The Lost Girl of Avignon

I followed her advice.

I kept to the better lit areas of my usual route home.

And I made my way back to my building.

And there, above the main doorway, a rune, fresh-cut and all the more awful for its haste.

ᚷ

A normal person would just see a strange pair of intersecting lines, like mason marks that hadn't been properly smoothed away.

I stood and stared at it, feeling physically ill.

A simple rune, which made it all the more horrific for its secret meanings:

Betrayer. Vermin. Prey.

I slowly turned, staring at the dark buildings that surrounded me, wondering if the scribe was watching me.

I shivered, and gritted my teeth and crossed my threshold, then scurried up the stairs and didn't relax even a little until I'd locked and bolted my door behind me.

☽●☾

I spent the weekend mired in sadness and the compelling need to put everything in my life into order.

I dusted every surface, wiped down every inch of wood and panelling.

I washed all my clothes and ironed them to crisp right-angles.

I visited Mr Crookshanks and left with a fortnight's worth of blood and the various red and black meats I could stomach.

And put the shade of Sarah properly to rest with wine, candles and the salt of my tears.

I ignored Sophie's few texts, responding to her care and concern with a brief and perfunctory "Can't now. Monday, Library, x. Sorry."

I couldn't grow attached to her. I couldn't afford to.

Not now.

So I'd parked Sophie carefully in a crystal box on one side, wrapped in cotton wool - a vision of a world that I wished, wished could be mine but that I knew never would be.

And instead I dug down into darkness.

I'd confirmed what I knew about the rune I'd found, and that my translation was accurate.

Betrayer. Vermin. Prey.

A warning? A curse?

Few humans would understand the mark. Even if they recognised it, many would think it was a simple Latin X.

I knew that it wasn't. I knew the alphabet it was drawn from, and I knew that a human hand hadn't formed it.

The only question now was... whose hand had?

Only a few of the shadow races had ever learned to write.

The only sort with any social or tribal structure that I knew of were Werewolves, but the last of them had almost certainly died out with the proliferation of firearms in Scandinavia. Scraelings had been hounded to their death by the Teutonic Knights. Fae were largely benign... and, anyway, their world barely touched ours any more; they were creatures of magic. Iron and science had driven a wedge between us.

That left only vampires... like me. And we're loners. We view one another as competition. We apparently avoid one another like the literal Plague.

Even the knowledge that there might be another thing like me nearby raised my metaphorical hackles.

Betrayer...

It was clearly personal.

I had research to do and it felt like scant time to do it in - a strange and unwelcome feeling for one cursed with the endless years as I was.

I'd never dug into our lore, but I had books by people who had - books that had crossed my desk in one of my earlier lives in early Edwardian London. I'd worked hard and built a reputation as someone who had means of finding things... and Aleister Crowley and his peers had kept me busy but not always necessarily dared to receive the fruits of my labour once they'd seen the spoils.

So now I roamed my library, which was home to tomes that would have uncurled the beards of many of the University's faculty-members. I dug into the Book of Lachesis, rummaged through the Accords of Darknesss... and even braved the madman's ranting of the Liber Noctae, searching for what few scraps of truth it might contain.

And I found my worst suspicions confirmed.

There was no other option. No other known or suspected Cryptid that lived beside Mankind used runes of any sort.

It had to be something like me.

Betrayer...

I thought back to my distant past, to the... man... who'd made me.

Had he had a friend? Another lover? Some follower, some strange companion with whom our intrinsic adversarial nature had been... less pronounced?

Someone who now sought... vengeance?

Once I would have simply laughed this off as a coincidence.

Now... Sarah was dead. Dead in a way that made the police nervous.

Now I thought I knew how she'd died.

Now I knew better than to believe in coincidence.

Now I knew precisely how cruel Fate could be.

I opened the Library early on Monday morning and, ignoring everything I should be doing, made instead for Folklore and from there, Byzantium. I began referencing and cross-referencing, assembling a spider's web of intuition, hunches and leaps of faith.

I was deep in the Song of Malachi, translating from Greek to English in feverish pencil scribbles, when I felt a gentle hand on my shoulder.

"Miss Devereux? Annemarie?"

"Yes, yes, what is it?" I said, exasperation making me rude. I would lose the thread, it had taken so long, for fucks sakes...

