One of Alexander’s eyes cracks open, and he sighs.
‘Are you miffed, my love?’
Miffed is the understatement of the century. ‘We have to go back to London.Now,’ I say in a low dangerous voice to impart how important it is.
‘Back?’ Alexander echoes. ‘What on earth for?’
‘So I can find the second killer and finish him, of course!’
Alexander tuts. ‘Just let the police do their job. It’s none of our business.’
‘But I canhelp, Alexander!’ I cry in frustration. ‘The police aren’t doing anything. They don’t even realise it’s someone else!’
Alexander licks at the corner of his mouth with histongue, then looks at me carefully. ‘Don’t go getting a god complex, Florence. You’re not some kind of saviour. We keep in the shadows. We keep our heads down.’
‘What if it’s Charlie?’ I hiss. ‘Would that change your mind?’
Alexander reaches across for a manicure stick to clean dried blood from underneath his fingernails. ‘I can tell you right now that it’s not Charlie. He may be impulsive, but he’s not stupid enough to leave a mess like that. Now drop it please.’ There’s something definitive and slightly threatening about that last sentence that makes me decide not to push my luck.
Chastened by my master, I jump off the chest and head over to my usual spot by the window. Being a vampire in Paris isn’t as fun as I thought it would be. Alexander refuses to take me out with him in case I can’t control myself. So after I wake up at dusk, I prowl around our townhouse, waiting for him to return. Most nights, I stand by the window, looking out at the rooftops and at the people strolling past in the street below.
But this evening, he did bring me a new dress after I complained that wearing dead women’s clothing was creeping me out. That shows he listens to me some of the time—even if he is actively ignoring all my other grumbles about being left alone.
‘I was thinking I should write to Aunt Ivy,’ I say, turning around from the window. ‘What if she visits your house in Belgravia and I’m not there?’And Charlie lures her inside and takes a bite out of her neck to spite me.
‘She won’t,’ says Alexander, lazily scratching his own neck. ‘I wrote to her when we first arrived and said that we were in Paris on a short family holiday. And, as my son needed to keep up with his lessons, I had invited you along too. So I’ve saved you the trouble.’
He undoes a cufflink and rolls up his sleeve. ‘Come, my little governess. It’s time for your supper.’
I slink to the bed, hating that I can’t control myself when his blood is on offer. It tastes like sweet honey pouring down my throat and tingling through my veins. It’s the highlight of my existence. And when he makes love to me and takes his own fill, our nightly ritual is complete. My master washes me clean of all the anger and discontent I hoard. He shows me my true purpose: I’m here to serve him.
***
I’m bored. Bored bored bored!
Alexander has just gone outagainand left me to my own devices, but within the confines of the house. I’m starting to wonder if I’m really such a risk to society or if he’sembarrassed to be seen with me. Or is it something else?
I stand at the window in my nightgown, watching him leap jauntily into a carriage below in his evening black.He’s just keeping us both fed, I tell myself. But after six months of this, it’s getting harder to believe Alexander’s motivations are purely altruistic.
Opening the Juliet balcony doors, I step outside and lean on the railing, enjoying the feel of the cool night breeze on my skin. With my excellent vision, I can see Parisians in the opposite apartments, enjoying their evenings. There’s a couple eating supper together, a woman reading a story to her child in bed, a woman playing the piano for a small group of people. My old friends—anger, despair, and loneliness—well up in me, and I close my eyes and clutch the railing tightly. This is what Alexander has taken from me. I might have got married, had a child, or at least had friends. But no. I’m stuck here alone in Paris for the foreseeable future because Alexander doesn’t seem to have any intention of going back to London.
I let out a ‘feeling sorry for myself’ whine. I can’t even cry because vampires apparently don’t do that.
Glancing along the rooftops, I get a glimmer of an idea—a way that I can escape this prison.
But I can’t do it in a white nightgown.
Setting my jaw determinedly, I head back inside andproceed to fashion myself a climbing outfit from Alexander’s one-piece black woollen long johns that he never wears. They’re too big for me, but I roll up the sleeves and cut the feet off. I pull on some black socks and my boots, then tuck my hair under a black knitted cap I discover in his drawer.
When I’m done, I stare at my wavering reflection in the mirror and let out a giggle. I look ridiculous, like a beggar who’s lost his jacket and trousers. But unless anyone decides to take a nightly stroll along the rooftops, my appalling fashion sense is safe from prying eyes.
Back out on the balcony, I nimbly scale the drainpipe, all the while watching the houses across the street in case anyone happens to look out. But the squares of yellow light are now plunged into darkness. It’s past midnight, after all, and only the creatures of the night are out and about.
Reaching the top of the guttering, I clamber over the eaves and crawl up the roof valley, careful not to disturb any tiles. The slate is slippery, but I make it to the top without any trouble. Standing upright on the ridge of the roof, I’m delighted to find I now have an excellent view of the city. I can see right across Paris.
Somewhere down there, Alexander is biting someone’s neck.The thought makes me laugh, even though it’s not particularly funny. My daring escape, and the relief of beingoutside, is making me giddy. But if Alexander’s going to be all mysterious, why can’t I have a few secrets of my own?
I dance a little jig in the moonlight, congratulating myself on my cunning and—
