On The Run With A Vampire

6. Lucien

CHAPTER 6

LUCIEN

Guilt is not an emotion I’ve felt in a very, very long time. But, as the door swings shut behind Ms. Hartley, the feeling that overwhelms me is unmistakable.

She’s incredibly naive if she thinks those two buffoons won’t shoot a stake through her heart as soon as she comes into view. They won’t stop to consider whether they’ve potentially made a terrible mistake until Ms. Hartley is bleeding out on the floor, those expressive brown eyes turning glossy and unfocused.

I should really go after her.

But another emotion, one I’m intimately familiar with, wins out.

Mother was right; I am an incredibly selfish being.

Because I know, without a shadow of a doubt, that if I go after Ms. Hartley it’ll spell the end for me too, and I just won’t risk that.

Anyway, there’s at least a chance of survival for Ms. Hartley—as small as it may be. If she can convince them to check their device long enough for it to register her abnormally slow heartbeat, she’ll be fine. And that’s enough for me to assuage the last remnants of guilt still pricking at me.

I push myself up from the stairs and immediately hiss out in pain. My back is in agony. No, that’s not a strong enough word for the constant jolts of knife-sharp pain I’m currently feeling. It’s only marginally less painful than when the stake was wedged in there.

I groan as I twist and turn, trying to catch a glimpse of the wound. It’s just out of sight, but I have to hope that my regenerative abilities are working. I don’t like not being at full power.

I felt it most back at Ms. Hartley’s apartment when I tried to glamour Buffoon #1 and Buffoon #2. Buffoon #2 had a surprisingly sturdy constitution and was able to fight off my attempt without much problem. While Buffoon #1 did succumb to my glamour, I’m weak enough in this state that it only lasted for a few minutes.

Embarrassing.

Another thing Blaine will find hilarious. I can just hear him now, snickering incessantly. “ Lucien Valcouron struggling to glamour two measly humans? Never thought I’d see the day .”

The noises I make as I shuffle towards the door are equally embarrassing. I didn’t want to admit it, but dragging Ms. Hartley through the city and to safety took more out of me than I was expecting.

I have a few blood packets—little plastic cartons filled with blood syphoned from a few of my feeds earlier this month—at my apartment, but nothing truly substantial. I’ll need to feed again sooner than I’d anticipated if I want any hope of making it to Blaine’s part of the estate in one piece. That will be somewhat of a problem with the S.B.E.F. on my back, but I’m fairly certain I can hold out until I’m beyond the city limits. Then I’ll find a nice, plump farmer or a group of campers to sink my fangs into.

I reach the door and tug it open, fully intent on crossing the street and helping myself to one of the nice, shiny new cars in the dealership opposite. I don’t get very far, though, because there’s something in my way.

Someone , really.

Ms. Hartley is standing in front of me, a look of pure fury etched into her features.

“ You ,” she seethes, prodding me sharply in the chest. “You have ruined my life. ”

I blink down at her. Her chest is heaving, her thick hair, damp from the rain, curling around her shoulders. Now I know what to listen out for, I can pick out her heartbeat easily.

Thud.

…

…

…

…

…

Thud.

It’s remarkable that she’s even able to live like this. I don’t think I’ve ever heard a heartbeat this slow. I’ve never been able to tell humans apart from their heartbeat—it’s usually nothing more than a cacophony of noise in my mind, but I think I’d be able to pick out Ms. Hartley’s unique beat in a stadium filled with thousands.

“Are you even listening?” Ms. Hartley says, stabbing me once more with her forefinger. “I said?—”

“I heard you. I have, allegedly, ruined your life.”

She lets out a dry laugh. “Oh, no, no, no. There’s no allegedly about it.”

I lift a brow. “I think some explanation is needed.”

“ You’re the one who needs to be explaining himself.”

When I don’t budge, she sighs loudly, rolls her eyes, and then abruptly turns on her heel and starts marching down the street. “Come with me.”

I’m typically not one for following orders—especially when barked out by a human half my size—but I suppose I’m still feeling some remnant of guilt for leaving her to potentially die, and I obediently make my way after her.

She doesn’t say a word as she leads me down the street. Unlike the first time we made this journey, we don’t stick to the alleys and side streets. No, Ms. Hartley takes me down a busy main road.

“Are you forgetting we’re still being targeted by the S.B.E.F.?” I ask, easily matching her furious stride.

“They are the least of my worries right now.”

“I feel like being murdered due to an unfortunate case of mistaken identity should always remain fairly high up your list of things to worry about.”

Ms. Hartley glares at me. What’s the old saying? Ah, yes. If looks could kill…

“ That is currently taking up the number one spot.”

I follow the direction in which she points a finger. “Ah.”

