A/N: The blood bank scene in Chapter 3, as well as everything past it, was revised on 5/08/2005. If you read Chapter 3 prior to this date, please reread the last two scenes so the events in Chapter 4 will make sense to you. Sorry for the inconvenience. Thanks for reading!
- -
"Greta, are you in there? Greta?"
Seras rapped her knuckles lightly on the locked bedroom door. Something behind it whimpered and scooted until it bumped the opposite wall.
"Greta, sweetie, can I talk to you for a moment? I won't hurt you, I promise."
"No, go away!"
"You don't even have to open the door. Just hear what I have to say, all right?"
No response.
Seras took that as a sign to continue, but what was she going to say? When people around her were sniveling, it was usually because she had a very large gun pointed at their head and her finger was squeezing the trigger. The art of gentle coaxing had given way to blunt statement of fact, and this was a situation that required sympathy.
Talking down to Greta wouldn't work. Though she was a child, her current actions showed that she had at least some common sense and luring her out would take effort. What candy-coated phrases would appeal to a nine-year-old without insulting their intellect?
Finally Seras settled upon using the same technique she'd employed with Nate when she'd pulled him off the streets—ultimatum. Sure, kid, you're living in a house with two vampires, but it's either that or I throw you to the mercy of your relatives and let them put you in an London orphanage, where you'd be bounced from home to home like a ping-pong ball until you turned eighteen. Sound fun? Well, it's your choice.
She'd be more tactful than that, of course.
"Greta? Listen. I know you're afraid, but I'm not going to hurt you, I promise."
"You're a Freak, you're going to kill me!" Greta shrieked. Something shattered against the door.
Seras winced. "Are you throwing the perfume bottles from the vanity?"
"I'll break them all, I mean it!"
Feel free, thought Seras; she didn't use them anyway. And who knew? Maybe the resulting stink of ten different kinds of perfume commingling would drive Greta out without any work on Seras's part.
"Greta, you don't have to throw things. I'm not trying to get you, I just want to talk."
"I don't talk to Freaks."
"I'm a vampire. There's a difference."
"What difference?"
"Well I'm nicer, for one thing. Would a Freak buy you a designer wardrobe?"
"You're like the witch in Hansel and Gretel; you just wanna butter me up so you can eat me."
Damn. Why'd she have to be clever? Better yet, who did the Brothers Grimm think they were? Oh well. So bribery was out, too. Onto her next trick, then.
"Greta, I don't want to eat you, I just want to be nice to you. What have I done to make you scared of me?"
"You killed my parents!"
"I killed them? Excuse me?" Then, "Wait. How do you know they're dead?"
"Mr. Nate told me. He said that—well, that you protected me when the Freaks attacked my dad. And then he said that they found their bodies…"
She sniffled, then shouted, "You weren't gonna tell me! You were gonna wait until I thought they'd forgotten about me, then I'd trust you and you'd kill me!"
"Greta, that doesn't make sense. If we were going to kill you we could've done it at any point during the last five days. Why would we spend time taking you shopping, buying you food or keeping you entertained if all we wanted was a midnight snack?"
It seemed that Greta didn't have an answer for that. While she mulled it over Seras wondered where she could find a cat o' nine tails and a large can of salt at this hour. She had plans for Nate when he returned, oh yes.
Greta spoke again. She was closer to the door now.
"If you aren't going to eat me, then what are you gonna do with me?"
"We're going to take care of you for as long as it's needed, that's all. None of this…whatever it is you're thinking of. We're really nice people, Nate and I. You've got to trust us."
"You could just be saying that. You could be lying."
"And I could be telling the truth. You're going to have to come out of that room sometime, Greta. There's no food in there, for one."
Greta's fingers closed around the door handle with a soft plop.
"Do you eat other people?"
"You mean do I hunt them?"
"Yeah."
"No. I get my blood from the hospital. Nate gets his from meat and such. We don't kill people, Greta."
"But the hospital blood is from people. And isn't that stealing?"
Yes, thought Seras.
"No," Said Seras, "There are, uh…very nice hospital workers who give it to us."
"It's still from people."
"Well, yes…but I can't help that. All I can promise is that I don't kill people, Greta. But I do have to drink their blood."
