London, ENGLAND
7 January 1885
It was a cold night even by the standards of the English. Two carriage horses, brown coats glossy in the light of gas lamps, hifted their weight and made their harnesses jingle. The driver, hunched over his knees, rubbed his hands together and blew into them. From the window of the carriage peered a man, his eyes focused to some interdeterminate point. The slightest frown warped his mouth, victim of his lonely thoughts. His index finger curled beneath his lip. The glass fogged with his breath. His stillness and pale skin might have had him mistaken for a marble statue in the day. At night he might have been taken for dead. The streets were so empty that even the quietest steps on the cobbles cracked like gunshot.
The driver's head lifted slightly at the echoing sound. His horses hung their heads close to the ground, occasionally shaking their heads. The man inside had come alive, straining his face against the glass to identify the source of the footsteps. He cracked the door, resting one foot on the step. A woman trotted to the carriage, holding her thick layers of skirt above her ankles with both hands. Her face and shoulders were hidden by blue cloak and cowl. A long-fingered hand reached out from beneath the folds of the cloak. The door opened completely and the man leaned out, half-standing, to help her in. Her head swiveled from side to side before allowing herself ot be pulled in. As the door was closing the man pounded the ceiling. The driver brought the horses to life with a flick of his wrist.
Inside, they settled against the rear seat as the box bumped along the cobbled road. She'd thrown her hood back, revealing a youthful face and loose dark brown hair whose curls tickled her flushed cheeks. The man took one of her hands to kiss it and made a face.
"You should be wearing gloves," he gently scolded, pressing both her hands between his.
She shivered, reslishing the attention.
"When I have such a wonderful hand-warmer, why bother?"
He chuckled. Though she'd freed one of her hands he retained one of them, resting it on his knee and periodically squeezing it. His brown eyes smiled faintly with his pale lips. The interior, whose darkness was regularly invaded by gas lamps, made his otherwise light hair appear almost as dark as hers. His face did little to reveal his age, unlike hers which proclaimed her to have passed the barrier of childhood but not yet having reached her mid-twenties. He could have been twenty or even thirty, so uncertain were his features, but his eyes told a different story. When she looked into them they spoke of a long life full of pain.
"You frighten me, Nicolas," she said.
He brought his gaze back from the window to raise his eyebrows at her. When he spoke, his voice was warm.
"How do I frighten you?"
"You've made me love you so much that I've forgotten everything else."
"Everything?"
"Mm-hm."
"I'm sorry."
"No, don't be!" she laughed. She learned into his side. He unfolded an arm and held her there. Her satisfied smile faltered. "I believe my parents suspect something more than friendship between us."
He grew serious, his brow drawn tight.
"Why do you say that?"
"Little things. Mum and Father whisper about me when I've left the room. When I go to bed I've caught Mum narrowing her eyes at me. It makes me sick to my stomach."
She moaned the last bit. Afterward there was silence between them. All the while he unconsciously massaged his fingers into her arm. His frown had returned. He knew what he wanted to propose to her. It was her response that he dreaded, as well as his own resolve. Even if she agreed to leave her family to be with him how long could he keep his affection alive? She stirred in the middle of these thoughts and he berated himself for even doubting his feelings for a moment. He'd left many women before. It couldn't be the same with her. He refused to allow it to be so.
He touched his lips with a loose fist, eyes unfocused in thought. She waited patiently, staring down at her hands while he considered. How much should he tell and how would he break it to her? If she took it badly, as many before her had, he'd flee the city altogether and commit her to memory with all the others. If she were different, however. . . .
"What if I told you I was different from any other man you know?"
"You wouldn't have to," she said warmly. "I already know."
"More different than that. I . . . ." He looked away. "I'm not sure how to tell you."
She sat up and he dropped his arm as it would no longer reach.
"You're speaking doom and gloom again."
He chuckled. His chin dropped to his chest then jerked back up.
"Yes, I am aren't I."
"Won't it be easier if you just come out and say it?"
Before replying he took a moment to take in the woman beside him. Barely twenty-four and already as insightful as someone twice her age. He became more certain with every passing second that she would be different from the others. With new resolve pounding through his veins, he shifted in the seat so he was facing her with one leg drawn up beneath him. He avoided her eyes, staring at her hands, which he held, instead. A haunted smile played on his face as his carefully prepared thoughts came out less perfectly than he'd planned.
