MARCILLA:

“Want to stop at a town for the evening?” I asked.

Enid groaned theatrically. “Now she asks me!” she whined at nobody in particular. “After my ankles are wrecked and my bum’s grown callouses from this blooming bike seat, after I finally made up my mind that we’re going to pedal on forever, now she asks if I want to stop at a town!”

“How you do go on,” I replied, amused. “I just thought we should take the chance to have a shower and launder our clothes, but if you’d rather we kept going, then…”

“No, no!” Enid sounded horrified. “Let’s get to the town! Quickly now.”

I laughed. “Well, then, get on your bike and come along instead of sitting there.”

We’d been wending our way northwards for over a week now, mostly through forest, keeping clear of the road at night because that’s when bicyclists ran the greatest risk of being run down by a vehicle going too fast to stop. And since we spent most of the day resting and sleeping, that meant that we had been off the main roads, feeding on what prey we came across, cycling through narrow forest trails when we could, and carrying our bicycles when we couldn’t. But the sun was still a hand’s breadth over the western treetops, and the highway below us was invitingly smooth and mercifully clear of traffic.

So we made good speed and, as dusk closed in, came within sight of a small town. The buildings were a mix of new and old, and there were actual cobblestones in the square. It was quite charming.

The amber lights of a café offered welcome. There was even a rack to tie up our bicycles. “Do you want coffee or tea?” I asked Enid as we entered. Unlike alcohol, caffeine is something our kind can handle. We can’t digest it very well, but we can drink it without any ill effects.

She shrugged. “Coffee, I suppose.” Shedding her jacket, she stretched luxuriously, like a cat, before sitting down. “I missed these smells.”

I sniffed at the air. “What, the smell of the dreams of disappointed would-be writers…” I nodded at a bespectacled man in the corner bent grimly over a laptop. “…washed-up waitresses, itinerant lorry drivers, and such?”

She snorted. “No, you berk. The smells of coffee and fresh baked goods. I can’t even remember what fresh bread tastes like.”

“I could get us some if you want.”

“I’d probably puke it up if I ate any.” She sighed. “Never mind, just get me the coffee and let me soak in this air.”

I went to the counter and, in English, ordered a couple of lattes. The woman behind the counter, about fifty years old and with a lined face, looked at me with interest. “Are you tourists?”

“Yes, we’re on a bicycle tour of the continent.”

“Ah, I thought it was a bit odd. We don’t get a lot of foreigners stopping by here, especially tourists. Are you?”

“Stopping by?” I thought about it for a moment. “For tonight, yes.” She’d definitely think it odd if we insisted on pedalling off into the darkness. “Is there a hotel or some such place you can recommend for us?”

“Right here.” The woman pointed upstairs. “We’ve rooms for guests, though we hardly ever get any. You’re welcome to stay for the night.”

“That’s wonderful, thanks.” I picked up the lattes she put on a tray and turned to go back to Enid.

“We’ve washing machines guests can use, too,” the woman said.

“Why are you grinning?” Enid asked, when I returned to her.

“Never mind, it’s nothing.” The latte was good, and I swirled some around my mouth. “We’re staying here tonight.”

“We are? Brilliant. Warm bed and all?”

“Warm bath, warm bed, washing machine and all.”

We both chuckled and sipped our lattes, and I grew aware that the man in the corner, the one I’d decided was a frustrated author, had lifted his head from his screen and was looking in our direction. The light shining on his spectacle lenses turned his eyes into twin mirrors, but I was certain that he was watching us. Enid followed my gaze and returned his stare, whereupon he quickly looked away and returned to his laptop.

“What was that about?” Enid asked.

“I’ve no idea. Maybe he was just ogling a couple of pretty young women. Finish your coffee and let’s go upstairs.”

Our room, while small and with two single beds, rather than the one double bed I’d expected, was comfortable and the floor had a carpet so thick that it positively invited the touch of bare feet. After we’d showered and put our clothes in the washing machine, Enid and I sat on one of the beds rubbing our feet in the carpet while she idly scrolled on her phone, which she’d plugged into the socket in the wall. Once we were alone, we’d turned off the lights, of course; with our night vision we didn’t need lights to see by.