When Greta spoke again her voice was small and warbled. "Do you promise you won't kill me?"
"I do."
I do. Seras told the part of herself that still thrilled at the knowledge that the only thing between her and her best meal in thirty years was a flimsy wooden door.
The lock clicked. The door opened.
Greta's trembling form filled the lower half of the doorway. In her left hand she clutched some ten or twelve perfume vials as though they were grenades. Her right hand was balled into a fist, and despite the terror in her eyes her stance said, "I'm ready."
Seras sucked in her lips and inhaled shakily, struggling not to laugh. A frizzy haired nine-year-old girl in an oversized nightshirt wielding fragrances was the most interesting threat she'd faced her entire life. She choked down the last hints of amusement and affected what she hoped was a comforting grin.
"There, you see? I didn't do a single thing."
Greta nodded but didn't move. Seras sniffed the air then recoiled.
"I'm sorry, kid, but you stink. How many of those things did you throw?"
"Five."
"Five? No wonder! I think you need a shower."
Judging by Greta's expression, she thought so, too. But all she said was, "I'm hungry."
"I'll make you a pizza while you're in the bathroom. Deal?"
"Are you going to poison it?"
"No."
Greta edged past her, back flat against the wall and her eyes never leaving Seras's. She backed around the hall table, fumbled for the bathroom doorknob and darted inside.
Seras entered Greta's bedroom and opened the windows wide. Then she pulled a fresh set of nightclothes from the shelves, went into the hall and knocked on the bathroom door.
"I think you forgot clothes, Greta."
The door opened enough for willow thin hand and wrist to slip through and grab blindly at the air. Seras dropped the clothes into Greta's hand, and the door slammed shut again.
Chuckling, Seras descended the stairs to make good on her promise.
- -
When Nate finally slinked home it was just before eleven. Greta was dozing lightly in her bedroom, having just finished a meal of pizza, lemonade, and a third of her body weight in gummy bears. Apparently Nate had neglected to buy anything vaguely healthy during his trips to the supermarket; that was something Seras would have to rectify in the coming days.
Seras had even deigned to try a few of the sticky confections, only to find that they liked to impale themselves on her fangs. Greta had found it amusing, though she was still wary. It was to be expected, Seras supposed. There was nothing to do but wait for Greta to relax again.
Seras was cleaning up the leftovers from the kitchen table when she heard the shuh sound of the backdoor sliding shut. Nearly silent footsteps padded across the floor towards the kitchen—he was sock-footed, no doubt, since he cared far too much about the wool carpeting to risk soiling it with mucky boots.
Six ailing roses and a box marked Harbinger H.I.L.C. Series 2394e Charge Cartridges edged around the side of the kitchen archway. When no deadly utensils were launched in their direction, they were joined by ink black spiky hair, followed by nervous eyes and a squared nose.
Nate wiggled the roses. "Hey," He said. Then he looked in distress at the petals that had been dislodged by his brief action.
Seras glanced at him and arched an eyebrow. She poured soap in the dishwasher and turned it on. She unlaced her apron and hung it in the pantry, closed the door and decided it was time to formally acknowledge him.
"Hello, Nathaniel."
He set his presents on the freshly cleaned table, and removed them quickly when she hissed at him.
"So, uh…how'd it go? Is she still freaking out, or…?"
"I calmed her down."
"Really? Oh, wow, great! I mean, you're really good with that kind of thing, Seras, 'Seras the Soothsayer' they ought to call you—"
"Be quiet, Nate."
He clamped his lips shut. She circled around him twice, trying not to snicker as sweat beaded on his brow. Finally she stopped in front of him and gripped his chin firmly between her forefinger and thumb, then jerked his head down and moved it from side to side, examining his swollen eye. It had turned purple and black around the edges, but it hadn't spread very far.
"Sit." She said, and pointed to a chair at the kitchen table.
She got a clean dishtowel and emptied onto it the contents of a tray of ice from the freezer. She clamped the towel shut with a rubber band, crossed the floor to the table and dropped it in front of Nate.
"For your eye." She said. "The swelling will go down soon anyway, but this will help."
"Thank you Seras."
"Mhm." She continued to stare at the bruise. "What did she do to you, anyway?"
