HONEY & WILDFIRE

“I WOULDN’T CONSIDER myself a fan either,” Garratt said, smile lacing only the corners of his lips. It was a whisper of a thing as he took in the woman’s humbly surprised reaction. “Fate seems a little too auspicious to have brought us together over something as… shall we say churlish… as Lord Byron.” Ah yes… the real reason for Garratt’s preferences. The passages about vampirism.

Thornridge had become a safe haven for Garratt and his clan, due wholly to the ability for the supernatural to exist. Strange, then, to come upon a human who didn’t believe in his existence. At first, Garratt assumed she was joking, and his smile was nothing if not amused. But as the moments passed and her hand extended, he realized… she was one of the few in this town who remained unaware. Odd. He told her so. “That’s strange, isn’t it?” he said, taking her delicate hand in his. “You’re intrigued about vampires while writing off their existence. History has shown a different story, though, hasn’t it?” He was having a little fun now. “Vlad the Impaler. Well, that’s the obvious one, isn’t it? Or how about Mercy Brown? Of course, we could always look to the hundreds of empty graves that have been found. Write that off as grave-robbers, perhaps. Or maybe just take the individuals at face value who say they enjoy the taste of blood. I think…” Garratt’s smile was brighter now, emitting a bit of glee. “…that there are worse things to believe in than vampires.” At last, he released her hand. “Garratt.”

Kassandra blinked, surprised by his wit and seemingly equally inquisitive nature. Her hand lingered where it had touched his for a few seconds. Cold, she noted. It dumbfounded her at first, then evoked her curiosity and her attention was on high alert. Throughout the few days that she’s spent in the odd town, the only thing she’d come to realize was that none of the locals here were quick at repartee. They were good at avoiding her at best, being tight-lipped, and at muttering amongst themselves. This one was new, as confusing as he was, too.

“You seem to be very enthusiastic about this topic,” she commented. As if he was trying to prove, or rather, defend a point. “I like theorizing,” she began carefully, “and, at times, fantasizing too. But,” she tilted her head slightly, ”as long as there’s no concrete or blatant proof that I can turn to, I will remain a skeptic.” She was, after all, an ambitious journalist. Chasing after fantastical mysteries wasn’t worthwhile her time nor her job – unless she was being paid to do so, like now.

“Mun tu shudam tu mun shudi,mun tun shudam tu jaan shudi.  Taakas na guyad baad azeen, mun deegaram tu deegari,” Alex’s tongue whispered an old Farsi couplet he had last printed with kisses against the skin of the long dead Theodora.  The laughter that reached his ears wasn’t hers, though.  It was different, uniquely beautiful and a reminder that what was past was and would forever be past.  He straightened up self-consciously and neither confirmed nor denied her suspicion about his state of mind. “Kassandra,” the syllables were sweet on the tongue, and beckoned another, broader smile of delight as the vampire banished old ghosts with a new name. “I’ve been many names … but you can call me Alex.  Alex Drake.”

“Alex Drake,” she mimicked with a nod, acknowledging his name sweetly, ”alright, that’s easy enough to remember.”

Their gazes remained locked until she moved to tip the book into her hands. “Please, excuse me.” Then two more. Hugging the covers against her chest, she half-turned, then stopped. “This town doesn’t seem to be all that big. I’m sure we’ll meet again,” she gestured towards her findings with a triumphant look. “Until then.” Kassandra turned on her heel and walked deeper inside the shop, hoping to find the owner and to perhaps ask them a few questions.

NIGHTTIME WAS A playground, and Garratt loved to play. There were, however, evenings (such as this one) when the potential pleasures were far more benign. He’s read all of the books in this place, twice over, many of which he’d consumed voraciously the moment they’d come out years ago. Strange how the tides turned so quickly now. Eternity seemed like it was barely a moment ago.

When his fingers brushed against the woman’s, Garratt held both hands up, as though surrendering. “By all means,” he said, defenses down. “I’ve read it. I think you’ll enjoy it. A personal favorite. The Giaour… Are you a Lord Byron fan by trade? I always found his work to be a bit pretentious, minus this one. The man was great at a party, though.”

