Evangeline saw very little of Vincent after that, despite passing him every morning on the commute to work - which left her more wounded than she'd like to admit - and, when the time would allow, she would speak to him on the platform or in the small alleyways where they crossed, neither of them willing to broach the subject of vampires in the open.
Days became weeks at such a rate that it left her visibly shaken. It had been a month since she had moved into her chalet in the valley - which brought with it a strange sense of solitude - dedicating all of her spare time towards decorating and restoring the interior, except the old oak beams and uneven plaster, that she left untouched; its medieval appearance remarkably similar to Vincent's cottage.
She thought of him regularly and often found herself walking the path to his house out of subconscious habit. The thought of vampires and his study never once left her mind, worst of all, she couldn't speak of it, she was sworn into secrecy; unable to convey the truth that vampires were real and that they walk amongst us, fearful of what would become of Vincent's kind - not that she would be believed, she'd sooner be outcast as a raging lunatic.
Lunacy. She looked at the tarp that covered her desk. Was she a lunatic? Had all of this happened as she remembered it? Did Vincent truly expose his vampirism or was it a figment of her imagination? Her hands felt for the cloth and with a swift tug, it fell to the floor; the dust collecting around her ankles. 'Am I sane?'. She shut her eyes against the shadows as they took shape and expanded, growing along the walls and across the floor, moving closer, then engulfing her as though she were damned. Her ears rang, filled with the sound of cars and the rustling of the trees, growing louder and louder until the pitch was unbearable and she clasped at her ears in frustration, desperately trying to stop any sound from increasing her torment, frantically seeking for something . . . anything to prove that this was reality; where vampires exist and have always done. The floorboards groaned as she put one foot in front of the other, clumsily circling the small corner until she fell silent. Her body completely still. 'The tomes!'.
She reached for one blindly, her hands fumbling over the crusted leather and feeling the embossed surface, the red dye sticking to her fingertips as though it were blood from a day's work in the facility. Then she lifted it to her nose, inhaling the slightly nauseating scent. It was real; she hadn't imagined it. Relief rushed over her in large, soothing waves as she flicked through the pages, their sheer number offering her security against her instability. She clung to it, crushing the parchment against her chest as if she were a frightened child.
A slight breeze brushed her wet cheeks, the familiar emptiness now returning to the room. Only the rustling of curtains and creaking of the beams filled the air as she stood there, and the house seemed to sigh at the newfound calm. Slowly she relaxed her arms and allowed the book to fall away from her chest; the crunched parchment rustling as it came to rest in her palms. An almost inaudible tapping joined the muted choir of leaves and birds then, its rhythm too regular to be from outside. She looked down at the sound and saw her tears hitting the pages, their tiny splatter marks creating translucent spots on the text.
Shaken breaths stole over her chest as her sobs died on her lips. She wanted to shut out the world entirely, to hear nothing more of vampires or their freedom; she just wanted it all to go away and no longer torment her. She wanted more time. More time to accept the revelation that had been, quite unintentionally, exposed to her without warning. But she couldn't afford such a luxury, and her next shift at the facility brought with it another unwelcomed shock.
"Vincent!" She called out, her voice echoing across the clearing. The gravel giving way and clattering as each foot landed heavily on the stones. "Vincent!" She shouted again, her voice louder and more agitated than before, her feet carrying her forward at such a pace that she stumbled and threw herself at his door. Her hand pounding on the rough oak as if it meant to pass straight through and snatch him where he stood.
The door swung open then, his partially dressed form suddenly appearing from behind the wood, his hands clambering to pull a robe around himself. He only stammered a vague collection of words before she spoke.
"There's been another one!" She blurted out, her voice sharp. He took hold of her hands, only to discover that they were shaking. They trembled as though they contained all of her excitement and struggled to be free of his grasp to point towards the source of her hysteria.
He furrowed his brows in confusion but did not let go, instead; he tilted his head to he met her gaze and pulled her close. He couldn't bear to see her in this heightened state, where her body seemed to take on a life of its own and convulse with restrained frustration. "Another what?" He asked gently.