"Kicked me in the face."
"Hah!"
"Yeah, well, cornering the terrified is never a good way to go. I guess I forgot."
He glared at Seras, who was still snickering. She was really starting to like that girl.
"Hey, Seras?"
"What?"
"I'm sorry."
Seras picked up the roses and twirled them around, creating a small shower of red-brown petals.
"These are almost dead." She said. She knew Nate was trying not to say anything about the debris she was leaving. It was his job to clean the house—in theory. He preferred being anal-retentive about not getting it dirty in the first place, giving him another few hours a week to slouch around watching T.V. or spend time playing in Virtuaspace. She was never sure whether to call him dedicated or lazy as hell.
"I can't help it, they're out of season! This was all the deli guy had."
She set them down carefully on the table, then turned her attention to the second peace offering.
"You went into the Bronx," She said, tapping the ammunition box. "They don't sell these are the corner store."
He scratched the back of his neck and managed a nervous grin. "My weapons guy called while I was out and said he'd gotten my order. I went to pick it up."
Her usual warning about going into that part of the Bronx hung on the edge of her tongue, but she pulled it back. To slip into one of their old arguments would mean that she'd forgiven him, and even though she was losing her resolve, she wanted to draw out her shunning as long as possible.
"Well, you were busy today. Shopping trips, ammo runs, potentially earning us a visit from the NYC Anti-Freak Force —you must be tuckered out, poor thing."
"Look, Seras, I'm really, really sorry about that. But nothing bad happened, right? I mean, it could have," He amended, catching her expression, "But it was an accident! And she took it well, yeah? No pitchforks, no torches, no calls for our blood spilled on the streets? I know I deserve it, but can't you spare me your awesome wrath just this once?"
"It's amazing how many 'just this once'-s I've granted you since I took you in."
"Is that a yes?"
She sighed. "Fine, Nate, you're forgiven. Now stop making that kicked puppy face and find a vase for your ugly roses."
He beamed at her, then he leapt from his chair and crushed her in a hug.
"Hey, stop, put me down!" She yelped.
He obliged, but not before a few more seconds had passed and he'd given her a gentle squeeze. She smoothed out her wrinkled shirt and glared him, but her annoyance was deflected by his good cheer.
"So what did you say to get her to calm down?" He asked as he filled a vase with water for the roses.
"That we wouldn't eat her. You're supposed to go and promise her the same thing, by the way. Apparently she doesn't trust someone's word on hearsay."
"Smart kid."
"I know. That's what worries me."
"You aren't still thinking she's going to call the cops, are you?"
"Just be careful around her, Nate. Don't give her a reason to be upset with us."
"God, Seras, have you always been this paranoid? You're a vampire for crying out loud! What could all of them—" He gestured to indicate the outside world, "Do to you?"
"Physically? Nothing. But I've lived here for twenty years, Nate, and I don't feel like relocating or getting a new identity. I suggest you drop the subject now. You're skating on thin ice already, and you don't want to piss me off."
He raised his hands as if to ward her off.
"Fine, fine, I can see you're moody. I'm going to bed."
"I'm moody? After everything that's happened—" She clenched her fists, growled, then took a deep breath.
"Look, just—just check on Greta on the way up. She's in her room."
"Yes ma'am." He saluted and left.
Seras finished in the kitchen and looked at the wall clock—eleven twenty. Most Freaks didn't even wake up until this hour. The only reason she'd risen so early—six o' clock, she believed, only half an hour or so after the sun had set—was because she'd been expecting the call from Greta's aunt.
Damn. She'd forgotten about that. Greta would have to know about the situation with her father's family. Then again, if they were as hostile as they'd claimed to be towards Greta's family, the news might not be surprising. It was something to talk about once Greta was a bit more trusting—or, maybe, while she was still cowering in terror. At least then she'd be able to get all her fear and trembling over with at once.
My. That was cruel, she chided herself, but not with the feeling she'd expected. What was wrong with her?
It was like the Saturday before Salvation Day. She'd been sitting in her study when it had happened, listening to music and enjoying a warm mug of blood. She'd heard the scream, felt the victim's heart slamming and then the abrupt stop—and she hadn't moved. She'd bowed her head, closed her eyes and took another drink.