“ Ah ?” Ms. Hartley parrots. “That’s all you have to say?”

It’s a fair question, and I have to admit that my response is rather lacklustre, but what else am I supposed to say upon seeing a giant interactive billboard with both of our faces plastered across it?

The image looks like it’s been pulled from security camera footage taken earlier in the day, back at the intersection. Ms. Hartley is staring at me, stunned confusion evident on her face, while I grin—very politely, might I add—down at her.

Below the image are the words: POLICE ON THE HUNT FOR SUSPECTED SERIAL KILLERS.

Suddenly, the screen cuts to a live feed, and a serious-looking newscaster is on the screen.

“Ladies and gentlemen, if you’re just joining us, we have breaking news regarding a critical police operation unfolding in our city tonight. Authorities are currently on the hunt for the two pictured individuals suspected to be involved in a series of mysterious and brutal deaths that have shaken our community over the past two years.”

“The suspects are wanted for questioning in connection with a spate of incidents that have left residents fearful and concerned for their safety. The latest victim was found just yesterday with mysterious markings on her neck and a significant amount of blood loss.”

I can feel Ms. Hartley glaring at me, but I keep my attention on the newscaster.

“Police have identified one of the suspects—a Ms. Raven Hartley, aged 26—but have so far been unable to identify her accomplice. He appears to be in his late twenties to early thirties, white, and around 6’9.”

I’m technically 142 years old, but the rest is, admittedly, spot on.

“We remind you that they are both considered to be armed and dangerous, and we urge everyone to remain vigilant and report any suspicious activity or sighting to the authorities.”

“It was you ,” Ms. Hartley moans. “I can’t believe I didn’t connect the dots.”

I glance away from the billboard—where the camera has cut to a member of the police force talking passionately about my alleged crimes—and turn to Ms. Hartley.

“I can assure you, Ms. Hartley, I have no idea what this is about.”

She looks at me in disbelief. “You’re a vampire.”

“Correct.”

“You—to use your own words— drain people of their blood. ”

“Also correct.”

“But I’m supposed to believe that you’re not behind the seven— seven !—murders, where all the victims have been found drained of their blood and with puncture wounds on their neck? ”

“Exactly,” I say cheerfully. “I’m glad we could come to an agreement on all three counts.”

It’s funny. Just a few hours ago, she was cowering from me on her bathroom floor. Now, she looks like she wants to throttle me.

“So you’re not a murderer?” Ms. Hartley asks, her mind clearly already made up. “That’s what you’re telling me?”

“Of course I’m not a murderer.”

“Then how do you eat?”

Oh. That’s what she means. “I suppose in the strictest sense of the word?—”

“There is only one sense of the word!” Ms. Hartley cries, her voice reaching almost hysterical levels. “Do you or do you not kill humans?”

“I do,” I concede. “But I didn’t kill them .”

I point back up at the billboard where seven photos are currently being displayed on the screen.

Daniella Crestly, age 37

Ricky Kelly, age 21

Nathaniel Bowls, age 65

Lena Moore, age 30

David Kingsley, age 29

Samantha Rhodes, age 47

Cathy Corrigan, age 24

I don’t recognize a single one of them. And that’s a problem, because I remember all my kills.

People seem to think that vampires don’t have any morals or codes of ethics—I blame the droves of mindless anti-vampire media humans are constantly exposed to—but we do.

Most of us, anyway.

To drain someone of their life force in order to sustain our own isn’t something to be taken lightly. It’s an honour and a responsibility. We don’t hunt for fun or to cause mayhem. Only for survival, and we have a reverence for the life we take.

We need to, otherwise, an eternity of living like this will drive you mad.

“Those humans up there,” I say. “I didn’t kill them. Perhaps another of my kind did.”

But that doesn’t feel right. In all my years in this city, I’ve not come across another vampire. Apparently, Ms. Hartley feels the same.

She scoffs. “You expect me to believe there's another vampire in this city, killing people just like you do?”

“It’s not impossible,” I reply calmly, even as I doubt myself. “But what is impossible is that I, who have lived among humans for over a century, would leave such a sloppy trail. I don’t mean to brag, Ms. Hartley, but I am meticulous.”

Ms. Hartley bites her lip, clearly torn between disbelief and a sliver of doubt. “But the markings on their necks... The blood loss...?”

“Those are consistent with a vampire's feeding,” I agree. “But I assure you, I've been occupied elsewhere. And believe me, if I were the culprit, I wouldn't have left a single trace.”

Just ask Meredith—my last feed. Someone will find her in her bed and assume she passed peacefully in her sleep. The ‘puncture wounds’ will be minimal, barely noticeable unless you’re using a magnifying glass, and I always make sure to leave just enough blood in the body so as not to arouse suspicion from the coroner.