Then I realised who it was.

I looked up and met Sophie's hurt gaze.

"Oh..." I breathed. "Oh, Sophie. Oh, coucou, it's... it's nice to see you. Er..."

"You haven't moved or looked around in more than an hour. You've just been scribbling there. Look... I know it's a stupid question, but are you... okay?"

"On the hunt. Prowling. Hunting down a... trail."

Even I could tell how manic I must sound.

I closed my eyes and forced myself to take a breath, to slow down...

"Sorry," I said. "Sorry... it's... it's been a hard weekend. It's..."

She stared down at me. Then she sighed.

"Come have some tea," she said, softly, as if talking to a sick and distraught child. "Your papers will still be here afterwards."

"Okay. Good idea. Tea. Yes. Bon..."

And I let her take my hand and pull me to my feet and shepherd me down the steel staircase and into the little kitchen.

"Sit, Annemarie," she said, so I sat.

And then I blinked as everything seemed to jerk slant-ways a bit.

"Fuck," I whispered. "Oh baise moi. What... what time is it? Sophie? My god... how long have you been here?"

"An hour or so. You were busy and... strange. You didn't even hear me say hello the first three times."

She sounded hurt and bewildered.

And that was unbearable.

So I stood and went to her and, heart panging strangely, put my arm around her and just leaned in against her, my face nestled under her chin and jaw.

She let out a shivery breath, I felt the way her chest muscles quivered.

God, she smelled amazing. Soap, Bergamot oil, and under it the scent of vital, living girl...

I elbowed that thought aside.

"I'm... sorry," I said.

She gave a half-hearted shrug.

"No. Don't be daft. There's nothing..."

"But there is. I was incredibly rude. I promised to help you and I paid you no attention. Please... allow me to make it up to you? Please?"

She sighed. "Well... I could use some attention from you, that's true."

Such a strange way to put the words, part of me thought.

"Sorry. Feed me my tea and let me have some of my soup and... and I'm all yours again."

She managed the ghost of a smile, and I felt that I was at least somewhat forgiven.

"You seem... less sad," she said. "About... Sarah."

I glanced away, shrugged with my good shoulder.

"I've lost a lot of friends. It's something... you don't get used to, but you do get better at... separation. At... not looking in the places where the dead faces are."

She made a soft noise and turned and hugged me hard.

"Don't be brave just for me," she said. "If you need to cry, I will hold you."

I buried my face into her neck and clasped her to me, but couldn't find any words to say.

The kettle boiled and she released me, then made me tea and drank a mug of coffee beside me.

I fortified myself with my blood substitute. I immediately felt more normal, and realised with a shock that I hadn't eaten in over a day.

A dangerous lapse. I couldn't afford another.

"Shall we?" she hesitantly asked.

"Yes. Let's. Please. I... really need the distraction right now."

I followed her up to the Mahogany room, working very hard to ignore the way her body moved in front of me, and swept my notes aside so that there was room for her at my desk.

She slotted in, then took a quick, shivery breath as I pushed in hard up against her so that my hip touched hers.

She didn't protest. And, in fact, she leaned in against me just a little bit, as if she liked having me there.

So I parked my own quest and took up hers again, and we dug into the knot-work of families and movements that seemed to lead us back into the darkness of the Old lands.

The sun swung down into the south west and the light dimmed. I turned on the overhead lights, but even they failed to truly shift the gloom.

At last even my eyes began to fail me.

"Fille de pute, I need a break," I cursed, thrusting my pad and pencils away from me. I rubbed hard at my temples.

"God, my bum is numb," she groaned. "Can't you order better chairs? These are terrible."

"And risk the students never leaving?"

She laughed and pushed her shoulder against mine once more.

"So..." she said, softly, as she touched the back of my hand with her fingers.

"Yeah?"

She was being... familiar with me. Touching me, caressing me.

Ensnaring you, warned the watchful part of me.

"So listen. I know you're still raw. But... please will you come home with me again? It would mean so much to me..."

"Um..."

"Dad finished a commission. We're celebrating. Another big, traditional family meal. Nana Eleri specifically asked me to bring you."

"Oh? Did she? How sweet of her to think of me."

"You must have made quite an impression."

The question hung in the air between us.

"She's... very knowledgeable."