She hadn't known it was a child. If she'd known, then maybe—
Nate hadn't asked her why she didn't act. Did he think that it had happened too far away for her to detect? Perhaps. But lately he'd been insistent about her picking up her old routine again, returning to the nights when she'd burst into old warehouses and shabby apartments and mow down Freaks as they prepared to indulge in an unwilling meal. Did Nate detect—could he know—
She stopped, and dared not continue the thought. She would not obliterate the vestiges of her humanity by thinking those words.
But the thoughts swam upward from the depths of her mind, breaching the blackness and declaring in mocking tones:
"I just don't care anymore."
And the red-cloaked villain leered at her from across the centuries, with a body clutched in his hands, his teeth stained with cooling life and his approving eyes two lurid pinpoints in the swirling shadow that was his hair…
No!
Her fist slammed the counter and cracked the marble. She cursed and listened to see if her outburst had drawn any attention. Nate was in the shower judging by the gurgling of the pipes, and Greta's heartbeat hadn't fluttered with the shock of a sudden noise.
No, no one had heard. Now that she thought about it, however, this made for two things that needed repairing—the table in her study, and now the counter. It wasn't the money that bothered her, though the repairs would be ludicrously expensive by default. It was having strangers in her house, poking about in her things, potentially uncovering secrets that—
Be quiet, Seras, and go to sleep.
Yes, she'd do that. It was too early for rest but she was suddenly very, very tired. To sleep, perchance, to dream…
It was the dreaming bit that bothered her. They were never very pleasant after she had thoughts like that, but for once the night proved merciful. Her sleep was unmolested and so unusually peaceful that she didn't feel the crackle of magic upstairs or sense the eyes watching her in the dark.
- -
Days passed.
Greta had been staying with them for a little over two weeks now. Though she had been shy and reserved for the first few days after the St. Patrick's incident, she was slowly filling with the vivacity one would expect of a young child. Seras marveled at how quickly Greta swallowed the grief of her parent's death. Shouldn't there be psychological damage of some sort? Most likely yes, but she was at a loss on how to approach the issue. So she sat back and let Nate handle the nuances of childcare and emotional bandaid-ing. Greta seemed to have latched onto him anyway; they had a disturbingly large number of things in common. And he really did enjoy her company.
He liked her so much, in fact, that he'd finally conceded to her repeated requests to go sightseeing—apparently there hadn't been much time for it prior to Salvation day. And while he was being dragged to every inane tourist spot on the Island, she was going grocery shopping. She told Nate that she appreciated his shopping efforts, she really did, but a half pound of bite size Snickers wasn't one of the basic food groups for a growing girl. She didn't know why she'd expected better, though. Nate was a bit of a child himself.
Her list was short and the lines were too. As she'd established early on in their adventure in childrearing, Seras wasn't a cook. Neither was Nate, though having Greta around was inspiring him to test his culinary skills—she didn't want to think about what the repercussions of that would be.
So, save for some salad fixings and a few bags of fruit, nothing in the cart required more than a can opener and a bit of button pushing. Surely not as healthy as a home cooked meal, but better than forcing Greta to choke down the dry, overcooked remains of whatever dish Nate struggled to create.
The cashier asked her if she wanted to pay with cash or credit.
"Credit," Seras said. She pulled out her wallet and flipped through the pockets, looking for the right card.
"Now where did I put that? Ah, here it—oh!"
A tingle ran through her fingers, like a mild electric shock. She recoiled in surprise, not in pain, and the card fell. She bent and retrieved it, frowning, but nothing happened.
"Odd," She said, and she handed the card to the woman. Then she pried open the pocket the card had been sitting in to see if anything in there might have stung her.
She found a stud earring she'd been missing for a month, and a business card. The former she stuck into her pocket; was that what had shocked her? Funny, she didn't think her body carried a charge anymore…
The card she would've returned to its slot had the oddly glinting letters at the top not caught her eye.
Renise Bristow? Ah! The boy—man—from a few nights ago. With all the fuss over Greta she'd forgotten her hours at the bank; now that she tried to focus on them, the details of their conversation and of Renise himself seemed to blur. That night had been… well, she didn't like to think about it.
