As usual, props to Edgar and Simon for creating Shaun of the Dead in the first place (and congrats to them on their Empire Award for Best British Film—yeah boi!). And special thanks to Nic for being my collaborator, my co-conspirator, and my continuity co-pilot.
"Are you awake?"
She was, but Sara pretended to sleep, oblivious to Shaun's question. Her head tilted toward him in the impossibly deep down pillow. If there was one thing she could say about this hotel, really bad mojo but fantastic linens. She could feel the warmth of his body beside her and resisted the temptation to open her eyes for just a little longer. Something in her gut told her he needed a moment to himself. To see her as he wanted to, undisturbed, without her attention influencing how he might feel. His fingers closed around her own under the sheets.
When she finally opened her eyes, the first thing she saw was Shaun wearing the laziest, dreamiest, sexiest look she'd ever seen. On anyone. Ever. With the curtains still drawn, the light in the room was spare and gauzy and his eyes were like the ocean on a drizzly winter morning. They sparked a little when he noticed her awaken; his mouth slowly spread into a smile that made her ache inside. She wanted him again instantly, in spite of the way his hair was bed-headedly tweaked sideways like stray feathers on a duck. Sort of enhanced the feeling, actually.
"Hi," she purred, stretching every muscle from her fingers to her toes. He replied by drawing her hand to his lips and placing a small kiss on her knuckles. "How long have you been watching me?"
"Feels like aaaaages," he whispered, rolling his eyes comically. Sara tittered, inching like a caterpillar toward his open arms. He stroked the hair away from her face and clasped his mouth upon hers with a long, low exhale. She longed for every morning to start like this. Though if the rest of the day also didn't involve tracking a vengeance demon, or worrying about how Shaun was going to break it off with his girlfriend…. yeah, that'd be nice.
After poring over texts and photographs all night, Julian decided it was time to speak with their prime suspect, Evelyn Fairfax. He tossed on his jacket, shook the lack of sleep off his tired shoulders and walked the long length of the hotel's halls toward the east wing. He paused, briefly, to shift into determined interrogation mode, then knocked on the innkeeper's door.
She wore a lavender dressing gown, her hair plaited and draped over one shoulder. Julian couldn't help remarking to himself that she was remarkably striking for her age. Shrewish, but striking. She greeted him with a perplexed look. "Can I help you, Mr. West?"
"Mrs. Fairfax, we need to talk."
"I've said all I'm going to say to you. Now you're welcome to take your ridiculous theories and conjectures to the police, but I have other things to attend to."
"Like summoning another vengeance demon?"
Mrs. Fairfax's pupils seemed to shrink to the size of pinheads and she sneered at him. "I don't know what you're talking about." She tried to shut the door, but he stopped it with a forceful hand.
"We found your little scorned woman scrapbook, Evie. The divorce papers, the photos of your husband with another woman, the pages and pages of incantations. Oh, and also a couple of bodies." He stepped forward into the room, leaning imposingly against the doorway. Two could play at this game. "So I think it's time we had a chat."
"This is ridiculous. I don't have to stand here and take this harassment." She flew toward the telephone, presumably to call the wait staff and have him removed; Julian wrested the phone out of her hand then gently guided her to a chair, removed two pairs of handcuffs, and with a Houdini-like grace he deftly shackled her to the arm rests. Mrs. Fairfax attempted to resist, but only so much; Julian wondered if she found it unbecoming of a lady to put up too much of a struggle.
"Now, the cuffs come off when you start giving me some straight answers."
"I honestly have no idea what you're talking about!" she protested.
"Maybe these will refresh your memory." He methodically laid his evidence out on the table in front of her.
Her eyes glanced over the photos and notebook pages, but her face betrayed no emotion. "Why are you showing me all this?"
"None of this rings a bell?"
"No," she firmly declared. "I don't know what you want me to say, Mr. West. I've already told you that I had nothing to do with those girls' disappearances."
Julian bit his lip, retreating to the armchair across the room. He sat down, folded his legs calmly and contemplated the merry widow. "You see, I tend to get a bit impatient when rank amateurs start playing around with dark forces they can't even begin to comprehend. And when the foolishness of such people endangers the life of my colleague, I can get downright nasty. So why don't you tell me exactly when, where, and how you conjured up a Velkor demon?"
"A Velkor demon?"
Suddenly, Julian leapt from the chair and leaned so far forward that Mrs. Fairfax's head banged the wall behind her.
"Ouch!"
"Yes, Mrs. Fairfax. Big, blue, spiky guy with a very bad disposition and an insatiable bloodlust. Currently squatting in that musty old chapel on the grounds, as if you didn't know."
