On The Run With A Vampire

10. Lucien

CHAPTER 10

LUCIEN

Twenty-seven missed calls from Mother and a text message. I swallow. This does not bode well for me.

She’s trying to be discreet about it, but Ms. Hartley keeps sneaking long, sideways glances at me. I leave her to it for a few minutes as I scroll through my phone and read the torrent of mostly incomprehensible text messages from Blaine.

For some reason, he became obsessed with emoticons at some point during the early 2000s and has never been able to give them up, despite humans, by and large, moving on to those hideously bright yellow pictograms they’re so fond of these days.

Blaine

?_?

Lucien, what the fuck is going on?

Lucien

It’s all under control.

Blaine

Doesn’t fucking look like it.

And pls call Mother back.

Lucien

No.

Blaine

╭∩╮(-_-)╭∩╮

See what I mean? Just incomprehensible.

Ms. Hartley clears her throat. “It sounds urgent; are you going to?—”

“No,” I snap.

She visibly recoils at my tone, and there’s that guilt again, rearing its ugly head. I haven’t felt the emotion in decades, but 24 hours with Ms. Hartley and it’s apparently the only thing I know how to feel. I open my mouth to apologise, but she gets there before me.

“I see someone woke up on the wrong side of the coffin.”

My lips twitch. “Hilarious.”

She flashes me a sardonic grin. “I’m here all week. Well. Hopefully not.”

“Right,” I nod. “We should get going on this morgue plan of yours.”

Apprehension flashes across her face for a brief moment, but then she schools her expression into one of steely determination. “Right. Let’s go then.”

It’s twilight by the time we emerge from the parking garage. I slumbered for longer than I intended to, though I can’t complain. The sun is low in the sky, and I barely feel the pinpricks of its heat against my skin as I drive—at the legal speed limit, might I add—down the street.

The rumour that vampires can’t survive in sunlight is only somewhat true.

I won’t burst into flames or explode as soon as a ray of sunlight touches my skin, but it is uncomfortable. It’s like a gnawing itch deep under the skin that steadily worsens the longer you stay out in the sun. It’s not inherently fatal to be caught out in the sun, but the longer you stay, the more lasting effects it will have on the body.

Mother has an old acquaintance, Arnold, who visits once every decade or so. Every visible inch of his skin is permanently burned, blistered, and raw. Even the simple act of getting dressed every morning or sitting down in a seat seems to cause the man copious amounts of distress.

Back when Mother first took Blaine and me under her wing, she would use Arnold as a cautionary tale.

“That’s what happens when you venture out on your own and don’t heed my warnings,” Mother would mutter quietly over dinner as we politely pretended not to notice Arnold’s scabs falling into his bowl of blood soup. “Exploration…Curiosity…Those are both luxuries we cannot afford. The world out there is changing, and not in ways that favour our kind. Trust me, I’ve seen too many of our own fall because they didn’t understand the risks.” She’d incline her head in Arnold’s direction, lips curling in disgust as she took in the red, blistering patches splattered across his face. “Our lives depend on our unity. Let the others roam and fall prey to their own foolishness.”

Honestly, I’m not sure why Arnold continues to come around. Mother isn’t particularly shy about hiding her disdain for him.

Idly, I wonder if she’ll look at me the same way she looks at Arnold now. I don’t think I’d be able to take it. I suppose that’s why I’ve stayed away for so long.

Ms. Hartley lets out a soft sigh that pulls me back to reality. I glance sideways at her. She’s staring frostily out of the window, both arms wrapped tightly around her stomach.

“Are you in pain?” I ask, ignoring the flash of alarm that shoots through me at the very thought of it. I listen for her heartbeat, trying to see if there’s anything off about it.

Thud.

…

…

…

…

…

Thud.

No. Still just as slow as always. Good.

“I’m fine,” Ms. Hartley says brusquely, eyes still fixated on the stretch of road ahead of us.

A rumble echoes through the car, and Ms. Hartley squeezes her arms around her stomach a little tighter. If I’m not mistaken, her cheeks darken slightly, too.

I surreptitiously sniff the air. Yes, I’m correct. Ms. Hartley’s blood is rushing to her cheeks. A common side effect of human embarrassment, though I’m not sure what she could possibly be embarrassed by.

Another rumble, this one even louder than the last. Ms. Hartley groans as she squeezes her stomach.

“Oh.” It hits me suddenly. I slow the car to a halt as we come across a red light and turn to face Ms. Hartley. “You’re hungry.”

With what seems like great effort, Ms. Hartley tears her gaze away from the road and stares at me sullenly. “Genius.”

I grin at her, realisation dawning on me. “Ah. You’re hangry .”

Now that is a feeling I know only all too well. Fortunately, it’s one that can be solved fairly easily. I ignore Ms. Hartley’s squawk of indignation and venomous glare and start the car up again as soon as the light turns amber.

