Die, My Love Read online

  Die, My Love

  Penelope Fletcher

  Published: 2011

  Tag(s): Fantasy Romance Vampire werewolf

  Beautiful Damned

  DIE, MY LOVE

  Penelope Fletcher

  Copyright © 2011 Penelope Fletcher

  All rights reserved by the Author

  Feedbooks Edition

  Cover Image

  ©iStockphoto.com/Olly

  Cover Design

  Penelope Fletcher

  All characters and events in this novel are fictitious and resemblance to real persons, living or dead, are purely coincidental. No part of this novel may be reproduced, stored or transmitted without the prior permission in writing from the author.

  ***

  PenelopeFletcher.com

  Facebook.com/AuthorPenelopeFletcher

  Twitter.com/Miss_Fletcher

  FictionFierce.blogspot.com

  ***

  stream of con·scious·ness

  1. The continuous flow of ideas, thoughts, reactions, and feelings to events forming the content of an individual's consciousness and perceived as a continuous flow;

  2. A literary technique that reveals the flow of thoughts and feelings of characters through passages of soliloquy.

  ***

  Chapter 1

  He Is Unfamiliar

  Everything I’ve been brought to believe battles an immediate and overwhelming need to speak to him.

  The ten o’clock news and my mother want me to believe the man I’ve been dying to speak to for the last two nights would hurt me most grievously should I let myself be alone with him. But a small part of me whispers it is that which makes him special. The danger. Or the fear of the unknown.

  Don’t talk to strangers? Am I an exception to that rule? He just cannot be that scary.

  How calm he sits there; after watching Ms Hepburn try to commit suicide by inhaling exhaust pipe fumes.

  She looks so pretty on the big screen. Doe eyes sparkling in her elfin face, and a sassy hairstyle I can only dream would make me look adorable instead of mannish. She is a traditional beauty that time cannot diminish.

  That’s why I come here. Here, being this poky old cinema with dusty seats and carpet so worn you can see concrete underneath. I love old films. Monroe, Taylor, O’Hara, Garland. All of them lure me to this off the beaten track corner of London where they play late night re-runs of classics featuring these silver screen sirens.

  See how enraptured he is?

  Oh, I’ve already come to the insane conclusion that he is something … else.

  All the other women in the screening are ignoring him, almost as if he does not exist. Why they ignore him is confusing me. Intimidated? Hmmm. I’m intimidated too, but that does not stop me staring. I almost did. Stop, that is, when I realized he was not human on that first night when I noticed him. See how calmly I think this? I’ve a pretty good idea of what that elusive non-human “else” is too.

  I cannot not say it out loud or even think it! I’m hesitant because I’ve never met a non-human before.

  Where does it come from? This knowledge?

  Common sense? That, I have in abundance. And let’s be honest, there is never smoke without fire, and there have been rumors blood drinkers are real for years. That and my friend Bethany is special. She knows things and holds to the belief I will not always be as I am. That I’m marked for something else … that a man will change me. Ominous, right? She can never explain more than that. It was frustrating as hell, because how did I know my future did not involve a repellent elephant man type mutation from that lover of mine? We (Bethany and I) had been smashed in some dive down in Soho when she saw this, but surely, that still counts as a prediction of my future? I mean, she has a gift. And look, her prediction is coming true.

  I cannot tell you how relieved I was when I saw Him. It was like a light bulb went off and my body started counting down. It’s still counting, waiting.

  Oh god. Am I getting ahead of myself?

  No, I do not think so. Some call it love at first sight. I think it’s like that, only deeper, and more fundamental. Imprinting? Possibly, though I roll my eyes at myself when I think it.

  Sitting in my bucket seat, popcorn on lap, and Pepsi in hand, I blush and bite my lip. I want him so badly I feel sick about it. Is this natural for a first love? Ah, I need to cross my legs… see what naughty thoughts can do to you?

  He stiffens and ever so slowly turns around in his seat to stare straight at me.

  Holy crap!