She looked away, sorting through her thoughts. A glimmer of recognition seemed to soften those piercing green eyes. "You have to understand, I was very hurt and angry at the time. I didn't know what I was doing."
"That's quite clear."
"My husband had just left me for some two-bit floozy. Fifteen years I'd given that man, and that was how he repaid me. I wanted revenge. I wanted them both to suffer as I did." She leaned back into the chair and gritted her teeth, then continued: "So I went to see a friend of mine, Prunella Davies. She lives in the village, runs a bookshop. There were rumors when we were children that she was descended from a line of witches, and in adulthood she scarcely made a secret of her knowledge of the occult, rituals and chants, all that."
She paused, sighing heavily. Julian's patience began to wear thin. "Please go on, Mrs. Fairfax."
"Pru recommended trying to secure the services of a vengeance demon. She gave me everything I needed for the spell, and I tried to follow all of her instructions but Latin was never my strong point." Evelyn gasped, one hand flying up to cover her mouth; the handcuffs wouldn't reach, though. Her lip quivered and she simply stared at Julian. "And I think something went wrong."
Julian felt a slight twinge of pity and kneeled in front of her. "What do you mean?"
"The demon—a Velkor, you say—it appeared from this sort of portal. It was horrible. Not at all like the pictures in the book. I feared at first that it might kill me, but it didn't seem interested in me. And then I found that I wasn't able to control it."
"Terrific." Julian rubbed his brow in frustration.
"I tried, I did! But it wouldn't obey my commands. At this point, I'm simply staying out of its way. Pru gave me this amulet to protect me from it." She moved aside the collar of her dressing gown to reveal an antiquated pendant set in gold.
He shook his head wearily, took out his cell phone and hurriedly punched in the numbers. "Yeah, this is Julian West. I need you to patch me through to Archives." He then reached over and yanked the amulet from her throat. "By the way, this is a cheap amethyst trinket that isn't gonna' ward off bugger-all. I'd have a long talk with your dear friend Pru if I were you, because I've got a feeling there's a reason why I've never heard of the fearsome Davies coven." He chucked the necklace into the trash bin and stepped out into the hallway.
"Council Archives, we put the 'super' in supernatural," the enthusiastic voice greeted. "How can I help you?"
"Nicola? It's Julian."
"Oh, hiiiiiiii." The librarian's voice descended suddenly from chipper to saucy. "How's everything in the Lake District?"
"Spectacularly bad. But thanks for asking. Why are you in the office at this hour?"
"I know, I know. You're thinking 'it's Sunday, I'd rather be in bed'." Emphasis on the last word, he noted.
"And you're thinking 'it's Sunday, I'd rather be surrounded by dusty old books'."
"It's a valid lifestyle choice," she insisted.
"Fine. Have you found any further information on this inn?"
"Well, yeah," she replied hesitantly. Julian heard the rustle of volumes shuffling about on her desk; "I finally found an origin story on our woman in white, the one that never checked out of Room 34. Her name was Margaret Winfield. She got married in the nearby chapel in 1845, and the newlyweds spent the night in the honeymoon suite, which at the time was Room 34. Only poor Margaret never saw the sun rise on her new marriage. She drowned in the bathtub. Her death was ruled a suicide, but there was speculation that her husband, who happened to be deeply in debt, might have killed her. Didn't help that he inherited a sizable estate and inheritance upon her death."
Julian glanced skyward and closed his eyes tight; several more pieces suddenly fell into place. "So we might very well have a vengeful spirit working in tandem with a vengeance demon?"
"I'd say it's quite probable."
"Ah, but demons and spirits normally do not play in the same sandbox." He drummed his fingers on the wall, puzzling. "I'll bet you a curry there's some other explanation."
"Shall I add that to the pint, fish and chips, and movie that you already owe me?" Saucy, definitely…Nic had something else on her mind besides a playful bet. Naturally, Julian observed the tone of her voice and blew it off. For now.
"Yes, put it on my tab. And for God's sake, go home and get out of that office."
"Oui, monsieur."
Meanwhile in Room 23, Emma wiped away the last trace of her face cream and stared into the mirror. So Shaun was a lost cause, then. Fine, big deal - Little Miss Video with the violent streak could take him or leave him; frankly, she didn't care. Sure, they'd had some good times, and Shaun made her laugh a lot. He could be surprisingly chivalrous, considering his other more childish tendencies. And he was quite heartbreakingly cute; she'd certainly miss their Sunday morning lie-ins. But let's face it - a cuddle certainly isn't anything to write to Cosmo about.
