Fan Fiction ❯ Daughter of Venus - the Vampire Rosaline ❯ Red convertible ( Chapter 8 )

8

There are monsters in the night. That is what Armand told me as he locked the car. Leaving me alone, in a lay-by, at thirty-seven minutes past midnight, on the outer ring of the M25.

Placidly I observed my surroundings. Abandoned and numb I was amazed by this tranquil nocturne world. Sheathed in gloom but ablaze with the cheap filaments of council lighting I had entered a midnight society. Like the throne room of a twilight palace the motorway was illuminated, leading to a kaleidoscope of jewels set around the pinnacle of London's crown, the constant beacon; Canary Wharf.

I appeared to be swimming in leather so tried to snuggle down but polished cowhide has a tendency to only prevent the cold when not required and so I remained as before. Whilst I had been sleeping he had taken us to a motorcar (after the display in my garden I had not quite anticipated the use for such a vehicle) and wrapped me in his plush, peacock blue, leather coat fretting that I would catch my death. It became obvious that a considerate period of time had passed since Armand had last felt the elements and that such a beautiful and practical coat was merely for decoration. And that a scarlet Mercedes Benz convertible is a status symbol for any man, undead or alive.

I felt myself go and slid with no friction down into the passenger seat so that I could have a lap's eye view of the showroom interior. I pushed my head back against the firm black leather and closing my eyes inhaled. The vehicle still smelt of the lubricated factory and the air freshened salon; that gentle aroma that beckons you to its nest, yet after five minutes repels you with a sickness that gets caught in your nose.

With ill disgust after six minutes and twenty-five seconds of pleasure I thrusted forward pressing my frigid fingertips onto that laminated dashboard. It was actual pine with the speedometer, chronometer and such inset and rimed like the dials of a golden 1930s MG.

I tried hard not to imagine what he meant by monsters in the night. As far as I could see he was the only monster, terrorising some lonely outpost with sticky floors and an expressionless waitress. But what constitutes being a monster? A thing which is aside from society? A creature that survives on committing atrocities? A being of supreme evil? A person?

I did not want to think of it, however Armand decided to spend his time away from me was his personal business, I had no right to know. If in my mind's eye he remained a Christmas card cherub, fashioned with a clean face I could trick myself into believing it was so. However, in reality he had probably got that moody, apron donned madam in his arms, bleeding her dry with the zeal you only ever receive when draining a sour kissed trout from its indifferent ocean of a passionless existence. On the other hand he could have been doing something perfectly virtuous and I would be none the wiser, which seemed to be the tide of our relationship. Even through the calm we had our secrets, secrets that if they had been open would probably have meant I would not be here now, sitting on your bed of crimson wool and crushed cotton. God bless secrets, though they are deception they are not evil, evil is causing pain and if Armand had told me all he did those nights alone (which I can only assume to know) would, no matter how innocent have ripped me apart.

This all seemed too easy; why was I not afraid? Maybe I was in a state of delayed shock and in the middle of some important occurrence that was to shape the rest of my life I would wake up with a realisation that would make me panic and run, like a decapitated chicken.

It had been around an hour since I had last taken note of the time but still that diligent little clock persistently flashed thirty-seven minutes past midnight. It was a strange thought to me that a man whose life had spanned centuries could not manage to program a simple piece of machinery.

I closed my eyes. Maybe I would fall asleep. I would wake up and find Armand beside me, focusing indifferently at the road ahead with a stern and handsome stare. There would be no monsters to frighten me, as he would be strong and forceful, exercising his inhuman dominance.

I liked sleep, it was an escape that sometimes I wished I would never awake from. Complete and fore filling, it was a trance that rapt me with delight as there I was finally content. The past nights had breed troubled dreams for me as voices echoed though the chambers of my mind, tormenting and teasing me with tempting sins. The voices had a hold on me and I could feel their oral hands grasp and pull me deeper into their darkness. Lucky whilst I lay in Armand's gentle embrace; a child in my father's arms who consoled with slight panic as mother lay sleeping I was untouched by those unwelcome but familiar voices.

He was so brave. I wanted to spend an eternity with him. I would lose my soul with Armand.

I did finally slip into uninterrupted darkness and on that waking moment when you feel as though a sea of feathers has drowned you I felt eyes upon me. Coyly I turned my head and with lethargic eyes I blink at him. Armand sat in the driving seat, staring entranced despite the fact I had begun to stir. He smiled and seemed at peace. He reached out and stroked my hand, warm and pink he appeared more gentle and softer than before. I gasped as I felt his caress wander up my arm and forced my head back into the seat so that he would not see my rapture.

He rested a hand upon my cheek, which blushed warmly like a smouldering rose. Feeling my heat he drew back and lowered the canvas roof. Then clutching the steering wheel securely with one hand and pulling at the gear-stick with the other focused on the road ahead. Soon the motor would be accelerating at a vigorous speed and the speedometer vibrating with exuberance. The road lamps began to brush over me with epileptic excitement and throwing my head back as the wind tossed my loosened curls I kissed the night.