  My hand spasms and the paper cup of Pepsi slips through my fingers. My heart jumps a little. There is sticky fizzy liquid running down my left leg, and ice crunching under my sneakers. It is all unexpected and it feels like I might be having a heart attack. No, wait … I’m over excited, that’s all.

  His eyes!

  A trick of the light? Am I hallucinating? It cannot be. See, the longer I focus the easier it is to see his eyes are a nice, normal, if somewhat glowing hazel. Riveting. Ah, are they supposed to look like a kaleidoscope of golden hues flashing at me? Is the strip of skin under his prominent brow and above his lofty cheekbones supposed to look highlighted with starlight? Probably not, but the effect is so beautiful, I’m deciding not to care. This has to be a joke. He is too gorgeous to endure. Rugged face impassive, the smooth planes of his cheeks are hollowed slightly, giving him a strong visage that is softened only by his lush, relaxed mouth; the Cupid’s bow sharply delineated. His nose is too straight, too perfect. I feel it needs me to march over and break it. His hair is a mass of dark waves shot with cobalt streaks. The front sweeps down to brush his blue-black eyebrows, and curls at the nape of his neck, slipping and sliding as he breathes. I gnash my teeth and my fingers twitch. I wish I were over there, twisting the strands between my fingertips.

  A smile crooks the corners of his mouth as dimples flash at me.

  Damn him.

  He appears to have poured his long, rangy body into the bucket seat. He seems to be so languorous and comfortable. He sits with one leg crossed over the other in a male fashion. He’s wearing boots, scuffed brown boots. I can’t see what the rest of his body is like; his trench coat is black and conceals him. I imagine a hard body, slender, yet sturdy.

  Lee, you really need to stop staring. Seriously, look away. Be bashful and shy, stop being sucked in, look away.

  Oh, but he is finally looking at me.

  It’s only taken two nights of ceaseless and intense mental concentration to get him to notice me. Should I simply go up to him and tap his shoulder? Try my luck? Goodness no! Who do I think I am? Audrey? Marilyn? I’m a thirteen stone, five foot two woman with overly thick brown hair, olive skin, and a pug nose. On my best day, I’m cute. On my worst, short and fat.

  Good god, listen to how maudlin and depressed I sound. Finally, I have eye contact with Him, and I sit bitching about how plain I am. Thank you for that, mother! Being easy on the eye would make this odd stare down easier to stomach, just saying.

  Well, plain I may be, but yoga for the last five years has left my body bendy as plasticine. Okay, so now I’m trying to convince myself I’m worth knowing? Sadly, yeah, I can safely say I’m not much to look at if you glance at me. Ah, but take another look and you will notice how lovely my smile is. How calming yet sparkly my eyes are. How I simply radiate positive energy, and light, and goodness from just being. How lush my curves are from my small waist, rounded hips, and full breasts… .

  Wait. Back the hell up. Where was my head just then? I’ve already said I’m plain yet all of a sudden I think I’m The Shit? I’m definitely not myself tonight, my thoughts just took an uncharacteristic turn to vanity.

  He stiffens again and his expression becomes incredulous. His eyes narrow as h
e leans forward like he is about to crawl over the tops of the chairs and come get me.

  Oops. Have I been staring this whole time? Oh, was that weird change of opinion about my body Him? Did he mind melt (meld?) me or something? Well, ha, it did not work. My insecurities are stronger than your praise!

  Lee, you should probably say something so you don’t look completely insane. You have practically stalked the man these past two nights. No? You’re saying that was not insanity but merely curiosity? Whatever.

  Okay deep breath here I go…

  My heart pounds and I cannot articulate more than a rush of breath that carries a high-pitched squeak.

  Damn.

  That did not come out right.

  With the smallest of nods, he turns back around and stares at the screen again. There is a whisper accompanying this nod. A firm brush against the side of my head where my ear would be if it were turned inside out.

  Did somebody whisper something? I look left then right. Uh oh. I think I’m hearing voices now. Not, I am hearing voices I think I’m hearing voices. Okay not voices, just a voice. Is thinking you heard it better or worse than knowing you heard it? Does the distinction matter?