“You of this modern generation and your mobiles,” I complained. “I have one but you don’t see me spending every free moment on mine. Here I am, next to you, naked, and craving some affection, but you’d rather spend time on that infernal device than make love to me.”

“I know you’re used to getting your news by carrier pigeon, Granny.” She rubbed the top of my foot with her toes. “But this is the twenty first century. I haven’t had my daily dose of what’s happening in the world for days.”

I snorted, and pushed up against her toes with my foot. “You’ll find that none of it matters in the long run.”

“But I’ll have to wait centuries to find that out, Gran.”

“Careful with that granny talk.” I slapped her thigh. “I may be old, but my fangs are still sharp.”

She gave a delightful little giggle and scrolled further. “American president says…US president claims… US president threatens tariffs…” She sighed. “If I never read US president news again it’ll be too soon…Hollywood celebrities’ messy divorce…cricket player Dongmei Zhang injured…and…” Her toes, pressing on my foot, suddenly went rigid. “Wait. Look at this.”

“Look at what?” I took the phone from her, and blinked. “Oh, now that’s interesting.”

NIGHTCLUB OWNER MISSING, the headline read.

“Nightclub owner Lothar Magrat has been missing for the past week, according to a complaint made to the police. Mr Magrat, 54, was last seen leaving his nightclub on the morning of the fifth of this month. His car was subsequently found parked outside his house, but no further signs of his whereabouts have been discovered so far. Magrat’s wife, Anna-Louise, who had been holidaying in Greece, returned yesterday and is said to be incapacitated with worry and grief.” I raised an eyebrow at Enid. “Somehow, I don’t think so.” I turned back to the article. “There has long since been speculation that Magrat has underworld links, but both his wife and the staff at his nightclub strongly denied any such connection.”

“Like they’d admit it,” Enid scoffed. “What do you suppose happened to him?”

“I haven’t the slightest idea. At least it means we didn’t kill him.”

“Maybe…” Enid frowned. “Could he have wandered off and snuffed it from the aftereffects? I mean, we did drug him as well as feed from him.”

“In that case they’d have found his body.” I scrolled down past a photo of Magrat outside the Starscream, in a suit that his thick shoulders threatened to burst at the seams. “Police say that there is as of now no evidence of foul play, but they are following all leads.” I handed her back the phone. “Maybe it’s something to do with that meeting we were told to keep him from.”

“Deffo, that could be.” Enid put down the phone, flopped on her back on the bed, and stretched one of her legs across my thighs. “Now what were you saying about naked and affection and summat like that?”

______________________________

ENID:

It’d been a few days since we’d been able to do each other properly, so we both came fast and hard, and then did it again more slowly and tenderly. We’d just finished the second time and started on the third when my tummy rumbled.

Marcilla giggled. “Hungry, then, already, after the coffee? Maybe I should’ve got you bread after all.”

I pulled a face at her and raised myself on an elbow. “As though you aren’t famished too. Of course you’re used to starving for a bit, but I’m not.”

“Don’t worry, we’ll go out after everyone’s gone to sleep.” She frowned a bit. “That might present a little problem.”

“What?”

“How do we go out without the owner noticing? The woman downstairs, I mean.”

“And we can’t feed from her, of course.”

“Of course not.” She tapped a finger on my hip. “Let’s see what the window’s like. Maybe we can sneak out that way.”

I knew of course that she was really wondering if I could, because she wouldn’t have any spot of bother doing that. Once again I remembered that I was really rather useless and she’d be better off without me.

I might have begun saying something about it but she’d walked, still starkers, to the window and pulled the curtain to one side to take a dekko at the street below.

“Nobody’s down there,” she said, as I joined her, and pulled the curtain the rest of the way open. “Well, this is fine. There’s no window grille, at least.”