Kassandra studied the book in her hands, and her lips parted and twisted into a delighted, silent ‘O’. It indicated that she hadn’t chosen this particular piece deliberately, though a tiny spark of recognition could be observed within the blues of her eyes. Goosebumps rippled over her skin as memories flooded her mind. She remembered finding a very small, very old, and very dusty version of The Giaour in the attic of her grandma’s home when she was growing up in Greece, and how she was swept away by its visual gate, stunning lyricism and Byron’s take on Turkish tales. “I wouldn’t consider myself a fan, no. But this one – it’s one of my favorites as well.” She brushed a finger over the cover before she looked up from it again. “Barbaric customs and romantic motifs aside, I remember being intrigued by its passages about vampirism, too.”

In all her excitement, she failed to notice the oddity in his last statement and had brushed it off entirely. “Don’t get me wrong, though,” she added wryly, “it’s not that I believe in the existence of vampires or anything. This is where I cross the line.” While she was hugging the book against her chest, she offered him her other, free hand in greeting. “Kassandra.”

He fled back from the reverie like the open grave of memory it was, blinking back to a reality wholly divorced from the 15th Century and Theodora.  It was a silly mistake and Alex repented of it through a thin, apologetic smile. “I’m sorry, I thought you were someone I knew.  My mistake.  There …” he clasped his hands in front, nodding to the shelf and the book they’d mingled over. “All yours.  My roving hand won’t get in the way again, I assure you.”  Yet for the apology he probably stared too long and too intently.  God’s teeth, she did look the spitting image of the woman who had led him on, manipulated him, convinced him there was still such a thing as love and then left, fleeing unwittingly into the arms of her demise back in Constantinople.  Her death was the last Alex had truly mourned of the countless people who had come and gone in the intervening centuries. He couldn’t tear his gaze away.

Kassandra shifted her gaze and found his, her breath catching at the startling hue of his eyes. They were vivid, almost luminous, warm and expressive. She had never seen the like, especially when he looked at her like that. Her heart suddenly tripped over itself within the confines of her chest, and for the life of her she could not articulate an appropriate response. Running the slender fingers of her right hand through her heavy fall of dark locks, she allowed him a careful, soft smile. “I didn’t mind, really. I only thought that you...,” she gave herself a mental shake, “sounded hurt. But you seem fine to me, so that was probably a mistake on my part,” she explained for his benefit.

Afterwards, several seconds of awkward silence ticked by until she burst out into a giggle, the sound of it as clear as a bell. “That’s one way to meet someone. I’m Kassandra,” she stressed, “What’s your name?” 

“Seeing double? Dear, I don’t think that’s something you should me so nonchalant about.” Valerie’s carefree and somewhat flirty demeanor turned into one of concern, her brows furrowed slightly. Sure, she knows that her own personality makes her act nonchalant to most concerns, but she can’t help but to default to hypocrisy when she is concerned for others. Even if it’s a stranger in the washroom of a strip club. “I don’t want to force my help on you, but I can likely get you out of here rather safely.”

“You can?” Her eyes became as round as saucers. “He’s buff. Very big,” she used her hands to draw ridiculously big lines into the air, trying to visualize his shape for her, “also abnormal in a way if you ask me, but that’s beside my point.” Kassandra dropped her hands and shrugged a shoulder. “Don’t get me wrong, I do love me some women who can kick ass. If you’re able to get me past him safely, I’ll owe you a favor.” Her next words had a rather perky twang to them when she added, “That’s a promise. I never break my promises, Ωραία.”

Catherine felt like such a cliche. A lovesick vampire searching the shelves for an old book of poetry to soothe her aching soul. But, when none of the poetry books on the shelves managed to catch her attention, she supposed some escapism would do just as well to serve her. She spotted a familiar mystery novel that she thought would be a comfort, startled to find someone else interested in it.

“I’ve read it a million times, by all means,” she gestured towards the other woman. “If you haven’t read it yet, I always tell people to read that one twice—the first time to be surprised by the twist and a second to pick out all the little details that pointed right at it.”

If anything, her choice had been random. In fact, Kassandra’s favorite kind of books were usually those which were soft and dry with age, like papier poudre, pink and powdery yet oddly smelling of pipe tobacco and dust. Most people would leave them without as much as a backwards glance, but she was enthralled. She appreciated the beauty of an old book.