  Lee, couple these voices with your stalking and odd thought patterns and you may have real mental problems that need professional help from a kind doctor.

  He stands and makes his way to the exit aisle. With a confident, gliding gait, he walks down the steep stairway and pushes through the fire escape at the bottom, but not before his gaze collides with mine one more time.

  Again! Glowing eyes and a whisper of something unintelligible buzzing in my ears. It’s like he leans over me, from all the way down there, and murmurs in my ear something seductive and thrilling.

  Hell.

  I’m going to follow him; I’ll get help tomorrow. Maybe.

  I am out of my seat, popcorn tipping over to spill across the patterned royal blue floor that matches the seats and walls exactly (and often gives you that strange I-am-walking–sideways-up-the-wall feeling). I snatch up my sweatshirt and half pull it on; leaving one arm free to sling my messenger bag over my shoulder.

  Move it, Lee! No, mind that woman’s legs as you sprint down the aisle. Slow down! Don’t trip. To fall down these stairs will hurt. Seriously, there is nothing to break the fall but your face.

  The fire exit clunks closed.

  Wait for me!

  I dash down the steps making much more noise than he did considering the glares from the late night moviegoers. Sorry, Sorry! I shoulder the door open and skid to a halt out in a florescent hallway. The double doors at the end of said hallway close, but not before I see the heel of his foot disappear.

  Gotcha.

  Not wanting to run, but not wanting to move so slow I lose him, I do an odd skipping walk until I reach the doors. I pull them open and propel myself forward with fierce determination. Stumbling out into a dirty alleyway, I slam into a solid wall of chest. The breath whooshes from my lungs, my feet slip on the slick cobblestones, and I’m falling.

  Ah, this is going to hurt … oh!

  Hands shoot out and clasp my shoulders to steady me.

  Nice one, Lee! Tripping over your own feet and falling on your ass is a great way to say hello and introduce yourself.

  Okay, I’m flustered, but I’m holding it together. I am totally Zen. Right. Now that I’m sure my two feet are planted firmly, I look up with a brilliant smile to thank him. The words die on my lips, my face twists in confusion, and I turn to peer down the alleyway.

  What the hell? Nobody is there. Just an overflowing dustbin, a nasty looking rat, and a random newspaper sheet pushed by the wind into an oily puddle.

  Um, hello?

  Okay….

  Completely discomforted, I fix my sweatshirt and bag properly. I look up and still no one is there. What? Was I expecting him to rematerialise and yell, “Boo!”?

  I start walking until I reach the main road. Where am I heading…? The tube station … right.

  You are going home, Lee.

  I start down the road and find myself staring at every male face that walks by, peering up into the disinterested and scowling faces, all up in their space. I mean … people don’t disappear into thin air. He had to have, what, run away super fast?

  I swipe my Oyster card, dash through the slicing grey barriers of doom, and allow myself to get sucked into the stream of people tramping down the muddy stairs. Deeper underground, I stand on the escalator rather than walk, using the time to scowl some more. I stumble at the bottom, not paying attention, and quickly find myself the recipient of muttered curses and annoyed glares for holding everybody up.

  Um, sorry?

  I duck my head, pulling the hood of my sweatshirt up, and tuck my fists into my pockets. Wait. Something shiny glinted at the corner of my eye…. I bring my wrist up to my face again and stop dead in the subway. Someone bashes into me from behind, shunting me a full step forward, and I jar my ankle. Hey! Daydreaming over here! Though I’m the one hurt, I mumble an apology at the mean looking drunk and take a step to the left to lean on the dusty curved wall.

  Have I cracked? Has my mind finally bent and snapped from my abnormal behaviour these last few days?

  I have a Sweetie bracelet from Links of London, and I love it. Bethany has one too but hers is so full of charms she makes music when she motions with her hands. Mine is plain. Ah, no, mine was plain. Now from it dangles a blood red rose.

  What the hell? Where did this…?