We did not communicate verbally but the trepidation of breaking all the rules highlighted what I dared not say. Speeding along the camera-less motorway I tingled with recklessness as we raced the passing moon. Finally I was free to do as I please, no one to intervene or get beat down in my own pursuits, driven on by a newly acknowledged master who enlightened me to inner content bred from lust.

The road was clear and I knew that with no rush hour traffic to slow us down our cruise would be cut considerably short. Now Armand's world did not seem that of a bloodthirsty killer, rather he had been cut loose from restraining society and our night was to him but a hidden day.

I had grown used to the music of the purring engine so became nervous as Armand uneasily accelerated from the gruff, discordant growl of the beaten vehicle closing in behind us.

"What's wrong?" I asked as he still focused ahead.

"Nothing," he muttered.

"But we're getting faster," I wanted an answer.

"If I decide to accelerate I will," he twitched.

"But it's still dark…"

"I know!" he turned and snapped at me.

As he growled in offence I maintained my composure, "It's those behind us, isn't it?"

"Could be," he huffed. That meant yes.

Removing my safety belt, I became a daredevil, twisting so that I knelt on my seat, peeping over my hands that now were now perched on the top of the headrest so that I could just see the iron girders whooshing past at over a hundred miles per hour.

Worrying that I would be sucked into some heavenly void Armand abruptly decelerated as, like Humpty Dumpty, Rosaline splattered across the tarmac would not be easy to put back together again. Slowing down, like he did and after a shunt I could finally focus on the vehicle, which was now in a more affordable hot pursuit for a black, G-registration, Ford Escort with tinted windows and a stolen spirit of ecstasy super-glued sloppily onto the dented bonnet.

I turned back around and slumped into my seat. He eyed me for a few seconds but then focused on regaining our previous speed. As he struggled with the gears I looked in the wing mirror to see the other motor closing in and preparing to pull out of the lane.

Hoping they would overtake I began to relax again but Armand issued sternly, "Keep looking forward, do not turn to watch them."

I sat still, worrying that if I even glanced their way such gorgons would transform me to a stone statue. I heard the gruff clatter of their engine and the bass thud of a blasting and most probably stolen music system as they moved ever closer until I could feel their presence as though they sat beside me. I fidgeted but tried to remain focused as I heard at least four muffled male voices heckling and whooping disturbingly. As the ruckus grew I could no longer contain my curiosity and looked across Armand (who continued to drive) to see them scrambling over each other to provoke us.

Pulling back I whispered to him, "They've wound their window down."

"I thought I told you to look straight ahead!" Armand hissed.

Sighing, he realised that he had now been spotted showing his acknowledgement of their presence and had to enter into conversation. Maintaining a steady speed Armand activated the electric windows and still not addressing them waited for a reply.

It was when I heard the first voice that I realised what a fool I had been not to listen to Armand. The voice was coarse and irritating, high-pitched and whiny and ever certainly French.

"Helloooo!" it screeched, as the man leaned out of his window, waving gaily, knocking the driver and making the vehicle swerve.

Armand dropped his head in embarrassment, "Good evening."

"Well if it isn't little Amadeo," the voice continued in a bullying fashion as the driver attempted to steady their car.

"Philippe," Armand replied sourly, "what are you doing in England?"

"It's been a long time since our theatrical days…a man gets bored," Philippe whined. He then hit the lad who sat beside him who appeared in his twenties, "When you get lonely you make new friends."

Another boy, around nineteen, lent forward trying to whisper something into Philippe's brazen ear but was pushed back viciously as Philippe's cracked lips broke into a smirk, "We're going to London for a fun night out."

The man who had first been bashed pushed himself to the front and began to whistle at me imposingly, "Cooey!"

With embarrassment I turned away and hid my face.

He continued his jeering, "Cooey, princess!"

As I fidgeted he noticed my angst and began to hiss, coaxing his companions to join him, until soon I was swamped in a chorus of high-pitched accents and crude Cockney, "'Ello princess!" "Prinny!" "Cooey!"

I turned to Armand, with a begging look but he continued to concentrate on the road ahead.

"Armand!" I cried, trying to attract his compassion but instead I only became a target to the formerly silent driver; "She's a sunbeam."

There was a hush and the driver muted their music to a dim hum. Philippe narrowed his eyes and ended the verbal horseplay.

Angrily Philippe lashed out, "It doesn't take you long to forget the old ways does it little boy?"

Armand remained placid, "The old ways were wrong."

Philippe continued to seethe, "And it didn't take you long to forget us!"

Armand snarled with control, "You were weak."

The Frenchman screamed, "I survived!"

But Armand retorted bitterly, "They will not."

Noticing that I had begun to stare with codfish wonder Philippe changed his tactics and began to address me with an enticing charm, "What is the little sunbeam princess's name then?"

Bashfully I was about to reply but Armand answered for me, "It doesn't matter."

"Piece of Meat?" one called out from the other car and another encouraged by the others' laughter replied, "Looks a bit rare-done to me!"

I sat distressed but Armand ignored them, focusing only on the Frenchman, "She will not be with me for long."

Philippe threw a sinful look at Armand and said thoughtfully, "I apologise. You have not forgotten what you are."

