I was lucky I wasn’t killed when a bomb fell five houses from mine. It’d been strong enough to rattle me—literally and metaphorically—where I had just settled myself into my basement crypt to await the next evening.
When I emerged to assess the damage, I discovered the blast had destroyed my car. Meaning I had no way of easily leaving London by vehicle and putting me on foot. I realized escaping the city wouldn’t be a simple matter. Not if I wished to survive the rapidly approaching daylight. It’s one thing to run fast, but I still needed a safe place to hunker down for the night, so I ended up deep inside an air raid shelter.
I wasn’t sure if my cloaking ability would work while I was asleep, but there wasn’t any alternative. It was too far for me to blur to my nearest estate to the north of the city. Thus, I wedged myself as far back in a corner of the air raid shelter as I could, moved some boxes of supplies so they blocked me from the view of others, and pulled a blanket around me.
My presence, up until that point, had not even been acknowledged, so I knew my cloaking ability was working. Fortunately, my spot remained undisturbed when I awakened at dusk and promptly exited the shelter before it was sealed for the night. I found a soldier and compelled him to drive his jeep, headlamps off, to the northern outskirts of London, where he ran out of petrol, and I once again ran out of luck.
From there, I blurred as the bombings resumed, sought refuge in an abandoned cottage the next morning, and that night barely made it to my estate before the following dawn. The Blitz had begun in earnest, and I was now trapped in the UK. Leaving for America via ship was foolhardy, due to the presence of U-boats in the Atlantic. All I could hope was the bombings didn’t reach my small corner of the world.
Although I did venture out a few times and drink from bomb victims. They were dying already, and I eased their suffering. I never took from someone I thought might have a chance to make it, only those who were in agony.
Why let their deaths be a waste, or prolong their pain?
I am once again on the run in the British—all right, Welsh—countryside.
All these thoughts assail me as I speed to the hotel, unable to touch my Eilidh.
Make no mistake about it—she ismine.
How I shall get her back is a puzzle I pray I can solve. If this takes too long, I shall find myself purchasing an abode locally, so I have a secure base of operations from which to work.
As I race through the waning night, my left thumb strokes the ring. Why did she do that? How will I make it back through to her?
Less than thirty minutes before dawn, I pull up in front of the hotel and don’t even speak to the attendant when I snatch the valet slip from the man’s hand. Stalking across the lobby to the stairwell, I opt to blur all the way up, stopping in front of my own room seconds later.
Certainly faster than the elevator.
Excuse me—lift. I am back in the UK. Perhaps I should remember the lingo.
The lock clicks green as I wave the keycard in front of it. Putting out theDo Not Disturbcard, I lock myself in, secure the deadbolt and safety bar, stick the wedged doorstop under it, lock myself into the bedroom and stick the wedge under that door, too, and start checking the bedroom windows.
The tarps and curtains look intact, best I can tell. Let’s hope I haven’t missed something. In my agitated state, that’s totally possible and would be a fatal mistake.
Unfortunately, I realize too late I left the body bag in the car’s trunk. I’d tucked it in there in case we were delayed returning to the hotel. I could have curled up inside it in the trunk and been safe while Eilidh remained in the car.
After putting my phone on the charger, I snatch the blanket and duvet cover from off the bed closest to the windows and retreat to the bathroom, with the door cracked just enough I can see the mirrored closet door if I move a little. Any light should reflect off the mirror without exposing me to the deadly sunrise. If I have to, I can spend the day in the bathroom with the door closed, since it doesn’t have a window.
The daily stupor isn’t working its way through my body as it usually does, but I am exhausted and jet-lagged, so I suppose that’s the issue. As stressed and worried as I am over Eilidh, I imagine I won’t stay awake very long this morning.
I’m beginning to despise my existence. The trade-offs for immortality and power increasingly look like they’re not worth it.
Except for Eilidh.
Sheis worth it.
If I can’t get her back—again—I don’t know what I’ll do.
That girl is definitely getting handcuffed to my side, though, once I reunite with her.
Again.
AfterI redden her pretty ass.
Once I know it’s several minutes past dawn, I realize the room isn’t any lighter, so I risk peeking at the mirrored closet door and find the room is still dark and safe.
Thus satisfied, I drag myself out of the bathroom, wrap myself in the covers, settle on the bed farthest from the window, and close my eyes to await my daily oblivion.
It takes me far longer to fall asleep than I expected, but my last thoughts before doing so are terror for Eilidh’s safety, fear over possibly never reuniting with her, and anger at myself for not reacting faster, for not grabbing her arm and dragging her through with me.