  I drop my hand and place it back into my pocket as if scared someone might see. A hysterical bubble of laughter chokes from my throat before I manage to cut it off and a well-dressed couple passing by takes a wider birth. Eyeing me with distrust, the woman clutches tighter onto her partner’s arm. Jeez. I’m wearing a hoodie, lady. Don’t get so bent out of shape.

  The wind picks up in the subway and the screeching sound of the train arriving snaps me out of my goofy stare into the middle distance. I make my way to the platform as the train thunders in, and wait patiently for it to creak to a stop. The doors peel open. My head is elsewhere so the high-pitched beeping does not trigger the usual step-to-the-corner-of-the-door logic in my mind so people can get off. The result is I’m barged left right and centre by an ambush of late night partygoers.

  Hey, that was my foot!

  I make it onto the train as the door slides closed, and wrap my hand around the yellow pole overhead to cling on for dear life as the train starts up, having to go up on my tiptoes I’m so short.

  Time becomes a blur. One stop, two. The whole journey, all I think about is His face and how he managed to get his gift onto my wrist without me feeling it. It obviously happened when I slipped and he caught me, but gosh, he’s slick. I stare at it, this pretty charm, and it mesmerizes me, swinging back and forth gently.

  “This is Snaresbrook.” My head snaps up at the monotone female voice. “This train is the service to … Epping. Please mind the gap between the train and the platform.”

  The beeping signals the doors closing and I jump onto the open-air platform. Oh look, a tree. Sigh. I do like coming home. London is great and all, but so very little of it is green. I make quick work of the walk home; fat raindrops are starting to fall and no doubt it’s only a matter of time before the sky is throwing buckets of water in my face.

  Home is a purpose built block of red brick studios, with a bottle green entrance door and manicured gardens.

  It’s okay, isn’t it? I’ve no reason to get anywhere bigger. More wall space would be nice to hang my work, I guess. Ugh, I would have to get a steady job and shit; a nine to five at a desk with a potted plant and sturdy desktop PC. Sensibly, I cannot get somewhere more expensive when my earnings fluctuate month to month. Actually, I had better check in with the gallery. Last month my paintings sold well, the beginning of this month, not so much.

  Chapter 2

  You Do Realize You Are His Prey?

  Scrubbing a hand over my face, I kick the d
oor to my flat closed with the side of my foot. Throwing my bag onto the couch, ignoring the inane items that scatter across the floor, I toe off my sneakers and pull my scrunchie out. Trawling my hands through my hair and sighing in relief, I stand in my kitchen come dining room come utility room, and flick the switch on the kettle. Behind me is the living room.

  A teacup, tea bag, three sugars, and some boiling water make me feel better. The ritual of it is mindless. I feel incredibly witch like as I stir this beloved concoction and it does that cool thing where the liquid is turning so fast it creates a maelstrom in a cup. I let go of the spoon and watch it spin around until I’m staring at it thinking the force of momentum has died so why is it still spinning?

  This is creepy. “Stop it!” The teaspoon clinks to the side of the cup and rests there innocently. I’ve too much to deal with so I shrug it off. Just a spoon, right? There, see how much calmer I feel?

  Ah, good idea, Lee. Ignorance is bliss.

  My nose heats from the whorls of steam rising from the milky liquid as I relive my encounter for the millionth time. I stare at the impressionistic painting I did two nights ago, a representation of the fallen angel who looked at me, and gave me jewellery.

  My brush strokes have never looked finer than they do depicting me standing over him, my hands over his heart. He stares up at me with tenderness in his expression, and I gaze down with affection in mine.

  God.

  I suck in a breath, bringing my wrist up to eyelevel to check the charm is still there. My heart dances a jig. Oh boy. I am female, does he not understand what this means to me? His gift is symbolic and it’s shiny!

  Jesus, Lee, get your head out your ass and do something.

  Picking up my home phone, I dial Bethany and get her bubbly voicemail. Oh for god’s sake. Okay, chill out. If you can’t bitch with your BFF, plan B is a scalding hot shower.