“No window ledge, either.” The street, though we were only on the first floor, looked a great long way below us. “Wish we could turn into bats like in the horror movies and fly off.”

Marcilla chuckled. “It would be more convenient, certainly. But this isn’t bad at all. We can get out this way, easily.”

“Talk for yourself.” I craned my neck to try and see if there was at least a grass border or something below, but it looked like paving right to the base of the wall. Brill. My ankles began twitching in fear just at the thought. “I think I’ll just starve for tonight.” Before the words were proper out of my gob, my tummy protested with another rumble. “Blast!”

Marcilla threw her noggin back and laughed. I could cheerfully have murdered her. “Don’t worry, it’s just a short jump down to the street.”

“Not on your nelly. I’m not doing that.”

“You won’t have to. Just wait till our clothes are dry and you’ll see.”

I looked at her, at the street, back at her, and my tummy rumbled again. “Hell!”

“Looks like we won’t have a choice, will we?”

By the time our clothes had dried enough to wear it was past midnight and the town was dark; just like back home, everyone was in bed by eleven. Marcilla laced up her boots, opened the window, and hoisted herself on to the sill. “Do exactly as I tell you,” she said over her shoulder, and then she was gone.

It was like a magic trick, and though I’d seen this lass do it before, I never could wheedle myself into believing it was real. I rushed to the window and there she was, standing below me on the street. She looked up at me and gestured. “Jump, Enid.”

I shook my bonce no. I may be a lot of things, but I’m not a daftie. Until she held out her arms and gestured impatiently, and I clocked at last what she wanted me to do.

So, with one deep breath, I jumped, and an instant later landed in Marcilla’s arms. I still can’t get used to how strong she is. She didn’t even stagger, just put me down on my feet. I looked from her to the open window.

“Ace, ta. Now how exactly are we supposed to get back up there?”

“I’ll boost you so you can grab the windowsill and pull yourself up the rest of the way.” Marcilla rolled her eyes. “You really need to trust your own abilities a bit more, Enid.” I was in two minds about that, to be sure. “Now let’s go get dinner.”

Naturally, this was easier said than done. I’m from a small town meself, like this one, and I knew that people turn in at ten and don’t move a finger till cockcrow afterwards. So we wandered through the place for a good two hours without seeing a soul, until we were out on the highway again.

And then we found, at bleedin’ last, something to eat.

She was walking down the road, fuming to herself if the muttering was anything to go by. Her carrying her shoes in one hand, her handbag in the other, while her stockings got rubbed to nothing, told the whole story.

“Drunk?” I murmured to Marcilla.

“Not drunk enough to not reject her date’s advances, so dumped and walking home alone.” She sighed. “Poor girl. I hate to do this to her.”

“You go ahead.” All of a sudden I was no longer hungry. This lass reminded me of things I’d rather forget, from Vivek’s ashtray kiss to much worse, from other lads, before. Bad memories. “I’ll get along till tomorrow.”

“You’re sure?”

I nodded. “As sure as I can be.” The lass had come close enough by now to hear us and suddenly looked up, gobsmacked. Her face was messy with makeup and tear tracks. She couldn’t have been more than seventeen or eighteen. She said something in German that sounded like a question.

Marcilla replied in German. The lass replied, Marcilla said something more, and turned to me. “Enid.”

“Aye?”

“This young lady still has a fair long way to walk. Her feet are sore…” I’m sure, I wanted to say, I could see that they were bare in patches where her stockings were worn through. “…and, obviously, she’s not safe out alone. Do you think we should keep her company until she gets home?”

“You bet,” I told her. The wave of love for Marcilla that washed over me was so strong I could say naught more. Imagine the people who’d tried over the years to finish her, when she’s kind as kind under the surface. The lass looked from one of us to the other.

“You are…foreign? You are tourists?” Her accent was thick as a pea-souper fog.

“Yes,” I nodded. In the darkness I was mostly certain that she wouldn’t clock my fangs.