Unaffected by the poised challenge Armand stated plainly, "I must go. We will be late."

A twenty-year-old Cockney that was drunk on the motivation of the others called out before Armand had taken his leave; "I would be careful little ginger-nuts like you could get caught for driving under-aged."

Finally aroused by a bombardment of so many insults compacted into a single sentence Armand whispered, an utterance that soon became a roar, "Firstly I am not ginger and secondly respect your elders…I am old enough to know your father's sire!" An out burst which would do nothing to gain the man's respect.

Calming Armand placed a hand on the gear-stick, "Now if you do excuse me we need to get to London before sunrise."

Leaning forward onto his wrist Armand's transport exploded into action and for a few seconds my breath was taken away from me as like a bullet we left our junk-heap companions. The driver shrieked after being slapped by Philippe when he realised that their vehicle was not in the manner for a high-speed chase.

Scraping back any dignity I had remaining I became quite astonished, "What was that about?"

Armand was quite plain about it: "Oh do not worry princess, they were merely phantoms from my past who will not return to haunt us again."

Peeved that he had picked up my unwarranted pet name I said, "I hope you're not going to call me that on a regular basis."

He patted me whimsically on the head, "Oh no, do not fret my dear, you will always be my figlia."

Not satisfied I rearranged the question, "Yes…who were they?"

Realising I would not relent Armand began to clarify, "Philippe knew me when I lived in Paris…and owned a theatre…"

"A theatre?" I became thrilled at the thought that Armand was in anyway theatrical, they way you do when anyone slightly associated with yourself relates himself to entertainment or media.

He corrected any undue excitement; "I very rarely performed," and then continued with the delight gained with unburdening oneself, "I preferred the monopoly of finance and casting.

"We had deliberated for a while over the turning of Philippe for, as you can see he is in no way as handsome as was required...but instead in his human life he was the most passionate and artistic murderer.

"My theatre was a coven for those Children of the Night who were scattered and required the company of fellow blood-drinkers. However they could not survive on their own, as they could not survive without me. A young upstart came and dispersed them and those who survived returned slowly, one by one. Then one day his companion came in search of others like himself. The companion's free spirit had something these lost ghosts never had and it intrigued me, I noticed all their imperfections and they disgusted me. I left my children, I abandoned them there as they continued to make fools of themselves and I watched them die by the hands of the free spirit in flames and ripped apart by his Goddamned scythe. I knew it would happen, I knew he would do it but I let him…and I left them."

"You left them to die?"

"Yes," he tossed his head playfully, "I'm a bit superficial really…when he got boring I left Louis too."

I felt moved, "That was his name?"

Armand sighed, "Yes, my cherished fire starter. It's a bit ironic really…" he paused thoughtfully, "…still to this day he cannot bring himself to kill a single human being but he was more than happy to do me the honour of breaking my theatrical shackle."

Killing! And Armand would know nothing about killing.

I added rather directly, "You said you were going to kill me."

Angered by my reference to the previous conversation he glared, "I said no such thing."

I maintained stubbornly, "You inferred it."

I imagine if a brick wall had been readily available he would have used it as an instrument to knock his head against, "But I did not say it! There is a difference."

I pouted.

He growled and then began to plead with me, "You know I would never hurt you…but I had to get them to leave…"

"Them," I repeated, "who were they? Don't tell me all your friends greet you that way!"

"Easy," Armand sniffed with disrespect for the troop of young men, "Philippe survived…well to say that would be a lie…he was lucky. Whereas I knew Louis would make an attempt on my theatre Philippe did not. He probably spent the night in some sluttish maiden's death bed, where he usually was."

"And the others?"

Armand sneered, "Mere fledglings. Probably all sired the same night in some childish fling, merely a month reborn each and they will not last to see the next. They're master, though two-hundred-years-old is weak but has proven he can survive. When he gets bored and leaves them for another gaggle of revolting youths they will die as he has taught them nothing, they were doomed the first moment his lips met their tender flesh."

Feeling slightly put off I turned away but then Armand cried delightedly, "- Rosa look!"

Surprised at the outburst I looked up and finally took account of where we were. Armand had slowed during our discussion and the flat, floodlit track of the motorway had been replaced with an outer city urban countryside. There grew a plantation of automobiles of various sizes and colour, fields of tarmac rolled by, metal posts fruited fluorescent lights and just beyond the next crop of traffic lights grew the mountainous skyscrapers of The City.

Armand radiated a new anticipation and fidgeted as we waited patiently at the red light; "In just a few minutes you will enter my world!"

He made it sound like a grand exploration, an initiation I was not sure I was prepared to undertake.

He stroked my cold cheek and as he turned back to the road ahead said soothingly, "Do not fret, for seven days you will live a life unknown to you of beauty and ecstasy beyond all human imagination. We have so much to do and for you so little time, apprehensions will only hold you back. You are with Armand now and he will show you what it means to be free."

Pressing back I was pacified with such an enthusiastic explanation. I would finally spend every living, breathing, exhilarating moment of my life with my Armand. Yes it was only a week but as I was to find out, a lot can happen in seven days.