"Another murder!"
The whole clearing fell silent as her voice died off with the wind, its pitch deafening to her ears. She was sure that she could see her reflection within Vincent's eyes as he stood there, speechless. Then, in a simple glide of his hands, made a gesture for her to come inside.
"Bite marks you say?" He mused with his finger to his lips, the shock of the murder subsiding in him now, so that it only added slight tremor to his palms. The fire blazed in the hearth beside them, its heat so overwhelming that the room seemed to glisten and shimmer like beads of sweat on one's skin.
She nodded, "I measured the pits where the teeth punctured the skin and compared photographs, and I tell you-" She said, and leaned closer to him so that they were only a few inches apart, "They are identical to the bite marks on the other corpse; their location, the bruising, the other wounds. Everything. Everything is the same." She rested her hand on her thigh, her voice unusually soft. She looked almost feverish now, and weary; though her eyes had taken on a wild gleam. It was the thrill, the horrific excitement dying in her that caused her to feel this way, robbing her of her strength.
She lifted her eyes to look at him only to see that he had become completely stiff, with one hand cupping his chin, the other held rigidly at his side, silently opening and closing repeatedly. His eyes were wide and frozen in place as though he were overcome with an all-consuming panic. She knew the reason. She knew from the very moment the corpse was brought to her how this would affect him. How the prospect of a rogue vampire would threaten his plan of integration. Worse still, there was little that could be done. They did not possess the means to trace and capture this vampire, or prevent further killings. Neither did the authorities, but this was a blessing instead of a burden. She didn't dare to think of what would become of his kind if they were discovered through murder, any hope of peaceful integration from then on would be lost.
"We must do something . . ." He muttered thought through his hand, his fingers curled over his lips as though he meant to catch the words and withdraw them from the world, returning them to his musings. "We must do something." He said again but firmer and turned to look at her, his eyes ablaze with determination. The glow from the fire reflecting in the creases of the warm brown landscape that was his iris. It was so inviting that for a moment she forgot where she was, lost in the landscape that, to her, resembled freshly ploughed fields, fields that were so rich and so earthy they exuded life.
"Wait, what?" She scrunched her face in bewilderment, her furrowed brows casting a show over her luminescent grey eyes. His words lost on her. "What do you mean 'do something!' . . ." She began, her tone reflecting her surprise. "We have no way of tracking this vampire! I'm only a ME and my powers are very limited. . . and-" The words died away on her lips then, knowing deep down it was futile to try to convince him otherwise as he sat opposing her, his eyes still alight with that fiery determination.
A long, drawn-out sigh escaped her lips as she bowed her head, her hands cushioning her face. "Fine, let's say we tracked and confront them, how would you get them to stop? Hmm? . . ." Her eyes burned into his flesh as she spoke, their anger, their worry was unlike anything that had passed between them before, and for a split-second, she could see that his resolve wavered, "If you think that you can convince a killer to see the error of their ways then you are sorely mistaken. . . and there's no way either of us can overpower or apprehend another vampire, I've not heard of any 'vampiric police' who could deal with it either. . ." She grasped his hand as if to plead with him now, to make him look at her, but he would not. The conviction within his gaze was nothing but a pale shadow of its former self, and his eyes grew cold and distant.
He sighed, exhausted by her anger, "Do you not think I have already considered these things . . . I know there is little to be done, but we must do what we can, for my sake and yours otherwise more people will die, and if we allow this vampire to continue, then it will only be a matter of time until my kind is discovered." He stopped and pulled his wrist from her, breaking their gaze to turn his head away and look at everything whilst focusing on nothing as one does when they're weary of another, his eyes dancing across the room, stubbornly avoiding the only sight that he could not stand. "You see," He said after some reflection, "The responsibility of dealing with this rogue falls onto me. Because, as you say, there is no system to stop vampires such as this one, so it's the surrounding vampires' duty to fulfil this role," He fixed his gaze on the window then. His eyes as sombre and reflective as the glass, its panes seeming to contain the night sky perfectly within the white frames, " . . . and I know of few vampires here who would undertake such a task."