“And you are helping me where my own people would not.” She threw her arms around me and started bawling on my shoulder. “My own people’s young man threw me out of his car when I would not…do things with him, that I did not want to do. And you are helping me.” She bawled a bit more, and Marcilla gently peeled her off me after she was down to snivelling.

“What’s your name?” she asked, in English, for my convenience, of course.

“Katja Müller.”

“Come on, Katja. We’ll see you home.”

We had to put our arms around her shoulders and half carry her most of the way. By the time we dropped her off to her house (she was half passed out by then, but we hung around long enough to make sure she got inside safely) it was too late to look for dinner elsewhere; the sky was getting light in the east. So we had to shake a leg to get back to the caff before it got too much dawn.

We turned the last corner, and Marcilla held her hand up suddenly. “Wait,” she said, real soft and quiet. “A moment.”

“What?”

“Look,” she said, and pointed. I craned my neck around the corner so I could see the pavement opposite the caff. A bloke in a coat and a hat was standing there, looking up at the windows. I could just clock the dawn light glittering on glasses frames. After a bit he turned and walked away.

“What was that all about?” I whispered to Marcilla, when he was too far off to hear.

“I’m almost sure he’s our ‘author’ from last night.” Marcilla looked from his figure, far off by now, to the window. “This alters plans a bit.”

“Yeah? How?”

“Enid. Do try to think for a minute.” She shook her nut. “He was watching us last night. He’s just now been watching our window. There’s something not right about this, and the faster we get out of here the better.”

“You mean, after breakfast?” I still wanted some of that coffee and a nibble or two of bread, if nothing else.

“No, I mean now.” She looked up at the window. “Stay here a bit, won’t you?”

Then she was suddenly up top, in that magic-like way, slipping in through the window. Just two, maybe three minutes later, she appeared at the window, holding my bag. “Here, catch.”

I caught it and put it down, and a minute later she tossed down her bag for me to take. Then she jumped down to the ground, only she doesn’t ever really jump. It’s like watching her float down like a dandelion seed. I’ll never be half that graceful, even if I live a thousand years.

That’s barmy, to clock I might actually live for a thousand years.

“I left the door unlocked and ajar,” she said, when we got to our bicycles. “Let’s go.”

“Another day in the saddle again?” My thighs were already screaming in protest.

Marcilla laughed, but she didn’t sound one little bit buzzed. “Another day in the saddle again.”

We were passing the spot where we’d met the girl last night before she spoke again.

“We did something good for once, at least.”

I reckoned it was something she kept thinking over. The longer I was with her the more I began wondering those things myself. Does anyone really care what happens in a world where, just for instance, nippers can be bought and sold? Why should we be hated when we aren’t even harming anyone, most of the time, anyway? And what does it matter when we’ll be here hundreds of years after everyone we take a little blood from is gone?

I shook my noggin. There are better times for philosophical rubbish than when bicycling out of a town at half past four in the blooming morning.

______________________________

MARCILLA:

We were two days away from the town before I finally admitted to myself just where I was taking us.

The terrain was growing familiar, the same hills I’d known so well, the same winding trails, even lonelier now than they’d been then, when they’d heard the creak of carriage wheels and the thud of horses’ hooves. I braked at a spot where a path turned away to the left.

“Remember the chateau of Maximilian von Karman I’d mentioned to you once?”

Enid glanced at me and frowned slightly. “No…wait. That’s where you were turned, wasn’t it?”

“Yes. That’s the way to that chateau, or whatever it is now.”

“Are we going back to your place, then?”

“It seems so.” I bit my lip. “I wasn’t doing it intentionally, but we’re headed that way, right enough.”

“Mint. I wanted to see what your house was like.”

I snorted. “It’ll be a ruin now. It was almost a ruin when I was there last.”

“When was that?”

I considered. “Eighteen…twenty eight? No, eighteen twenty nine. That was the year.”

“That’s when…what was her name? Lauren?”

“Laura.” I sighed. “They told such a lot of lies about me afterwards.”

