Chiaro/scuro

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The woman rose from the surface of the sea and slicked back her short blonde hair. She was beautiful, breathtaking in the way that only young women can be, effortlessly, and without the least hint of vanity or self-consciousness. The million tiny droplets clinging to her skin and hair and eyelashes sparkled like gemstones in the sunlight as she rolled within the gentle swell. She looked as if she belonged to the sea; a fey creature trapped in diamond netting, doomed never to return to her home within its depths.

The warmth of the sun on the crown of her head filled her with joy and her lips parted, tilting upwards, before with a deep breath, she dived back down again and headed in to shore.

...

Deep within the shadows of the Norfolk pines that separated the sea from the long row of terraced cafes beyond, a man sat toying idly with a cold cup of coffee, the occasional ray of sun flaring from the edge of the heavy white gold ring on his forefinger. The casual observer never noticed him sitting way back there in the shade, baseball cap jammed low over his forehead, long black overcoat thrown over his white tee, heavy boots on his feet in place of sandals, which was perhaps the way the man preferred it. Certainly the throngs of holidaymakers darting past him like schools of tropical fish in their brightly coloured summer shorts and singlets never paused for long enough to pay attention to the unusual tourist two tables over. If ever someone did look his way, the gaze slid over him like a waxed surfboard over waves, slick and rapid, leaving no mark in it's passing nor making any demand. The only witnesses who acknowledged or cared about his presence were the café's young waitresses who took orders, sponged tables and wondered idly amongst themselves about the handsome, brooding loner at the back, their hearts and eyelashes fluttering, imagining his strong working man's hands on their thighs or pointed breasts as they went about their work, each secretly harbouring the futile hope that one morning he might look their way.

If the man noticed, he gave no sign of it. He saw only the sea and the sand, and not even the girls whose eyes devoured him observed that it was neither the beauty of the scenery nor the passing tableau of humanity on the beach and in the water that so mesmerised him. He was watching the woman.

It had taken him quite some time and effort to find her and there were days that he despaired, her disappearance had been so complete. He studied the girl as she surfaced near shore and strode confidently through the waves and up onto dry land. Her hair was short, much shorter than she'd ever worn it back in L.A, and she'd allowed the natural wave full sway. The white scraps of fabric clinging to her form left little to the imagination and his eyebrows drew together in a concerned frown. She was thinner, too thin. Perhaps it was just the golden hue of her all over tan that had the slimming effect, but he didn't think so. She had always been a slender girl, but where once her arms and legs were soft and rounded, a welcoming haven after a long and tiring evening, her limbs now had the lean, toned and wiry look of too little food and too much physical labour.

He ran a hand over his stubbled jaw and not for the first time that week wondered what had happened to his wife.

...

Mick had searched high and low for Beth for sixteen months. It was ironic, really, that when at last he'd finally found her, it had been at the other end of the earth. Literally.

Sydney reminded him of L.A.: the heat, the high rollers, that particular glamorous sheen only ever present in those few locations in the world where awe-inspiring landscape intersected with ever-lasting sunshine and tax exempt expense accounts. He grimaced and shaded his eyes as a particularly strong shaft of sunlight flashed across his face. The sun seemed so much brighter and hotter here, and with a grimace, he wondered if its intensity had played a part in Beth's decision to make a home here.

He watched from the other side of the street as she towelled herself dry, the admiring glances of the early morning surfers unmistakeable to his keen vampire eyesight. He clenched his fist, biting down on the desire to sweep in and wrap her into something more befitting his wife – a neck to knee caftan or suit of medieval armour perhaps. She draped a sarong casually around her waist, leaned down and picked up her beach bag, stuffed her towel inside then threw it over her shoulder and moved up onto the boardwalk, heading away from Mick's position directly opposite.

He sat and watched her go. There was no need to follow. He'd been around long enough by now to know her daily routine. It was time for him to head home and catch some freezer time. Tonight, as always, he'd be at his usual post, in the dark, watching over her. Even though she no longer wanted him, he'd promised himself that he wouldn't relinquish his guardianship of her until another man, a human this time, took his place.

He owed her that much.

...

The dead don't dream, they certainly don't have nightmares - at least, that's what Josef always said. That archaic vampire truism never stopped him from seeing her face every night, though, as he slipped into the lingering oblivion that passed for sleep amongst his race. Sometimes it would be her voice he heard, just her voice, saying his name as if she were lying there still, close beside him in the dark the way she'd always been. It felt so real, no matter how often in the months since her departure he'd risen alone as the sun was setting and wiped worthless tears from beneath his frozen cheekbones.

In the beginning, he'd thought that particular version of his own private hell was the worst, but as time went by, he'd learned that darker phantasms than this waited within the void to persecute him. That morning, as he withdrew to the cold comfort of his glass coffin, a familiar apparition invaded his rest. Its horror existed not so much in the vision itself, but in the power it had to torment him with anguished remorse and twisted arousal wrenched from his unconscious…

it was Beth, his darling Beth, her blonde hair long and tousled and brushing against the rosy tips of her nipples, and she is beckoning to him, drawing him to her with cool, white arms, her lips gleaming in the firelight, her smile widening, her canines lengthening, lengthening…

...

He always wakes in fright, wanting to be a little closer to her than is wise after enduring the daylight hours alone with only her terrible doppelganger for company. So he takes a table in the darkest corner, nursing his beer as if he'd never been turned, sucking at it sparingly the way an old man would, his eyes never leaving the slender blonde behind the bar. He knows he is safe, here in the darkest corner of the bar. She never busses tables, the licensee and patrons preferring to glimpse her navel or the tanned crescent of skin that peeps above the hem of her tiny shorts as she reaches high for bottles overhead.

He really shouldn't be this near, but after this morning's nightmare vision he can't bear to be one inch farther. He can breathe her in from here.

...

On her way home she stops under one of the halogen lights that guards the centre of the Corso and washes the area a watery industrial orange. She lifts a foot, examines the ropey sole of her sandshoe. Tonight, as every night, it's been a long shift, eight hours on her feet serving beers and stocking fridges and now there's a pebble under her heel. She bends to release the stone and as she does the edge of her top falls away and Mick can see the fine white scars near her shoulder, livid in the unearthly glow. He's not seen her wounds since the evening they occurred and the sight is vicious, hitting him like a high right hand jabbed up and into his diaphragm. He tried to choke back the gasp, but failed.

Who's there, she demanded, sounding braver than her heartbeat indicated.

The recessed doorway affords him no means to escape undetected and despite his pledge never to reveal himself, now that he's been discovered, he'd rather step out and face her disgust than have her find him skulking here, like the stalker, the freak, he's always felt himself to be.

Oh, it's you, she says, lowering both her handbag and her guard as he steps into the light. He can hear her heartbeat slowing, senses her fingertips loosening from around the can of mace he knows she always carries. Then miraculously she is smiling and as she walks toward him, he can see she's offering him her outstretched hand. The touch heats his blood, and for a second he's overjoyed, feeling a facsimile of life returning to his deadened limbs. But it's just his luck; the euphoria doesn't last long, evaporating rapidly as she smiles and says,

You're that cute guy who always sits right in back. Pleased-to-meet-you-Guy-from-Table-Twenty-three. My name is Susie, Susie Arlo.

...