It was time to move on, she resolved. She could get a makeover, buy some new clothes. Perhaps call up Patrick again, that handsome Cambridge grad her mate Susannah had introduced her to last month. The one with the rugby player's body, the Porsche Boxster and the corner office. Yes, absolutely…if she played her cards right, maybe she could be Mrs. Patrick Miles by Boxing Day.
She continued to contemplate her future prospects as she brushed her teeth, and after rinsing her mouth and looking in the mirror again…she saw a figure behind her. A horrifying spectre of a woman in a white dress, drenched from head to toe, tangled strands of blond hair covering her head as it hung down. Emma shrieked, dropped the cup and spun on her heel to see…nothing. There was nothing there.
However, the bathtub faucet was running and the tub had become filled with dark, cloudy water. Oh, for heaven's sake, she thought to herself - you're so wound up over Mr. Not Quite Right After All, now you're seeing things. With a frustrated sigh, she went to the tub to try to pull the stopper and let the water out. Ugh, disgusting…. to think she had showered under the same taps that spewed forth this filth. She'd have to have a word with Mrs. Fairfax on her way out; the rest of their stay, ill-tempered American women notwithstanding, had been lovely. As her hand fumbled in the murky depths, she felt something tug at her arm.
Emma froze, paralyzed with fear; she tried to pull her arm out of the water, but the tugging became more forceful. Before she could make a noise, she was yanked violently into the water, where the dank smell of mold and moss began to fill her senses. No matter how hard she tried to escape, no matter how desperately she wanted to scream…there was not a sound, only a horrific gurgle as her lungs filled with putrid sludge. Emma struggled to escape, clawing at the sides of the tub, but something – someone – was holding her down. It was only a matter of moments before her last breath broke the surface, and her body sank like a stone.
Elsewhere in the hotel, Shaun emerged from the bathroom having come to the conclusion that he'd be a very lucky man if he ever had another shower that satisfying in his life. As Sara blow-dried her hair, he wriggled into his jeans and scanned the floor for his shirt, then it dawned on him - he hadn't checked in since they got here! He dashed to the phone and rang Yvonne to see how she was getting on with the Ed-sitting chore that he'd sprung on her at the last minute.
"Shaun, hi! How's it going!" Yvonne greeted, in her own perennially bubbly way.
"Preeeeetty good," Shaun replied, buttoning his shirt with a Cheshire Cat grin plastered on his face. "Just calling to check in on Ed. Is everything okay?"
"Yeah, he's fiiiine! Dec's out back feedin' him. Mind you, he got a bit nippy at breakfast yesterday and we had to break out the shovel, so now he's got an ear off. But I don't think he took it personally."
"He's got a what!"
"Shaun, really, it's not that bad! Really. I mean, you can barely tell, he's been decomposing a smidge on the left side anyway. It all sort of…" Yvonne stammered, clearly at a loss.
Shaun shook his head; what's done is done. "It's alright, and I'm sorry about that. The…biting, I mean. Listen, Yvonne, I really appreciate you looking after him."
"It's no problem, Shaun. Now tell me what I want to hear - how are things with Emma! Eh, you guys getting out and about?"
Oh, dear. Shaun scratched his head. "Um, yeahhhh. We've been…exploring."
"That's great! Now, you hang up and get back to your holiday, you hear? We'll see you when you get home."
"Okay. Bye, Yvonne."
Sara exited the bathroom, wrapped in the fluffy white hotel robe, her fingers lightly combing through her nearly dry hair. A vision in terry cloth. "Morning," she smiled, crossing to look out the French doors.
"Good morning."
As she watched, a decomposing figure shambled across her line of sight, slowly pushing a wheelbarrow of dirt. "Hmm, there's a girl in the garden," she observed.
"A what!" He bolted upright.
"In the garden, there's a girl. One of those zombie workers," she elaborated. "I know they're supposed to be…domesticated and all, but it's still a bit unsettling to see them around. Don't you think?"
"I guess I've just gotten used to it." Shaun casually leaned back into the pillows, crossing and uncrossing his legs. He wasn't sure which would more quickly lure her back to a horizontal position, so he might as well try both.
"Well, they're not on my 'To Slay' list, so I guess they're five by five." Returning to the bed, she laid down beside where he was reclining and placed her head on his chest, draping an arm across him. Score! "How are you feeling?" she inquired, as he put his arm around her.
"Um, surprisingly good for having nearly been fatally wounded." He brushed the hair away from her forehead. "And you, Miss Wellesley?"
"To tell you the truth? Relieved."
"Why's that?"
"I was beginning to think the next man to see me naked would be a coroner."
He laughed and kissed her lightly on her forehead. "That's my morbid girl."
"It's one of my charms," she asserted. They both lay there in silence, savoring a precious moment of calm. "I'm a horrible person, aren't I?"