“I think we have time for a quick stop-off,” I say as I deliberately avoid taking the turnoff we need for the morgue and instead head five minutes up the road to an establishment I’ve driven past on numerous occasions but have never actually frequented.

“This is…” Ms. Hartley’s voice trails off as we pull into the drive-thru for Burger Haven . I stop the car in front of a glowing menu board listing a seemingly endless array of greasy meals, and a tinny voice crackles through an intercom that has clearly seen better days.

“Welcome to Burger Haven. What can I get you?” a bored-sounding voice asks.

I lean back in my seat and cock my head towards Ms. Hartley. She’s staring at me with a dumbfounded expression.

I frown.

Have I misread this?

I was quite sure the answer to Ms. Hartley’s current less-than-pleased demeanour was to provide some food, but perhaps I’ve missed something. Some subtle human nuance I’ve long since forgotten.

The voice behind the intercom sighs loudly. “Hello. Can I help you?”

I open my mouth, ready to apologise and speed off into the night and towards the morgue, but then Ms. Hartley leans across my lap and says through the open window, “Can I get one cheeseburger, no tomato, large fries, and—” She clicks her tongue as she surveys the neon backlit menu. “A vanilla milkshake?”

Another sigh. “What size?”

“Large.”

“Will that be all?”

Ms. Hartley glances back over at me. She’s still leaning across my lap, her curls brushing against my chest. I can feel the warmth from her body seeping through the layers of our clothing. It’s an unfamiliar sensation, but I don’t dislike it.

Not at all.

“Yes, that’ll be all, thank you,” I answer for her, my voice slightly hoarse. The drone behind the intercom emits a noncommittal grunt, which I can only assume is all the acknowledgment of acceptance we’re going to get, and I pull up to the next window.

Ms. Hartley settles back into her seat, her cheeks still tinged a shade darker than usual. “Thank you,” she mutters, still determinedly avoiding eye contact. And then— “Wait. Shit. I don’t have any money. I left my purse and everything in it back at my apartment.” She finally looks up at me. “Do you—I mean—You’ve got some cash, right?”

“Not a penny,” I say cheerfully.

Ms. Hartley’s eyes widen and she shakes her head at me in disbelief. “So what was the plan here, Lucien?”

“You’re hungry,” I say. “Hangry, even.”

Her eyes narrow again. “I don’t know who taught you that word, but I don’t like it.”

“And I have the means to rectify that,” I continue as if she hadn’t interrupted. “I don’t understand what the problem is.”

“The problem is that you don’t have the means to rectify it,” Ms. Hartley says with an exasperated sigh. “We don’t have any money and you’ve just?—”

The window to my right opens up and a sullen-looking teenage cashier appears. He’s holding a brown bag with copious amounts of grease already lining the bottom and looks like he’d rather be anywhere but here. “Cheeseburger, no tomato, large fries, and a vanilla milkshake?” he says, voice emitting no emotion whatsoever.

“Correct,” I beam at him.

If he notices my fangs, the boy doesn’t react. “Great. That’ll be ￡15.99.”

“Lucien,” Ms. Hartley hisses in warning.

I wave a hand in front of the cashier’s face and summon up as much energy as I can muster. “I have given you an adequate amount of money to pay for this meal.”

For a brief second, I think it hasn’t worked and that I’m still too weak from healing my injury. But then the cashier blinks—once, twice—and his eyes glaze over. “Yes,” he says, his voice even more monotone than before. “You have given me an adequate amount of money to pay for this meal.”

“Excellent.”

The cashier nods and then frowns. “Hang on. Aren’t you two those guys from the new?—”

I wave another hand. “No, we’re not.”

The cashier’s eyes glaze over once again. “No,” he says, a tiny slither of drool coming out the side of his mouth. “You’re not.”

I flash him a grin and snatch the greasy brown paper bag out of his hands. “Exactly. Good lad.”

Before he can snap out of his stupor, I hit the gas pedal and peel off down the road.

“Is he going to be alright?” Ms. Hartley asks, peering over her shoulder to stare at Burger Haven as it becomes a tiny blip on the horizon. “There’s not going to be permanent damage to his brain or anything?”

I shrug. “I’ve never heard of anything happening.”

Then again, I’ve never stayed around long enough to find out.

Ms. Hartley shakes her head. “You can’t just do that whenever you want something.”

“Why not?”

“Because!” she splutters, hands gesticulating wildly in the air as she tries to form an argument. “You just can’t. You took away his agency. You basically just made him your puppet for thirty seconds. It’s not right.”

Hm.

My puppet.

I don’t suppose I’ve ever thought about it like that. Using my glamour as a vampire has always come as naturally to me as breathing does for humans. I don’t even have to think twice about bending someone’s will to my whims.

