Page 65 of Only Fangs

I still remember the first time I came here. I was eleven and a rather precocious child. Not that anyone is likely to be surprised by that revelation. My father worked for Andrei and had done so for the ten years since my vampire mother had died. We act like vampires are immortal but we can die. Or rather we can be killed. We just don’t like to talk about it, and especially not what happened the night my female ancestors were murdered. Dad had tried to shield me as much as possible from vampire life, but I was growing up and he knew it would be unavoidable for ever. So he bought me to Hele House to meet Clara.

At first I’d thought she was a stuck up princess who had all the adult vampires in her life wrapped around her little finger and was given whatever she wanted. My first impression did turn out to be fairly accurate, but I quickly discovered she was also wicked fun to be around and had a penchant for pushing at the boundaries of our staid mid-eighteenth century lives in a way I found utterly beguiling. We’ve been almost inseparable ever since. And to his credit, if I can call it that, Andrei was always hospitable to me, treating me like one of his own, even presenting me to vampire society at one of the debutante balls he held at Hele House.

I haven’t been here since about 1930 though. It will come as no surprise that Andrei’s political leanings are not the same as mine and as the drums of war began to beat I had distanced myself from Hele House. Not from Clara though, obviously she joined me in her disdain for her father.

Coming back here brings a flood of memories and emotions and I start to wonder if this isn’t a horrible mistake. But I’m keeping my apprehension to myself, no point in making things even more terrifying for Brody. “You’re shivering,” I tell him, keeping my voice as quiet as possible. Sound carries in these wide halls and it’s probably not a good thing if someone overhears us.

“It’s freezing,” Brody hisses back.

I pause in front of a portrait of Clara’s mother as a late teenager and reach out a finger to trace the intricate pattern on the gilt frame. A tiny icicle breaks off and falls to the floor with a delicate tinkle. “I don’t think they’re putting the heating on,” I say, even though the observation is pretty moot, given that I can see the gentle huff of cold air every time Brody exhales. This is going to be a problem.

“I’ve brought some thermals,” he says. “They just about fit under my suit, but I’m not wearing them right now.”

“You need to put them on. Quickly.” There’s an urgency to my tone.

“Roger that. Trust me, it’s the first thing I’m going to do.”

“Good. Just, in the meantime, maybe don’t breathe as much.”

He gives me a funny look.

“Sorry. I know you can’t help breathing. But just maybe…” I trail off. It’s a stupid request. Just don’t breathe as much. What a fucking idiot I am. God, sometimes I want to stick a needle in my own eye.

But Brody laughs softly and so I can’t help but join in. At least he’s seeing the ridiculousness of the situation. I just hope he isn’t downplaying the risk to himself. Andrei cannot find out what he is.

“I’ve got this under control, I promise,” he tells me, leaning close to whisper the words in my ear. So close I can feel his warm breath on my cheek. I try not to think of the kiss in the Crimson Well. Or the night in Aberystwyth and all the potential I saw that evening.

Drinks and nibbles are served in the main hall and about forty vampires are already milling around when we arrive. This is the same room the debutante balls were held in and I still remember the feeling of fear as I stood in a floor length black silk dress like a classic vampire wedding gown, waiting to be ushered in front of all the greatest vampire families in Europe.

The room is softly lit by a huge quantity of candles, wax dripping onto the floor from a dozen free-standing candelabra. The wood-panelled walls are covered in artwork: portraits of the Hele family, time passing not on their faces but in the clothes they wear and the style of the painting; landscapes of the Devon countryside, mainly focussed on showing the desolate beauty of Dartmoor; and a few classic pieces by famous artists, designed to demonstrate the Hele’s wealth that they can afford a real Cézanne.

“What is this?” Brody asks, staring at the canapé a waitress has just pressed into his hand. “It looks like a mini Yorkshire pudding.” He sounds horrified, like it might jump off the small napkin it is nestled in a bite him on the nose.

I peer more closely at it. “Beef and horseradish in a mini yorkie,” I confirm.

“Like human beef?”

“Like cow beef.”

He blushes and I instinctively step in front of him so no one can see. I’m going to have to put some makeup on him to make sure we cover up that so very human reaction. “I meant like human safe to eat. Not that… you know…” he makes a face. “Vampires don’t eat human flesh.”

He sounds so certain. So positive in his assertion. He’s wrong of course. There was a time when human flesh was considered something of a delicacy among the vampire population. Or at least amongst certain factions. I’ve never eaten it myself, let’s just be very clear about that. But I know for a fact that Andrei used to serve it regularly back in the 18th century.

“You can eat it,” I reassure him. Perhaps one day he’ll find out the true depth of the depravity of some of my kind, but I don’t really want to be the one who bursts his bubble.

He takes a tentative bite and then a look of abject horror sweeps across hi features. “What the—” but he cuts himself off and spits the offending morsel into the napkin.

“What’s wrong with it,” I ask, picturing all the worst things. Like if it actually was human.

He grabs the glass of champagne from my hand and downs it. “Burning. Mouth,” he says, the words distorted. He sticks out his tongue and rubs it with his finger.

“Are you OK?”

“No.” He grabs another champagne from a passing waiter and this time he dunks his tongue into it. A look of relief crossing his features. Eventually he extracts the offending appendage. “Jesus. What the actual fuck is in horseradish?”

“That was because of the horseradish?” I ask, trying to stop myself from laughing. Vampire children eat horseradish. It’s a nursery staple. He’s acting like it’s strong.

“What is it? It’s like fire paste.” He sticks his tongue back into the champagne. “I’ll never taste anything else again.”