“What kind of lies?”

“Let’s go, and I’ll tell you all about it on the way.”

STYRIA, 1829:

They said later that I’d tricked my way into their Schloss by staging a carriage accident outside their gates, but that was rubbish. Where would I even get a carriage, let alone the “mother” who had to “leave me behind” while she travelled on, not to return for three months? It was absurd, but then their whole point was to paint me as the villainess, and she as my innocent victim.

It was a little more complicated than that.

I was back in Karnstein then, after years in France. I’d been in Paris during the Reign of Terror, and had licked the blood from under the guillotines at night; you are lucky you never had to experience the like. Then there was Napoleon and his wars, and once they were over I felt in desperate need for some rest, some stability. And so, after over a hundred years of wandering, I’d come back.

I didn’t go into the Schloss itself. There were too many memories in it which I didn’t want to face, not then. Those memories were much sharper and more recent in 1815 than now, over two hundred years later. I went to the old mausoleum which had been my home so many years ago. It was still intact, still the same as when I’d known it last, and I made myself at home.

There were still some of the old families living in the area, the descendants of people I’d known, and some of them had lovely nubile daughters. I wanted to get close to them, to feel a little stability, and possibly a bit of love instead of the pitiless terror I’d been dealing out to my victims for so many years. So I began to look around, make myself seen, and in time had a brief romance or two. They were not with the young baronesses and countesses I’d been around in my human life, of course; they were the lovely, lonely, nearly illiterate daughters of peasants, working hard all day and more than happy to find a shoulder to lean on. I never harmed those girls; my affairs with them comprised of my giving them pleasure in return for companionship; but those affairs never lasted more than a few days or a week; both because we had to hide them from the girls’ parents, and because I had to hide from the girls just what I was. So I, inevitably, disappeared, hoping that the hearts I sundered would heal in time.

And one day, over a decade after my return, I was, as usual, out in the early evening. Unlike in the past, I had to travel a fair way to find food. The village of Karnstein that had stood beneath the Schloss had long since become deserted and fallen to ruin, probably a victim of one of the wars that had flowed across the land in the hundred and twenty odd years since I’d first left. All the other villages in the area were many kilometres away and none of them promised easy hunting, since the peasants were too inconveniently superstitious and barricaded themselves indoors at dusk. Every day, it seemed, I had to walk further and in a new direction before I could feed.

I didn’t really mind it, all that much. After decades of hanging on the fringes of rebellion and war, it was a pleasant change.

The sun had just set, freeing me from the chains that I’d felt back then weighing me down when it was in the sky, the chains of being helpless and powerless, the chains of being human. It was only just barely twilight, the swallows whirling overhead one last time before returning to their nests for the night.

I walked down the path, enjoying the feel of the breeze on my face and in my hair. I threw back my head, watching the sparrows and wishing that I could fly like them. On an impulse, I pulled off my short boots and stockings, to feel the ground under my bare feet. It was a good evening to be alive.

My feet felt the vibration of approaching carriage wheels before my ears heard them. A few moments later the vehicle cantered round the bend, not particularly fast, slow enough that the coachman could rein in the horses when he saw me in the way. I stepped aside on to the grass verge, and as the carriage rolled slowly by I found my eyes rising, naturally, to the window. And there was a face looking down at me.

That was my first sight of Laura Davenport.

Laura Davenport. I can see her now, if I close my eyes. She had just turned eighteen then, beautiful in a ruddy, healthy, almost peasant way, for all her aristocratic pretensions. To be quite accurate, the pretensions weren’t hers, but those of her father and of her two French governesses.

Her father was one Thomas Davenport, an English immigrant who’d spent most of his life working in the Imperial civil service, and in consequence had been knighted as Thomas Ritter von Davenport. His Austrian wife had died shortly after Laura’s birth, so she’d never had a mother she’d properly known.

After he retired, Davenport had taken his pension and the money that had come to him through marriage and bought an old Schloss some kilometres east of Schloss Karnstein.