Did she mind? Of course she did. Maeve’s hand twitched, her fingers nearly closing around the spine of the book, only to back out at the last second. “Doing some reading about the town?” She asked, too sweetly, as she met the other’s gaze. To be fair, Maeve had read the same book about a dozen times. It was well past time for someone else to get a turn. That knowledge didn’t quell the annoyance in her gut, though. “There are lots of good books about the town’s history here. Some of them are worse for the wear, though.” 

“I... guess you could say that, yeah. A town isn’t really a town without a bookstore,” she responded cunningly, “I like Thornridge more and more.” While she actually meant what she’d said, the sudden, sweet upward slant of her lips made one question whether there had been a deeper meaning to her words. She brushed over it though by giving the woman a short nod of gratitude. “That’s good to hear, thanks – but, I think I’ll start with this one.” Kass pulled out the book in question, yet hardly studied its cover. Instead, her interest had been piqued by the local next to her. Her expression became smug. “I suppose you’re partly to blame for that? You seem to like books.”

“No idea. I’m pretty new around this town and too this club. Your best bet would be to ask one of the staff if there’s a back exit you can sneak out of. If he doesn’t catch you, of course.” She states and places her makeup back in her little bag, then fully turns towards the girl. “You’re new around here too, aren’t you? That would kind of explain why you’re a skeptic. Unless all of this is supposed to be a secret. Not a well hidden one, but still a secret.’

Arching a dark brow, Anathema moved out of the way to allow the young woman in. She couldn’t say she was familiar with her, and her following remarks suggested to the therapist that the young girl was fairly new in town. “Well, you’l have to forgive them. This town isn’t particularly receptive to new folk and the longer you’re here, the more you’ll see why. I can assure you, it isn’t you.” she explained, sitting down in her chair. “Please, have a seat. To what do I owe the pleasure, Miss…?”

“Arslan,” she stressed hastily and offered her a hand out of necessary politeness, “Kassandra Arslan.” That Anathema Zimmerman hadn’t chased her out yet, was a small victory in itself. Feeling rather pleased about this fact and essentially with herself, Kassandra plopped down on a cushioned seat in front of the therapist. None of the things which were about to be said would go unanalysed. Prior to her entrance, the journalist had activated a small recording device and hid it in her bag. It wasn’t exactly a very legal or morally correct thing to do, yes, but desperate times called for desperate measures. “I guess I just... needed someone to talk to, pardon the intrusion. Is there a reason for their wariness, though?” For all she knew, her best bet right now was that Thornridge could be the meeting site for perverted psychopaths. Murderers. Odd cults which held awful rituals. The list went on, and with it, her paranoia and her thirst for answers.

“What sort of odd things? The world these days is definitely an odd place.” Then again, Valerie has only recently came to town and maybe the oddities are normal? She can’t tell for sure, but it’s worth it to keep an open mind about these sort of things. “The neck sniffing thing might not be so weird. Maybe he just wants a taste? A gorgeous girl like you, I wouldn’t blame him.

Books were living memory for Alex even if what was written in them in this so-called ‘History’ section of the local shop was of questionable veracity.  He could remember when he’d first read them, who he’d been, who he’d loved and loathed, what he’d won and lost.  The passage of time wasn’t quick for him.  It was agonizingly slow and he recalled so many details.  Rapt in his thoughts, he was musing more to himself than the footfalls nearby; an arrival he didn’t turn to observe: “They say history is written by the victors.  It would be far more accurate to say history is written by the liars.  So little of what they put to pen is true.”  Reaching for a book on the history of the Ottoman Empire, his hand intersected another.  Mind already on the 15th Century the vampire might have written it off as just an illusion but he could feel the warmth of her fingers against his.  He looked.  He stared; wide-eyed and disbelieving.  The clipped Etonian English accent he’d cultivated over the last two hundred years slipped away and in a distinctly Romanian flourish he whispered a name that hadn’t passed his lips since kingdoms ruled that had long since gone to dust. “Theodora …”

Confusion pulled at the seams of her face, drawing dark eyebrows down into a subtle frown. Whereas she’d only spared him a fleeting glance at first, it was the rich baritone of his voice which caused her to look up from where their hands met; so full with nostalgia and – longing. It almost made her feel out of place, guilty, as if she’d seen something she shouldn’t have, or intruded herself into somebody else’s private affairs. Kassandra didn’t know him, that much was clear, and became apparent, when she replied: “Excuse me?” She tipped her head quizzically. “Who? Are you alright?”