Sophie snorted.

"Fine. Keep your secrets," she said. She leaned in, and I froze for a breathless moment as she breathed "You'll tell me everything in the end" into my ear.

Something turned over inside me; I shifted, twisted on my seat, and stared into her beautiful eyes.

Colour flushed into her cheeks and she swallowed...

And suddenly, I realised what I was in danger of doing.

I shuffled my papers, she shivered and looked away.

My heart was pounding in my chest; I'd been within a heartbeat of trying to kiss her.

"So... dinner?" I said, coughing to clear my throat. "Should I... change?"

"No. You're... you're great just how you are."

Which of course didn't help my concentration at all.

She locked the front doors for me, and insisted on carrying my backpack. "At least you listened to me about this," she observed as she hefted it.

"I do sometimes listen."

She rolled her eyes but didn't respond. We locked the back door of the Library, and she linked arms with me without even asking permission first.

I stared up at her for a moment, so tall and... beautiful in the evening's deepening half-light.

I was becoming dangerously fond of this girl, even though I knew it would all end in my tears.

But I seemed powerless to pull back. Powerless to keep away from the steep precipice of desire.

I sighed out a slow, unsteady breath and leaned my head in against her shoulder.

The soft little noise she made made my chest ache.

A few steps later she turned and brushed her lips across the crown of my head.

I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to capture the perfect agony of the moment.

And, step by step, I allowed to her lead my heart... astray.

☽●☾

Midnight came and went; it was well into witching hour. Small groups of girls and boys were stumbling merrily homewards, none noticing me in my slate-grey shirt and my aged black denims.

I'd picked the plinth of a weathered stone Lion as my perch for the evening; I nestled between his paws, nearly hidden in the shadow of his stylised mane.

I was hunting, and for tonight I'd decided to watch the pubs near Ulcaster's long-abandoned ferry dock - a known student haunt and, I thought, the kind of place something like me would go... looking... were I thirsty.

It had been two weeks since Sarah's death; a long, mostly-horrendous succession of days and nights made bearable only by the physical warmth of Sophie and, to an extent, her family. They'd taken me under their wing like some estranged cousin; I spent every evening with them, wrapped in laughter and song, with Sophie's warm, living body pressed tightly up against me more often than not. Her hand would sometimes rest on my thigh, and I'd try my utmost not to squirm against her.

My body burned for her. I frequently fantasised of kissing her, of tearing her clothes from her body so that I could trail my lips over her lithe, writhing form.

I wanted her with an almost physical pain.

But something stopped me from taking that step that she seemed so inclined to lead me to.

I feared. Feared for her family, my new friends, and most of all... for her.

For I knew that I'd become desperately fond of this strange, tall, gangly girl. Perhaps I even... but no. There was no chance for that between us. My nature would come out in some way, and she would leave me.

So I always kept a little aloof, a little of me back, and I could always feel the weight of Nana Eleri's gaze.

And so, now, this new method of coping.

I'd become a stalker of Hunters, though I doubted still the exact nature of the creature I sought.

But I knew how he or she would appear.

Tall, dashing, urbane, beautiful...

I knew Sarah's type, and I knew she'd never have lingered long enough around someone who wasn't intriguing to become an easy mark. She'd been a canny woman; not easily fooled. She'd have kept clear of someone who felt... off.

So I watched and I waited.

The pleasure of Sophie's playful goodnight kiss to my cheek had long since faded, the warmth of her farewell hug and cheeky little brush of fingers over my bum a fond but distant memory.

The wind blew, but its chill was nothing when compared to my own inner cold.

I sat, patient as a stone, watching.

Groups formed, dispersed. Once or twice I thought I had a mark, only to discard them shortly afterwards.

The moon swung low into the West.

The great bell of St James and All Angels pealed out a single time.

One o'clock.

And then...

Footsteps.

A figure.

A pale wool cape, a red-black scarf over pale hair, and the flare of a cigarette in two glittering eyes.

I shivered.

"That looks to be an uncomfortable perch," said Angela Cole.

"It is," I admitted.

"What on Earth are you doing up there, then?" she asked, amused.

"Um..."

"Mademoiselle Devereux - if you're looking for someone, the best way to find them is not to be so fucking obvious about it."

"Er..."

