2. PRESCIENT
I…lurked. That was the only explanation for my behavior. I tried to convinced myself that I was hunting her, and when that didn't work, that I was keeping tabs on her. Protecting others from her. But I was doing neither. I wanted to watch her. I wanted to see what she would do. I wanted to find out who she was. So I skulked behind her. I lurked. I stalked her. I was already a monster, so I simply added stalking to my list of sins.
She left the hospital, wearing a baggy white shirt tucked into beige pants, suspenders over top, holding the too loose trousers up. She'd rolled the cuffs of the pants so they would not drag on the ground. The shoes that she wore were too big as well, forcing her to walk awkwardly. She pulled, the jacket, my jacket, tightly around herself, but it seemed she was simply covering the ill fitting clothes. She did not look cold at all, though she should be.
She glanced around nervously, unsure of which way to go. Her eyes were amazing, not quite the same shade as Susan's eyes, but a piercing green, a green that reminded me faintly of the rolling hills of Mayo, where I'd met Danny. And her face was beautiful too. The dirt that had smeared it was gone, and her skin was pale and soft and lovely, freckled as Susan's had been when she was alive. I had to force myself not to think about caressing that skin, placing my stone hand against its incredible warmth. There was something severe about her features, her chin well defined, her cheek bones prominent, her green eyes too bright, too intense. Her lips were very full, very red, and the paleness of her skin, the green of her eyes, did not match her coffee colored hair, its true color flashing where it was clean, though it was still dirty and matted in many places. I very much wanted to wash her hair, to run my fingers through it, until its true color emerged. Ugh, what was I thinking? I banished the thought immediately.
She looked nervous and fearful, but she did not look helpless. Not dangerous, either, just as though she could handle herself. Perhaps I was simply projecting my knowledge about her other form upon her. After all, I'd felt a strange instinct to save her before, and I wanted very much now to make sure that she would be alright. And I didn't want to kill her. Not at all. Maybe she was helpless. Although the medic did not seem to think so.
She looked about her, unable to decide which way to go, and then turned left. Towards the Vistula. She had good instincts. Or perhaps it was her excellent sense of smell.
I moved from building to building, avoiding the sunlight, staying in the shadows, fifty yards behind her. I tried to concentrate on the human scent that attracted me instead of the dog scent, an undesirable scent. I was a fool. I should be concentrating on the undesirable scent. Had I gone so far in my self loathing that my own mind was fixating on the very things I could never have?
She glanced around furtively as she walked, and eyed every passerby warily. And she constantly looked behind her. On occasion, she stared at the exact building from which I stared at her. Did she know I was following her? Could she smell me, as she had in the alley? But this was not the most pressing question, though it should have been. Yet all I could really think about was this: was my smell revolting? Did she not want to smell me? Did I want her to enjoy my smell? I shuddered as the questions, the insecurities, raced through my mind.
She reached the Vistula, and beheld the true destruction of Warsaw, the old city on the west bank of the river, buildings thousands of years old, wiped out, gutted and crumbling. A soft breeze from the north crept down the river, shifting her hair, and I glimpsed the side of her face, saw her deep set frown. She looked left and right, but only boats crossed the river, the bridges all destroyed. She saw signs of life to the north, a few humans entering a building, and she moved towards them. I followed cautiously, afraid that she knew I was there.
I could not read the sign, but I thought it was an inn, from the two males who entered and the other male who left. She stood outside, staring at the door, for what seemed an eternity. Would she go in? Why did she hesitate? I wanted to know her very badly in that instant. She sighed, squared her shoulders, and pulled open the door.
The smell of alcohol, of unclean human males, of nearly rancid food, wafted outward, causing me to crinkle my face. This was no place for her, I decided. But why not? Perhaps this was exactly the place for her.
It was almost as though there were two people inside of me. The first desperately wanted to know more about this girl. I had never been more curious about one of the opposite sex since I'd met Mary. I twinged at the thought, at the memory of my old life. The other part of me, the more rational part, could not understand the curiosity, the need to know her.
I need to know if she is evil. I said to myself. I need to know if she is as innocent as she seems, or if she is still the monster. So I can kill her.
Satisfying the more rational side of my being, I approached the tavern, and entered.
Her body jerked as soon as I closed the door behind me. She sat at a table by herself. A clear liquid was in front of her, and her back was to me, but her body was straight, uncomfortably so.
I moved to a corner of the bar, away from her, and watched her surreptitiously. A fat, burly, unshaven man approached her, sitting across from her. He was not drunk, but he was not sober either.
He spoke to her loudly, in Polish. She shook her head but said nothing. He yelled to the bartender, who looked at him gravely. The fat man yelled again, and the bartender nodded.
He moved towards the table, two drinks in his hand. The fat man nodded, and then spoke to the girl again. Her body was not straight, as it had been when I'd entered: she hunched her shoulders and hugged her arms to her body, as if hoping to keep him, to keep everyone, out.
He spoke to her again, and pushed the drink, vodka, towards her. She shook her head again, and he laughed loudly. He made a leering gesture, and then he reached out, across the table, and gripped her arm.
