Aubade

By Insomniac Owl

Herrick says you can get used to anything, and on mornings like these Mitchell thinks he's right. He doesn't recognize the room he's in, and there's dried blood caught under his nails; once these things would have made his heart seize up in panic. Now he takes his time. Scrapes the dark flecks from under his nails and scatters them onto the carpet.

He could linger, if he wanted to. He could have breakfast, read the newspaper, go through the record collection in the living room. But the blood in his veins is heavy. There's a woman's arm flung out from the bedroom doorway into the hall, just visible from where he sits, and all he feels is a calm sort of acknowledgement. Seventy years ago the sight would have made him recoil but now there's blood dried on his face, sticky and dark, and he's the one who killed her.

He doesn't even go look. Just moves toward the kitchen, toward the phone, where he dials a number from memory.

"I need someone for London," he says, catching the phone between ear and shoulder.

"You want clean up or a welcoming committee?"

"Clean up." He turns over a bill on the counter. "For 103 Camden Street. I'll leave the door unlocked."

He leaves the woman lying there on the floor, while he unlocks the front door and slips out the back. Through a neighbor's yard, over a fence, and then he's out on the street. There's a ruthless clarity to his thoughts, to every step and touch of his fingers, and when he turns his face to the sky and laughs it feels good, feels right. It will fade, of course, along with the stiffness in his shoulders and the dried blood under his nails. All his doubts will flood back, all his questions and insecurities, but for now his smile is sickle-sharp, and every thought ruthless and perfect and clear.

It's a quick walk back to the hotel where he and Herrick are staying. It's still early, and there aren't many people out, but he checks to make sure his jacket is zipped up, wipes his mouth again, and takes the stairs because no one else does. But when he reaches the third floor landing, he stops. Herrick had said he'd be in room 308, but for a moment Mitchell is certain there's been a mistake. It has to be a mistake. Their door is open, a cleaning cart just outside, and he can hear someone moving around in the room, rustling bed-sheets and, low and indistinct, a woman humming. If Herrick's not there and he left a mess behind –

Jumping forward, Mitchell leans in through the door. A maid is smoothing down the sheets, Herrick nowhere in sight, but the room is clean, no signs of blood or a struggle, and Mitchell drops his head, lets himself breathe. The blood in his veins is lighter now. He can barely feel it there at all.

"Have we checked out, then?" he asks.

The woman starts, but she's smiling when she turns around. "Didn't realize you were there, dear," she says. "I'll be done in a bit."

"It's fine, we don't have to be out of here until noon." He leans against the doorframe, crosses his arms. "Actually, here, let me." He moves to take the duvet she's lifting from the floor, but she waves him away.

"Oh, that's quite alright," she says. "Thank you. But this is my job."

"No, really. Let me help."

The room around him is cool, flat and grey as a lake after a storm, and his old thoughts and feelings, shoved away in the aftermath of feeding, are beginning to seep back. It's always like this, like waking from a dream to find the world less bright and true than you remember. His thoughts are hazy at the edges. Human.

"Seriously, come on," he says. He thinks he might be smiling.

"Sir," the maid says. "It's my job."

"Just – here."

"Sir –"

"Let me help!"

"Sir!"

"God dammit, let me help you!" Their eyes meet and the woman pulls away from what she sees there, and Mitchell has the duvet away from her in a heartbeat. Afterward she just stands there, hands drawn up to her chest, eyes wide in a look he knows, has seen on a thousand faces in hotel rooms just like this. He's not sure what to do with the duvet.

The sound of footsteps comes clicking down the hall then, getting closer, louder, and stopping in the doorway behind him.

"Oh. Well then."

It's Herrick.

Mitchell knows how this is going to end.