I don’t know who killed the seven smiling faces currently plastered across the billboard, but they were incredibly sloppy. It’s quite annoying, actually. This is how vampires get such a bad rep.

Half-heartedly, I have to admit that maybe Mother has a point. Maybe this is why vampires should stick to our insular communities, only venturing out for sustenance when strictly necessary.

But what kind of life is that?

The weight of my words seems to sink in as Ms. Hartley considers the situation. The newscaster’s voice drones on in the background, updating the public on the manhunt while alternating between showing images of the victims and that one security camera photo of myself and Ms. Hartley.

I feel that unfamiliar twinge of guilt again.

We’re both innocent here, but it’s Ms. Hartley who will bear the brunt of this accusation.

Speaking of…

“Oi.” A brutish man bellows from across the road. I can hear the rapid pitter-patter of his heartbeat from here. A drunkard. “It’s you, innit? Both of you! The ones from the news!”

Our only saving grace right now is that the man is slurring his words and stumbling just enough that no one pays him any attention. Even though he is spot-on with his assessment.

“Time to go, I think.” I grip Ms. Hartley firmly by the elbow and steer her back in the direction we just came from.

She doesn’t protest, which, for some reason, gives me cause for concern. I wouldn’t hesitate to use the word spunky to describe Ms. Hartley. Even when she was terrified of me, back in her apartment, she still fought back. Still yelled at me. Still prodded me with her forefinger. And, when her friend’s life was in danger, she roared into action without a single ounce of regard for her own well-being.

It’s… It’s an admirable quality.

But I don’t see any of it now.

I clear my throat. “I understand that this is probably a redundant question given the circumstances, but… Are you alright, Ms. Hartley?”

She sniffs and looks up at me. Her eyes are quivering with unshed tears. If I had a working heart, I’m sure this is the point where it would clench painfully in my chest.

“No,” she croaks out, stretching the word out until it has at least three syllables. “No, I’m not alright.”

And then the tears start to fall.

“Oh. No,” I say, gingerly patting her shoulder. “Don’t cry.”

She takes in a shuddery breath. “Oh, right. Of course. Now you’ve said it, I’ll just stop.”

“Thank you.”

Ms. Hartley looks up at me through wet eyelashes. The look on her face is halfway between fury and amusement. “Do you just pick and choose when you want to understand sarcasm?”

“Apparently,” I say dryly.

She stares at me for a moment longer, her brows furrowing slightly. Just when I think she’s about to say something, she turns away and dabs at her eyes. “Sorry.”

“There’s no need to apologise.” And I mean it, too. “Tonight has been an… ordeal. I’d be worried if you weren’t emotionally affected.”

She nods. “Ordeal is putting it lightly.”

“What you need is a good night’s sleep,” I say.

“My apartment was ransacked by the S.B.E.F., and I bet the police are crawling all over it now. I—I don’t—” She hiccups, and a fresh wave of tears streams down her cheeks. “I don’t have anywhere to go.”

“What about your friend?” I ask. “The one who came to the apartment? Could you stay with her?”

“Daphne?” Her eyes widen slightly, and she stops in her tracks. “Oh God, I didn’t even check in on her. What if they’ve hurt her? What if?—”

“It’ll be clear to even those two buffoons that your friend is a human.” I run a hand up and down her arm in what I hope is a soothing motion. I’ve really become quite out of practice when it comes to comforting humans. “She’ll be safe.”

“And what about the police? They’ll question her, and she’ll think—” Another hiccup. “She’ll think I killed those people. My parents will think I killed those people.” She threads her fingers through her curls and groans loudly. “My life is over.”

“It’s not over,” I say, still gently caressing her arm. “I’m sure this will all blow over within a few decades, and you can get back to enjoying your life.”

“A few decades?”

“No more than five,” I assure her. “Trust me. Fifty years from now, and this will all just be a blip on humanity’s memory.”

“So I’m just, what? Supposed to live in hiding for the next fifty years?”

“Of course not. We’ll get you a fake ID—Blaine has an excellent source for those—and then?—”

“I’ve worked hard for this life, Lucien.” She’s looking up at me with wide, sad eyes. I don’t like it.

“I know it might not look like much to you, but it’s mine. I can’t just run away from it.”

“They’re going to pin this on you,” I say. “On both of us. You’re not like me, Ms. Hartley. You can’t wait this one out.”

She takes a deep breath, like she’s steeling herself for something big. When she looks at me again, I see resolve hardening her gaze. “I know. But if you’re telling the truth, and it really wasn’t you who killed those people?—”

“I am, and it wasn’t.”

“Then that means there’s a real murderer on the loose.” The grin that spreads over her face is downright vampiric. “And we’re going to find them.”