When Sarah Solomon took refuge in an old cottage in the woods, she knew it would only be a matter of time before the monsters came a' calling.
Cursed with a power she neither wants, nor knows how to harness, Sarah has become a target, but who is he...
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We sat at the same impossibly huge table where Dame had lounged previously, expertly painting his toenails, only this time, I sat at one end and the vampires sat at the other, a healthy (but not sufficient) distance between us.
Maz sat the closest, and I noticed, stared at me in the most unabashed way. Having a vampire pay me that much attention would usually ring all the alarm bells, but strangely, while I did feel uncomfortable under her scrutiny, I didn't once feel threatened. Vincent sat on her other side, and I could sense a natural closeness between the two of them that seemed to transcend mere friendship and perhaps signify something more. Opposite Vincent was Dame, who by then had finished his nail painting. Every now and then during the conversation, he would stop and study his art for any signs of imperfection, but I quickly realised his apparent nonchalance to the proceedings was an act. The vampire was always on alert, subtly watching my every move from beneath his ruby lids and long thick lashes. I had no doubt that he'd be the first one to react should I decide to bring a swift halt to this weird and unnatural meeting.
Bailey sat closest to Michael; her feet up on the large chair and knees pulled in tight to her chest. She had a touch of Maz's style about her, as if she liked to mirror the older vampire's sense of fashion, but where Maz seemed to stare at me with awe, the child stared as if she'd like to open a vein. There was no hunger in her eyes, just an undisguised vibe of hatred that only heightened the sensation of my curse as it surged over my skin.
Michael was probably the only one among them who seemed intent on not looking at me, which only made things more difficult as I couldn't stop myself from staring at him as he spoke and yet he rarely met my eyes with his own. He'd made it clear I was to come to no harm, and that all he wanted was for me to hear him out, but by actively avoiding my gaze, I was struggling to feel any level of trust there that I could cling onto.
Apart from when he'd been tied to my bed – when my thoughts had been totally consumed by the panic from his surprise visit, my knife in his stomach and the fact he'd healed in miraculous time - this felt like the first time I'd been able to really look at him. He was, I supposed, quite handsome in the irritating way most movies made fictional vampires to be, if not a little rougher around the edges. His hair was trimmed short into the neck at the back and worn curlier and more unkempt on top. A short scrub of dark facial hair adorned his jawline and around his mouth. He wore a permanent scowl, knitting his brows together and tugging on his forehead. In human years, he would have passed for late twenties, but of course, I now knew him to be far older than that.
Whenever he did look my way – fleetingly, and often with something that seemed to border on pain – I saw nothing but coldness there. It felt different to the way Bailey looked at me, which I sensed came from a place of fear and distrust. Michael's hatred seemed to come from somewhere deeper, which only made my skin prickle ominously and the blood thump in my ears.
'I don't understand,' I said. 'How is it even possible that you can be born a vampire? I mean, since vampires are technically dead, or undead...'
'Hey, does this look dead to you?' Dame said, making a sweeping gesture with his hand. 'Trust me, every single inch of this fine specimen of man is one hundred percent alive, baby. In fact, some inches are more alive than others.'