“You didn’t have anything to say about it when I used it against those buffoons at the S.B.E.F.”

Ms. Hartley’s mouth opens, but nothing comes out.

“Ah,” I say dryly. “That’s the distinction. I’m allowed to use my abilities if our lives are in danger? Or would you rather I let them kill both you and your friend?”

She gawps at me for a beat or two and then purses her lips. “That’s different.”

“How so? Was I not ‘taking away’ Buffoon #2’s agency when I stopped her from sending a stake straight through your heart?”

She flinches as if she’s remembering the moment in perfect clarity. “Obviously, I’m glad to be alive.”

“Doesn’t seem it.”

“But it’s still manipulative.”

I arch a brow. “That’s a strong word.”

Ms. Hartley sniffs. “Yeah, well. It’s accurate. You can’t just wave a hand and make people do what you want.”

I turn the car down a side road. The morgue isn’t too far from here now. “Why not? Humans do it in their own way; it’s not my fault vampires are more adept at it.”

“We do not.”

I scoff lightly. “Oh, but you do. Maybe not with supernatural abilities, but humans have their own ways of bending others to their will. Advertising, politics, social pressure—it’s all manipulation, isn’t it?”

She shifts uncomfortably in her seat, clearly not pleased with the comparison. “That’s different. It’s not the same as what you can do.”

“Isn’t it?” I press, keeping my eyes on the road as we approach the morgue. I pull into an empty space and turn to her. “You humans have perfected the art of finesse. Subtlety. You can change minds and influence decisions without ever lifting a finger.” I shrug. “All I’m doing is merely expediting the process.”

“That’s different!” She sounds exasperated. “They’re not mindlessly following orders. There’s a difference between convincing and compelling. Suggesting I go to bed and sleep some of the madness off is one thing. Completely taking away my right to decide myself and just shutting my brain off for me is something else entirely.”

Ah.

Ah .

This isn’t, I realise—probably a little later than I should have—about the teenage cashier at all.

“You needed to rest,” I say simply.

Ms. Hartley glowers at me. “And I would’ve slept eventually.”

“A fitful night full of nightmares and panic attacks most likely.”

“Yes,” says Ms. Hartley. “But that’s life. The good and the bad. And it’s my life. You can’t just steal experiences from me just because you think it’s for the best.”

“I was helping you.” Ire surges through me. I don’t understand what the problem is here. Would she rather have spent the night tossing and turning, her dreams filled with nightmares and visions of her death at the hands of those buffoons at the S.B.E.F?

Ms. Hartley shakes her head. “Life is about more than just survival, Lucien. It’s about agency and autonomy. You can’t strip people of that and call it protection. That’s no way of living.”

Life is about more than just survival.

Well, isn’t this ironic?

I believe those were the last words I shouted at Mother before I left. I suppose I’ve internalised more of her teachings than I’d realised.

Because, as much as I’m loath to admit it, Ms. Hartley does have a point. I’ve spent the last two years searching for a life more meaningful than whatever it was I had living under Mother’s watchful gaze, and yet here I am, replicating her actions as soon as I get close enough to someone to do it too.

Blaine is truly going to have a field day once he finds out about all of this.

“Just—” Ms. Hartley sighs as she reaches for the grease-soaked brown bag in my lap and tugs it towards herself. “Just don’t use whatever it is on me again. Okay? If we’re going to be working together, there needs to be mutual respect.” She takes a bite of her cheeseburger and lets out a borderline erotic moan, her eyes rolling back into her head as she chews. “Can we agree on that?”

“You, Ms. Hartley,” I say as I watch her pop open the lid to her milkshake and dip a fry straight into it. Abhorrent. “You are quite the hypocrite.”

“Hypocrite? How?”

“You’re accusing me of being manipulative and using otherworldly powers to get what I want?—”

“I’m not accusing you; it’s quite literally the truth.”

“—And yet I’m quite sure you could have any man in the world wrapped around your pinky finger in five seconds or less with just a smile and a flutter of those lashes.”

Ms. Hartley promptly chokes on her milkshake. “Excuse me?”

“Don’t play coy with me.” I lean back slightly and survey her. “I don’t doubt for a second that you’ve left a trail of men weak at the knees, willing to do anything and everything for you in your wake.”

She stares at me for a few seconds and then bursts into laughter. Real, loud, booming laughter. Her shoulders are shaking. There are tears forming in the corners of her eyes, and her mouth is split into the most wondrous smile I think I’ve ever seen.

“Thanks for that,” she says, dabbing at her eyes with a napkin. “I needed a good laugh.”

I blink and then force a smile. Ms. Hartley is beautiful—that is a veritable fact—but, for some reason, she thinks I’m joking.

As if the fact that I’m sitting out here, waiting for her to finish her meal so we can prepare to break into a morgue and clear her name isn’t proof enough that my theory has legs.