Shaun narrowed his eyes thoughtfully. "Having now seen every last inch of you, I can guarantee there's not one horrible bit on your entire..."
"Shaun, stop. You know what I mean. I'm the most horrible person in the world."
"You are not. My very recently ex-girlfriend, on the other hand..." He still couldn't believe how callously Emma had brushed off his feelings.
"She did seem like a self-absorbed bitch. No offense..."
"Absolutely none taken, love."
"…I, on the other hand, knowingly seduced you while you were in a committed relationship. I'm a horrible, seductive…manipulative, wicked person."
"Yet I didn't exactly put up a fight, did I?" He tucked his fingers under her chin and tilted her face to look into his eyes. "Sara, what happened last night was no one's fault. It just happened. And for the record?…" He pulled her closer, until they were literally face to face: "…it was bloody spectacular."
Sara blushed, kissing his Adam's apple. "I thought so, too. How sappy would it be if I said that, for the first time ever, I feel like I am exactly where I'm supposed to be?"
"Incredibly sappy. I feel sick now."
"Well, I don't care. It's the truth. Despite some …well, extenuating circumstances, I'm sickeningly happy. This feels right, doesn't it?"
"It really does." Shaun couldn't deny that having Sara back in his arms - even standing side by side with her as they repeatedly took swipes at a ten-foot-tall demon - made him feel whole in a way he thought he'd never experience again. They were such a team. He used to think he couldn't possibly be with her, couldn't stand in the way of her higher calling. Yet if he did the math: First Z-Day, then their old mate Davrok, and now this? Perhaps waging war with the undead was his calling, too…
Sara tightened her arms around him. "When we're together, it's like…"
"Magic?"
"I was gonna say 'train wreck'…"
Shaun smirked. "And you can't turn your back on a good train wreck."
"Nope. I'm just afraid it won't last," Sara continued. "I mean, you need to work things out with Emma, and I don't exactly have the best track record when it comes to relationships."
"It's okay. We'll figure something out."
"Are you absolutely sure? Because I would totally understand if you'd rather date other, less… weaponized women."
"Bollocks," he huffed. "I'd much rather be with a girl who's got my back when things get hairy down the pub on quiz night."
"Well, I do know an obscene amount of art history." she considered. "But I'm serious, Shaun. I really want to make this work. I'll move back to London, I'll leave the Council, whatever it takes."
"I won't let you leave the Council."
"Oh, won't you, now?"
"Nope. Sacred duty…'n all that. You could never walk away from that," he sighed. "We'll just have to compromise."
"I'm game - what's your offer?"
He arched an eyebrow at her. "Will you wear a Princess Leia slave girl outfit on weekends?"
"Well, that depends," she said slowly.
"On what?"
"On whether you'd be willing to wear the white Mr. Darcy shirt?"
"Are you mad! I'd look like a poof."
"A dead sexy poof."
"Well, who am I to argue with that?"
She glanced over at the clock. "Don't you need to check out soon?"
"Yeah. I guess Emma and I will go back to London, I'll break things off with her, and we'll see how things go from there."
"You really think we have a shot at a happy ending?"
"Stranger things have happened."
"Jesus, no kidding. But I dunno, I've heard that happy endings are a myth designed to distract us from the fact that life is a thankless struggle."
"Who said that?"
"Some prat who works in an appliance store."
"Hey, I resemble that remark." He slowly inhaled, trying to overcome his reluctance to face the real world. "So I should probably leave now."
"You should."
"This is me going." He remained motionless.
"You could go in ten minutes," she suggested, nuzzling his neck.
"No, no. I am really going to the door. Right now."
"Fine," she sighed, pouting scornfully. "Scruffy-looking nerf herder."
"Right, that's it," he declared. "Retract that statement, your worship. Now." He launched his tickling hands at her sides as she interrupted in laughter, futilely trying to fight him off.
"No, no, no! Stop it!" she playfully protested. He ceased the barrage and she paused to catch her breath. She looked into his eyes and placed a hand on his cheek, gently stroking his chin with her thumb. "I love you, Shaun."
He thought his heart might have skipped a beat. The warmth in her eyes, the way she looked at him with such hope and trust; he felt a bit undeserving of it. "I know," he responded automatically with a smile.
She smiled in return. "Sorry to get all sappy on you again."
"I think I can overlook it. Just this once."
"You should go."
"I know." He gave her one last lingering kiss before heading for the door. "Just promise me that you won't get yourself killed before I can take you on a proper date that doesn't end in violence and terror."
"I promise."
"Right. I'll see you later, Spidey."
"Bye, MJ." As the door closed behind him, she giggled like a schoolgirl and fell backward onto the pillows.