And before I even had a thought, I was moving. But she was just as fast as I was. I saw her twist her arm and grip his forearm, heard his radius and ulna crack. And then I had him in my grip and we were out of the bar. I snapped his neck, and didn't even bother to drain him. I tossed his body into the river, and was back at the corner of the bar. The bartender and patrons looked around in confusion. They'd heard a short scream, and then the fat man was gone. I tried to force my face to mask their confusion.
The girl sat as she had before, arms clutching her body. But she'd straightened again as I'd entered. She finally moved, her head turning towards the bar. She looked at me, peered into my eyes, and shuddered.
Should I go to her? Talk to her? She seemed to fear me. But I had to know if she knew what she was. Much easier to kill her if she controlled the beast that killed Danny. I had no other reason to approach her. I told myself that again and again, and then I left the bar, and stood above her.
"May I join you?"I asked, in French of course, as pleasantly as possible.
She sniffed the air around her, and her face looked tortured. Then she breathed deeply through her mouth.
I waited for what seemed an eternity. She simply stared up at me. I would not move unless she allowed it.
She nodded, very slowly.
I was in the chair next to her in a heartbeat, far too fast. I somehow felt that I didn't need to be as conscience of my superhuman speed around her.
"Thank you," she whispered, and her eyes looked into mine again, tentatively.
"For what?" I asked, trying to be casual.
"Getting rid of him," she nodded toward the chair where the fat man had sat. So she'd noticed. Her reflexes were impressive. "And for yesterday," she continued, and clutched the coat I'd given her, hugging it close.
"You're welcome," I said simply. I wanted to know about her, no reason to give anything away.
But she saw through that pretext immediately. "What are you?" she asked cautiously, still not looking at me.
"My name is Garrett," I responded, ignoring the implications of her question.
"I remember," she spoke softly. I was surprised, in her condition, with the blow to her head, that she'd remembered my name.
"And you are?" I prompted when she said no more.
"Sabine," she whispered, as if giving it away somehow gave me an advantage.
"How do you feel?" I suddenly remembered her wounds, her trauma. I should not have been so inconsiderate. It should have been the first thing I asked. "Can I get you anything? A drink? Some food?"
I had to wait again for her to respond. She finally looked into my eyes, and then asked, tentatively, "Do you think they have wine?"
I didn't bother to ask the bartender, didn't know enough Polish anyway, and I simply went behind the bar, and then stood in front of him with wine, a glass, and more than enough rubles. I put them in front of him, he nodded, and then I returned to the table and poured her a glass. It was red, but I knew not what kind. I did not drink wine as a human, and it smelled as bad as anything else as a vampire.
"Don't you want some?" Sabine asked. I shook my head and pushed the glass towards her. She picked it up and sniffed it, crinkled her nose, and took a drink. She grimaced. So, she was sophisticated. I should have allowed her a taste and a smell before I poured her a full glass. I had not done this, not ever. I hoped I knew how to treat a lady, but I was not so sure. It seemed much easier in theory than in practice.
"It was all they had," I said softly. She looked at me again, and there was thankfulness in her green eyes, as well as guilt at her own reaction.
"You are…American?" she asked after another sip.
"From Philadelphia," I nodded, not sure why I wanted to give her this extra information. "How did you know?"
"I met many American soldiers during the war, saw how they carried themselves, heard their accent when they spoke French. Rather, tried to speak French. You seem very American. Though your French is good. Most Americans did not bother." It was by far the longest sentence she'd spoken in my presence. And it revealed a great deal about herself. I was surprised. She looked no older than twenty now. Which made her sixteen when the Americans got to France. Not that young, I supposed
"Yes," I said quietly, "That's why I'm here. I never left after the war."
Sabine looked at me, curiously. "But the Russians are in Poland. This is a dangerous place for an American soldier." I didn't want to answer questions about myself. Actually, I did, but I wanted to know more about her first.
"A dangerous place for a young French girl as well," I said. If she wanted something from me, I'd have to get something from her.
"Not so dangerous as others," she shrugged, and then stared into her wine glass.
"Really?" I mused. The peasants here were more likely to believe in werewolves than the French. She was probably in more danger here. If that was what she meant. If she even knew. And, of course, I was here as well. Ready to kill her if I had to. This was a very dangerous place for her.
"But you never answered…" she stopped, and drained the rest of her wine in a gulp. I refilled it automatically, and waited. She looked up at me, tentative again.
"What are you?" Sabine asked again.
"Exactly what I said. An American from Philadelphia who fought in the war, then travelled here." It was not a lie. Just an omission.
"You're more than that. You smell…strange. I smelled you, following me here. There is a reason that you want to talk to me. And I saw what you did to that man." So she'd seen all of that? Remarkable.
"You're asking the wrong question," I replied, trying to steer the conversation back to where I wanted it.
"Why is that?" she asked softly, and took another sip of wine before returning her eyes to mine.
"Actually, it's the right question. You're just asking the wrong person." I did not elaborate.
"Who should I ask then?" her voice was full of reticence.
"Yourself," I whispered, but she heard me clearly. And her face was tortured again.