What she did remember, however, was that their chat had been cut short by her poor temper. That wasn't the glowing impression she'd hoped to make on the first nosferatu she'd met in seventy years.
Then again, her kind wasn't known for being sociable. Maybe he'd overlook her initial grumpiness and agree to a second meeting. It was worth asking, at least.
On the drive home she dialed Renise's number. The phone rang six times before a weary voice mumbled at the other end, "Hello?"
"Oh, hello! Ah, Renise?"
"Yes, who is this?"
"Seras Victoria? I'm the woman you met the other evening. Did I wake you…?"
"No, no." But the grogginess in his voice betrayed him. Seras winced. She was off to a wonderful start.
"I was waiting for your call, actually."
"Right this moment?"
"In general."
"What made you think I was going to call you?"
"I wished it so."
Seras couldn't decide whether to reprimand him or accept the comment in stride. Since she actually wanted him to speak with her again, she chose the latter.
"Why are you awake so early?" He asked. "It is barely past four thirty."
"I had some errands to run while the sun was up. For some reason vendors don't like to stay open until two in the morning."
He chuckled, then yawned. "I understand. But as I was saying before, I assume you have called to take me up on my offer of a second meeting?"
"Oh! Right, yes. That and to apologize for the other night. I…don't recall our conversation, but I know I was a bit short with you then—"
"Do not worry; I could tell you were upset. When would you like to meet? Actually, I am busy tomorrow and Friday, but I have a block of free time on Saturday evening starting at…"
She heard the tapping of buttons on his watch. "…Eleven o' clock. Is that suitable?"
"Uh…yes, yes, it's fine! Eleven o' clock Saturday. And where—"
"Are you familiar with the club Head Rush in Times Square?"
She raised an eyebrow. "You mean the place full of Freaks and druggies?"
"…Yes. There are private rooms two levels above the main floor, and I have rented one for my business meetings. They are not hotel rooms, as you might be thinking. The decor is professional and very elegant."
Oh, she'd never heard that before. Well, she hadn't, but the innuendo was there beneath all the dressing. The sensibilities of age and womanhood voiced their joint disapproval of this arrangement. Bad enough he wanted to meet her in a private room, but that room was in a place of very ill repute. She had no desire to go wading through the hormonal cesspool that was Head Rush. Her urge to kill everyone within would be too strong.
"What do you say, Seras?"
"Isn't there anywhere else?"
"No where that would remain open late enough to suit our schedules."
He had a point. Damn.
"Fine," She said. "Saturday at eleven at Head Rush. Where will I meet you?"
"The bouncer will show you the way up. Tell him you're with Mr. Bristow."
"All right."
"I look forward to seeing you, Seras. Good even—afternoon. My, I really am unused to waking this early."
"I'm sorry about that, really. Goodbye."
"Goodbye."
Wait. Hadn't she called to schedule a date with him? How had he ended up picking the time and place? She replayed the conversation in her mind and couldn't find the point where control had flipped. She shook her head. Oh well. At least her weekend wouldn't be boring.
She arrived home to find two messages on the answering machine. One was from Nate informing her that there was no need to make dinner, since he and Greta were going to dine out. The second was from a representative of the Fairbrooks estate calling to inquire whether or not Seras was ready to turn Greta over. Seras snarled and punched the erase button twice. She was not going to deal with those Fairbrooks people again; if the need for correspondence arose, she would do it through the hospital.
But she would have to talk to them eventually, wouldn't she? Unlike Nate, Greta was not some record less runaway she'd found on the street. Callous bastards or not, the Fairbrooks had legal control of Greta. The only way Seras could keep her was if they gave permission, and while the Fairbrooks had made it clear that they didn't want anything to do with their niece, they might deny Seras custody out of spite.
Wait, custody? What did she want that for? Less than a week ago she'd been plotting how to be rid of the girl, and now she was trying to keep her? Seras couldn't handle another kid. She was too old, too tired, too depressed, too… not as opposed to the idea as she wanted to be. Damn.
But that was a discussion for later. Now it was time to put away the groceries, have dinner and retreat to her coffin before the bags under her eyes and her sun-chaffed skin became permanent features. She had to look good for Saturday, after all. You only got one shot at a second impression.
