By the time I reach my flat, my anxiety is building momentum, about to take off like a speeding car without a driver. My hand is trembling so much it takes a couple of tries to slot the key into the lock. Once inside, I slam the door and lean against it, dragging in deep lungfuls of air. I laugh at myself a little when I’ve calmed down. I’m acting like she’s stalking me, for God’s sake.
Pull yourself together, Dr Rhodes.
It sounds like something Florence would say.
I have every intention of replying to her after I’ve had a long relaxing hot bath, but then I decide to cook myself a healthy dinner and listen to a podcast.
So I don’t.
I’m zoned out on the couch, listlessly flicking around Netflix, unable to settle on any particular show, but wanting something—anything—to keep my mind off her when I receive another message.
Hey, is everything all right? If you’re sick let me know and I’ll come round and take care of you. I owe you one after Bitsy (winking emoji)
The subtle implication that she’ll do more than serve me chicken soup causes goose pimples to scud along my arms and my cock to harden spontaneously. I’m too scaroused toknow how to reply.
So I don’t say anything.
***
That night, I toss and turn, unable to fall asleep. My therapist would probably say the extreme anxiety I’m experiencing is a natural reaction after what happened with Juliana. I’m having feelings for someone. Therefore, I’m protecting myself so I don’t get hurt again.
But it’s more than that.
There’s something in particular about Florence that 10 per cent of my brain understands perfectly and the other 90 per cent is desperately trying to flee from.
Around 2 a.m., I drift off and start having a vivid dream. I’m hovering in a purple light above Florence’s bed. She’s down below, curled up in white silk sheets. Upset. Crying because I haven’t replied to her messages. ‘I’m up here!’ I call, but she keeps on sobbing. I flail my limbs around, but I can’t force my body to go lower. There’s some trick to it, but I can’t figure out what. It’s so frustrating.
Then I look down, and the bed is empty. Where did she go?
There’s a tap on my shoulder, and I slowly roll over to find her hovering above me so we’re face to face. I reach outfor her, drowning in her intense violet eyes. Her lips don’t move, but I hear her say distinctly, ‘Don’t leave me, Damian. I need you.’
I wake with a start to find my arms sticking up in the air like I’ve been holding onto someone. Lowering them, I sit up and flick on the bedside light. It’s freezing cold in the room, but I’m overheating, my thin T-shirt clinging to my sweat-covered chest.
Blindly, I reach for my phone, determined to message Florence right now despite it being 3 a.m. But when I unlock my phone, I see she’s sent me another messagefive minutes ago.
Damian, there are some things I need to share with you. Can you meet me at The Brief Encounter on Friday at 7pm? If you don’t show then I won’t bother you again. You have my word.
I reply with:OK, I’ll be there.
Switching off the light, I snuggle down under the duvet, exhaling quietly. Florence isn’t denying there’s something weird going on, and I’m finally going to hear the truth. Part of me is reluctant to hear what that truth is, but there may still be some rational explanation. At least that’s what I’m telling myself.
Chapter 22
Florence | Edinburgh, present day
In all my long years of being a vampire, I’ve never revealed it willingly to anyone before or given them the choice of being one themselves. So understandably, I’m a little nervous about meeting Damian.
There’s not a lot I can do to prepare for it either. Hester suggested I take the subtle approach rather than going in all guns blazing. So I’m going to drop vague hints and let him work it out for himself. Hopefully, he doesn’t freak out too much. But I’m bracing myself for the inevitable.
I fly over to Stockbridge well before 7 p.m. in case there’s an event taking place in the football field like last time, but it’s all clear. So I end up sitting in the bar alone, nursing a glass of water, waiting for Damian to arrive. When it flicks past 7 p.m. and he hasn’t shown up yet, I wonder if he’s changed his mind.
But he said he would be here.
Then he is, standing in front of me with a half smile. My lip quivers as I return it.
‘Hey,’ I say weakly.
He rakes a hand through his hair nervously and glances at the bar. ‘I’m going to grab a whisky. Do you want a Bloody Mary?’
