my friends, new and old, but there are times when a girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do. Some may wonder why I would give up the life I know, simply to save a bunch of vampires from tyranny, even though they would kill me if they discovered what I am. I don’t understand it myself. Maybe I’m comfortable in the role of victim, perhaps I enjoy being the martyr. Either way, I am going to help my friends. I am going to figure out some way to end Antonia’s life. Then I am going to leave this city forever.
Chapter Eighteen
The Room That Time Forgot
Later on in the day I have a shower in an effort to clear my mind and get my intentions straight in my head. I don’t have very much money, so I decide that I’ll take a bus out to my Dad’s house in Chesterport, ask him for a loan, and then book a flight someplace big and foreign and highly populated so that I can hide amid the numbers. I get dressed and head out to meet Rita just before she and Gabriel are due to report to Antonia at the club.
It’s cold and frosty out today, so I wrap up well in my long army coat with a big cream scarf tucked around my neck. It’s difficult not to slip on the ice so I have to walk very slowly. A woman comes by asking for change and I hand her my only spare pennies. Now all I have left is the exact amount I need to get the bus. I packed my bags earlier, although there wasn’t much to pack. I put all of Nicky’s clothes into a big suitcase for her, all of my own fitted inside a small ruck sack. I haven’t yet told her that I’m leaving. I’ll call her once I’m on the bus, that way she won’t be able to convince me to stay.
A single tear drops down my face as I walk along the cold street. It saddens me to have to leave such a loyal friend. But I don’t feel like I have much of a choice. I could stay and watch as Theodore takes over the entire city. It might not affect me so much since I’m human. But I couldn’t deal with the guilt that would consume over thinking of how I could have stopped it. Besides, I would only be living in fear each day of someone discovering what I am and coming to kill me.
There are people walking by me as I get further and further away from my apartment building. But then suddenly the street empties, and soon I’m the only person on it. Suspicion takes over as I glance behind me, and then from side to side, trying to figure out why a street that is normally crowded at this time of day is now completely quiet and desolate. Not even a single car drives by on the road. I continue walking, and because it’s so silent the sound of each of my footsteps resonates through the space.
I speed up, hoping that I’ll soon reach some place where there are people. That’s when the music starts up, Theodore’s music. My heart jumps and as I break into a run I bump straight into someone’s hard chest. I look up and am greeted by that soulless white face. I turn around and run in the opposite direction, but I’m stopped again by Theodore, who has magically appeared ten feet away from his previous position.
“Get away from me,” I say to him in a low, threatening voice.
A tittering giggle escapes him, like that of a twelve year old school girl. A shadow rises up behind him and out of it a form takes shape, that of a massive, black, human sized crow. Its wings spread out and then wrap around both me and Theodore. All I can remember is the smell of salt and seaweed, and the feeling of claws and dirty feathers, before we are flying into the sky. I pass out from fear. I don’t know whether it’s the fact that a giant bird is carrying me, or that I am encapsulated in a bubble with Theodore right next to me. His black eyes watch me as my consciousness slips away.
I wake up to the sound of glasses clinking and liquid being poured. A piano plays nearby, a tune that is light and cheerful. The first thing I notice is that I’m lying curled up on a very fancy chaise longue. The second thing I notice is that I am not wearing my own clothes. I peer down at myself. I’m dressed in an expensive red velvet evening gown, with black silk gloves that go all the way up past my elbows. Around the wrist of one of my gloves is a diamond bracelet, and there’s a similar necklace around my neck.
I sit up and look about. I’m surrounded by people in similar attire, they laugh and joke and sip on their drinks. But there is something not quite right about them. Beyond their immaculate, anachronistic appearances, there is something dead in their eyes, something tortured. As though their happiness is all just an act, an act they are being forced against their will to play out.
A large ornate mirror hangs above an open fire place. I stare at my reflection, barely recognising myself. Other than the clothes, my hair has been styled into set waves, like that of a silent movie era actress, and my make-up is stunning. My eyes are heavily shadowed in black and my lips are matte red.
“Would you care for a drink?” asks a waiter in a penguin suit, brandishing a tray of glasses filled with champagne. I look at him and shake my head, I find his German accent out of place. In fact, as I listen to the chattering that is going on around me, I notice that those present aren’t speaking in English but in German. Where the hell am I?
I walk up to one of the windows and look outside. Carnival rides stare back at me, the big wheel spins around with nobody riding it. I am on Ridley Island, in Theodore’s mansion. But why is his house filled with German people dressed for a dinner party with a 1930’s fancy dress theme? And who the fuck undressed me, did my hair, and put me in an elegant dinner dress? This is definitely not what I would normally expect of being kidnapped.
“Are you enjoying my party?” asks a familiar voice from behind me. Theodore’s breath brushes over my bare shoulder and it makes my skin crawl.
“What the hell is this?” I ask indignantly, gesturing at my get up and the gathering of party guests beyond me.
“Forgive me,” he replies with a horrific grin. “But I took the liberty of having you dressed for the occasion. Do you like my party room? I’ve had it for more than seventy years now.”
“What do you mean?” I say, still taking in my surroundings in confusion. I glance back at him, because now that I’m looking at him properly I find that his eyes remind me of someone. Those dark, erratic eyes, th
ey are so familiar yet I can’t pin where I know them from.
“Well,” says Theodore. “What I mean is that I held a party in this very room in Berlin in 1938, just before the war broke out, and I decided that because I enjoyed it so much that I would keep it frozen in time for so long as it entertained me.”
It takes me a moment to decipher the information. “You mean all of these people have been trapped in this room since the thirties, forced to continue in a constant cycle, never to return to their own lives?” I ask in horror.
“That is exactly what I am saying,” he tells me, a satisfied expression on his face.
I shake my head. “You’re lying. How could it be the same house if the party took place in Berlin?”
“I thought you were smarter than that,” says Theodore with a theatrical frown. “You saw me raise this house from the ground and yet you don’t believe that I could have it transported from one country to another.”
Suddenly I believe him, and it doesn’t do much to put me at ease. I take a step away from him, frightened by his obvious insanity. How could a person justify this? How can Theodore live with himself knowing that he is keeping these poor people trapped for his own amusement? They should all be old and grey by now, maybe even dead. But instead they are held prisoners inside of their own youthful bodies. Remaining young forever suddenly takes on a new and not so pleasant twist for me.
Theodore goes and sits down on the chaise longue I had woken up on, he pats the seat beside him for me to sit too. I want to remain standing but I don’t think I have much of a choice in the matter. I join him as he sips on some red wine, swirls it around in the glass.
“You know,” he begins, with a nostalgic tone to his words, “I have lived for a very long time, but this,” he gestures to the room, “has always remained my favourite era. Such extravagance at war with poverty, not that I’d ever experienced much of the latter, not unless my desires led me to visit one of the lower end brothels.”