Evangeline remained still; her eyes wide with disbelief. Never once did she believe him to possess a temper. To her, he seemed passive and gentle with a great dislike of conflict, but she now knew this to be false. It was clear to her that he possessed a will, a sense of morality, far greater than her own - with the courage to act upon it, unlike herself. Yet, this didn't breed bitterness or contempt between them. Instead, she envied him completely.
"You say this as if it's a rule. Is it?"
"No," A frown tugged at his lips, "It's not a rule, there are no rules or laws among vampires; only principles - which I suppose are rules, but that's beside the point, the point is this: just as there are humans who will better the community for the sake of the people, there are vampires who will do the same." He fixed his gaze on the hearth whilst he spoke, the flames reflecting within his eyes which now appeared resolute. And Evangeline, considering his simple logic, said nothing. Her mind occupied by the thought of this rogue vampire; who brought death to two innocent beings without the slightest hint of care or dignity, slashing at their flesh despite their weakened state. She struggled to envision such a creature, only allowing herself to picture a cartoon devil, with a withered body and porcelain skin: the caricature of Dracula himself. And what would their justification be, if they justified their behaviour at all?
"What do you intend to do?" She asked suddenly whilst sinking back into the settee, lifting one leg on top of the other in one graceful motion. The tip of her boot bouncing rhythmically.
"I don't know," He replied in an equally hushed tone before falling silent again, his eyes now blank and expressionless as he watched the fire. For a long time, he sat like this, only moving to adjust his position in his seat or to stretch a limb, and she sat just as quietly, regarding him with patient curiosity; not for a second mistaking his stillness for distraction as a stranger would - she had been in his company long enough to know that behind his blank expressions there was cunning; that his mind was never vacant, even if it appeared to be so.
She pressed the tips of her fingers together as one does in deep thought and gazed in front of herself, no longer enthralled by Vincent's musing. She didn't expect him to know what to do with this rogue or to hear his plan if he truly had one, rather she wanted to question him. Question him on the thought that no righteous man would entertain, on what fate this vampire may receive. As much as it pained him he would have to consider the possibility of violence or even murder. . .
"Vincent," She whispered to him, gently coaxing him out of his trance. "What are you thinking?" She needed to know what he had considered, what he was willing to do.
He shrugged and let out a lengthy sigh, his face a worrying mix of defeat and uncertainty. "I don't know, I feel as though I can do nothing . . . that I'm being forced into a corner . . ." He covered his face then, his body bent uncomfortably as though he wanted to become small and retreat into some hidden space, where the world would continue without him and he could be at peace. "God, I wish this would fall onto someone else . . ."
The sofa creaked softly as she stood and came to kneel beside him, gently taking his palm in both hands. He was trembling and cold to the touch; the skin of his hand far damper than her own. He tightened his grip around her palm, urging her to not let go, and raised his hand so that she could rest her elbows on the arm of his chair. His voice grew hoarse and breathless then, his anxiety threatening to break his resolve. " . . . I see only one way for this to end . . . and I'm not sure If I can bring myself to-"
"To kill." She blurted with a hint of coldness and he turned away, disgusted, unable to look her in the eye. In any other circumstance, she would laugh at the irony of a vampire who was afraid of killing, but she wouldn't do so with him. Instead, she lifted his hand to her face and for a moment he seemed to calm, enjoying the warmth of her skin as she pressed his palm to her cheek.
"Could we pay someone? . . to 'deal' with this?" She asked softly, looking up at him with glassy grey eyes, her face hard with worry.
He shook his head, "We can't hire a human mercenary and I don't know of any vampire mercenaries either. Even if I did, I couldn't go through with it. Condemning someone to die is no different from killing them yourself."
"Then what are we to do, Vincent? - Let this vampire continue to murder innocent people?" She snapped, growing weary of him.
"No!"
"Then you have to kill them!" She demanded whilst pointing a long, slender finger towards the door as though the vampire stood behind it, waiting.