"Catherine, I beg you to hear me out before you say anything. What I'm about to tell you I . . . it's not easy to swallow."
She nodded. "Anything, Nicolas."
He nodded without realizing he was doing it.
"Thank you. I said I was different and I am. I'm . . . not human. At least not anymore." When he looked into her face it was full of conflict. He could feel the words srtiving to burst from her throat that she bit back for him. Here came the hard part. He inhaled deeply before asking, "Have you heard of vampires?"
A sort of amused relief sighed through her.
"Vampires? I've read about them in books but. . . . ."
His hands tightened around hers, not painfully, just enough to get her attention.
"They're real, Catherine!" When she grew serious again he sighed and continued. "I know. I am one."
He watched denial swim into her eyes, which led into a shaking of her head and a stiffening of her limbs that were all-too-familiar to him. Nicolas leaned in closer to her in an effort to keep her with him long enough to explain. God, she was beautiful. He stroked the line of her hair with his fingertips, agonizing over her silence. What would he have to do to convince her that he was telling the truth? How much time would it take for her to accept who he was?
"You know I love you," she finally said.
Relieved yet anxious, he embraced her with an arm. She clung to him tightly, not in tears as he might have expected. Her fingers crushed the collar of his long coat. Her cheek warmed the side of his neck.
"Even if this were true and you were a vampire, how would it change anything? How could it possibly change anything?"
"If you agreed . . . if you really wanted, I could make you like me."
She pulled back, pale in the face.
"A . . . vampire?"
He nodded.
"It's not as horrible as you would think and we could escape. We could be together forever."
A smile defrosted her face.
"Because we'd never die."
"Now you're getting it."
She turned to the window, everything about her turned inward. He could feel the longing in her with little effort. The city streamed by her profiled face. They all looked the same to him, those black unwelcoming alleys of streets. When gaslight streamed in through the window it lit both their faces. He wasn't sure what effect it had upon his own but the pale yellow light flashing across her features moved him to the point where he longed to hold her again. There would be enough time for that, he told himself.
Catherine closed her eyes and leaned her head against the window. Nicolas could desist no longer and he touched her hand. Her eyes slid open, regarding him with love. Both wanted to speak and felt the desire in the other so waited for them to begin. Finally they broke eye contact to chuckle at themselves. Their look snapped back together intensely.
"I don't want to force you into something you don't want to do," Nicolas said.
"I know that."
His fingers tightened around hers.
"If you only understood how I truly felt about you. . . ."
She moved closer to him, a mysterious smile lighting her face.
"I've never doubted it. Not for a moment."
Butterflies had stirred themselves into a frenzy in the pit of her stomach so she could give him no more than a quick kiss. A frightened light had overtaken her eyes till her hands shook if they weren't clutching something. A light of a very different kind had entered Nicolas's eyes. If she hadn't been so nervous, she might have described it as hungry. She couldn't have been more right. His grip on her shoulders was firm. Before she could reveal her decision-which he knew she'd made by the rigidity of her spine-he planted one more kiss on her mouth. This time when they parted there was a finality to the air that made further avoidance of the subject impossible. Catherine drew a shaky breath and sighed without meeting Nicolas's eyes.
"I'd be lying if I said I wasn't afraid. I know there's more to being a . . . vampire than you could ever describe to me. All the stories I've ever heard frighten me and yet," now she brought her eyes to his, "true Eternity with you, Nicolas, how could one refuse such a gift? I would endure Hell if need be to earn it."
"Hopefully it won't be that difficult."
He raised her hand to his lips and, maintaining eye contact, kissed it.
"Will it . . . hurt much?" she asked.
"A little. At first." He held her hand to his heart. "And you trust me?"
She nodded. "If I did not, I wouldn't be here."
"All right then."
Though his voice was full of warmth and comfort, her body refused to cooperate when he reached for her. She told herself that it was just like any other time when they'd been close and he touched her. When she swallowed, it felt like lead. He tilted her head to the left and pushed her cloak back, exposing her pale shoulder and neck. She squeezed her eyes shut, mentally bracing herself for the pain.
A hissing sound like a rush of air escaping from his throat made her jump. Then his fingers were digging into her skin and she felt twin needlepricks in her neck. Gasping, she held onto the back of his head with both hands. Warmth spread over her breast as a deep cold feeling welled up from inside. Her last memory of the event was Nicolas whispering something unintelligible as he tucked her head against his shoulder.