"Do you really think that a murderer is going to waltz along here with a sign above his head that reads "It was me"?"

I flushed.

"You have made your point."

"I rather doubt that. But anyway... oh, just come down here, for God's sake. That Lion really doesn't suit you at all."

I slid off the plinth and brushed my hands self-consciously on my thighs.

She eyed me, then turned.

"Walk with me for a while, Mademoiselle," she said. I got the strong impression that it wasn't a request.

I shoved my hands into my pockets and hunched my shoulders as I followed her into a pool of deeper night.

"What is it that you are hoping to do with this theatrical lurking?"

She was laughing at me; I bristled.

"Find the crapule who killed..."

"... your friend. Yes, fine, granted. But at what cost, Miss Devereux?"

"What do you mean?"

"Do you think I am the only one who sees you?"

"Er..."

"Do you think your nature is not clear to anyone who can read the signs?"

I froze.

She took a step, and another, and then turned.

"I know precisely what you are, Annemarie-Jean," she whispered.

Panic gripped me; I began to scan for an escape, any escape...

She held up her hand, palm outwards. "I said, I know what you are. I know what you do to... survive. I know who made you. I know what you did to him in return."

"How..." I panted, sick with fear.

"As I said," she answered, "your nature is clear for those of us with the eyes to see. Do you think your new friend's grandmother is the only one of the Wise? Do you think she does not have... friends of her own?"

She advanced a step.

"I, too, watch the edges of the world. Now... Stop."

The Command was irresistible.

She took my arm and pushed me back against a dirty section of river wall. Her eyes were blue as ice; there was no warmth in them, but there was... pity.

"Stop this risk-taking. Stop being so obvious. I will find your friend's killer and I will end it, I give you my word. But I can only do that if you trust me and let me do my fucking job."

"I... I..."

"Do you want to die, Miss Devereux?"

"No. No, I don't want to..."

"Do you want Sophie Albescu to die?"

"No!" I screamed in sudden terror.

"Then stop courting Death. And tell that well-meaning but foolish girlfriend of yours that the last place she should be at this time of night is here."

"What... what do you mean?"

And she cupped my chin and turned my face.

To my horror, I saw Sophie staring at both of us from a puddle of lamplight not even fifteen yards away.

"She followed you here and has been sitting by a window in that pub just over the road, watching you, fretting herself silly, scared that you're losing your grip. Consider this a friendly warning," Angela Cole said to me. "My final one. Take her and go home. Read your books. Keep your pretty little noses out of this mess. I will find the killer and I will make sure he or she faces the justice he or she deserves. Take your lover and go home."

She released me with a flourish, and I darted to Sophie like a frightened rabbit.

"Annemarie?" Sophie said, voice tight with fear. "What the fuck was that..."

I grabbed her arm.

"We have to go. We have to go, now."

"Where?"

"Home. We're going. We're going, now! Run, Sophie!"

And such was the power of my Command that she didn't even try to struggle; she just mutely broke into a sprint beside me, eyes wide and vacant, not coming back to herself until I'd locked and barred my door behind us.

"Imbécile! What the fuck were you doing?" I panted, palms flat against the inside surface of my door.

"Excuse me, but what the fuck? What just happened? Where are we?" she rasped, rubbing at the bruise on her arm, staring wildly around, clearly confused by the gap in her memory.

I spun, angered almost beyond reason.

"What in the holy name of God were you doing out and about at this time of night?"

"Not that it's any business of yours..."

"Do you have any idea how dangerous it is?" I screamed.

She froze, then took a half-step backwards.

"Don't you dare raise your voice to me," she said, soft and level. "Unlock the door."

"No!"

"Unlock the door right now, Annemarie."

"Non!"

"Unlock the door, or..."

"Or what?" I shrieked. "Unlock the door, so you can go out into the darkness and be murdered? Never, do you hear me! I'm never going to unlock this door! I'm never going to let that happen to you! Never, ever, ever!"

And suddenly I realised I was shaking her by her shoulders, her face blurry through my tears.

I froze.

She was shaking.

No, she was terrified.

I pulled back, covering my mouth with my hands, horrified.

"I'm so sorry!" I cried. "I'm so sorry! I didn't mean to scare you, I'm just so scared that... that something will happen to you and it will be my fault! I'm sorry!"