He pulled his hand from her, appalled by her words. "I can't believe you!" He spat, "I can't understand you! The moment I believe I have you figured out you prove me wrong." She sat back, astonished, her eyes wide. "This is the answer you choose? Murder!" He lept up from the seat, holding out his hands as though the sight of them horrified him, "It must be so easy for you to instruct me to kill when you're not the one who has to turn the knife! Who has to witness their lifeblood run over your fingers! You've witnessed death so often that you've grown desensitised to it, become detached. I don't possess such detachment, I can't look at death with the same indifference, and I can't bear the thought of being the cause of it . . . you have no idea what you ask of me! If death must be the answer, then you kill them!"
He turned away from her, the room now eerily silent. He couldn't even begin to look at her, he believed his anger would soften the blow; make him impervious to her distress, but he was wrong. He tried to speak her name, but the word died on his lips. He could not bring himself to face her; to see her reddened cheeks; her eyes, which no doubt burned with hatred for him. And even as the sound of her breath grew distant, followed by the light patter of her footsteps and then finally the slam of the door he remained frozen, stubbornly avoiding her gaze as though this last stand would rid him of all shame. But as the stillness returned and the familiar feeling of guilt washed over his limbs, he weakened and collapsed into his chair.
Evangeline meanwhile stormed aimlessly into the night. The heavy rain beating down against her skin and coat, blinding her as she struggled to shield herself from its icy blow; even her unfolded collar did little to protect her cheeks as she broke into a sprint and ran headlong into the rain, her heels thumping against the pavement, kicking up water in their wake.
The cobblestones appeared to shimmer beneath her feet as she moved, the silver moonlight reflecting off of the damp before converging with the occasional glow of a street lamp. If she were calmer, she would have stopped to admire the subtle beauty of it all; of how the small town swelled with life even in dark, waterlogged nights such as this, where the neon lights from bars and restaurants cast the streets in a variety of colours, mirroring the vibrant hues of the flowers which grew out of every crack and crevice, their brilliant green leaves protruding off of walls and out of baskets in a defiant display of nature.
She came to a stop then, her chest heaving, the icy air burning her throat as she turned to the old railing beside her, her hands grasping at the wet metal. The river roared beneath the bridge as she leant over the barrier to see the turbulent water below. It was pitch black and smelt strongly of earth. If the lights and the flowers reflected the town's beauty, then the river reflected its crudeness; its cold, endless image filling her with dread. A repressed sigh escaped through her lips then, her guilt growing stronger within her. Shame had all but replaced her anger as she covered her eyes, mortified at her callousness. How could she begin to acknowledge what she's done? Knowing that Vincent was right offered her no relief. She had recognised her detachment - her indifference - long before they had met, but to hear him speak of it . . . to see him read her character so perfectly, as though she were a plane of glass and he who held the light could see straight through, frightened her; made her feel a sense of vulnerability that she had not felt in a long time.
She looked up at the sky, blinking rapidly as her hair stuck to her skin and poked at her lashes. The rain had long subsided, and the clouds had cleared. Only the sound of rushing water could be heard as she stood silent, feeling her chest rise and fall with controlled breaths. What did Vincent think of her now? She could see herself in his lounge, staring at his dark eyes, his face contorted with disgust. His once friendly and inviting demeanour gone in an instant. She turned away from his visage as though it was real and palpable, the panic rising within her at the thought of losing him, as though her only comfort had been wrenched from her arms and she was left reaching for it, groping at nothing. She began to walk again and did not stop, making her way home through the darkened alleys like a shadow, the narrow walls pressing in on her as she passed, strolling right towards what lay behind each corner. The streets were dangerous, more so now than they were before, but she didn't care. She declared to herself then that the rogue vampire could take her where she stood and she would show little resistance. She decided that she would see her father and warn him of this 'killer' - she dared not speak of vampires with him, despite the overwhelming urge to confide in someone other than Vincent and perhaps begin to mend the damage that she had done.