Bad Blood

Several heads were turned by the tall, lean figure of the man clad entirely in black, as he wound his way through the crowd at Heathrow.

It was nighttime, yet he wore black sunglasses. Which served to shield his glacial eyes from the blinding indoor lighting, and the sea of unknown faces moving like an unseen current as they flowed by. He strode on purposefully through the terminal, his movements brusque. Not stopping at the baggage carousel to collect luggage, as there was no need. He had none to collect, and for a fleeting moment he actually felt relieved for not having to linger amidst the horde of zombies, and the noise and smells which combined to assault his senses.
His heart raced, still feeling the thrum of the engine and vibration of the plane beneath his skin.
The sound of trolley wheels whirring on the concrete marble floor, and the almost robotic voice over the public announcement system filled his ears. The endless calling for passengers to make their way from departure lounges to various gates in order to board, droned on mechanically. The inane chattering of excitable travellers, enthused by the prospect of exotic destinations and the promise of escape. This was the kind of freedom that only came from airports, to the zombies at least.

But not Adam. He did not feel the sense of excitement one feels when coming home. Yet home he was, and it filled him with nothing but dread which weighed heavily upon him like a death sentence.
Dirty, gritty London.
Stepping out through the sliding glass doors into the cold night air, he exhaled shakily. Breathing in the smell of jet fuel, hot asphalt and car exhaust, which replaced the mixed scents of the fading perfume women had been wearing, and restaurant coffee.

He began walking again, moving passed the queue of people loitering outside waiting for taxis.
Disorientated by this alien aeroplane world, he searched for a means of escape on foot. He had no desire to hail a taxi or catch a bus, for several reasons. But the most predominant one being, he had no destination in mind. There wasn't anywhere for him to go.
Unable to locate a route designated for pedestrians, he followed what appeared to be a bus road. Up ahead, his keen eyes spotted a three foot high concrete barricade, and beyond that lay a desolate space, a potential way out of the airport jungle.

Lost in his thoughts, he initially failed to notice the car that came speeding along the road, until it came to an abrupt halt, it's tyres throwing up gravel as it pulled up alongside him just as he was negotiating hopping over the barrier, which would provide little resistance to his long, agile legs and supernatural speed.

Turning his head slowly, he surveyed the maroon coloured vehicle. This was no taxi or regular run of the mill zombiemobile, this was a distinctly classic British car, the model he immediately recognised as a Jaguar Mark 2. A beautiful piece of auto machinery which both captured and held his attention.

....Which was precisely what she had intended....

Leaning over from the drivers seat, the woman strained to crank the passenger window down.
"Well, hello you...."
Her sing-song voice rang out, resounding around his head, rendering him temporarily paralysed with shock.

It was her. She'd come back. Yet again. Like a ghost from the past that refused to be exorcised, and once more the demonic spirit had returned to haunt him.
"Ava..."
Her name tumbled passed his teeth and out of his mouth before he could prevent himself from speaking. Her name on his lips made him want to spit. Everything about this wicked, irksome and infuriatingly beautiful creature was poisonous. But he was by now, and certainly in his present state of mind, immune to her venom.
Quickly he regained his senses, and when he spoke his tone was perceptibly cold,
"...what the fuck are you doing here?"

Ava made a pouty face, feigning hurt,
"Now is that any way to greet your sister-in-law? It's been so long-"

"Not long enough!"
He snapped, his nostrils flaring slightly with indignation,
"You need to crawl back under your rock and stay there, and leave me be."

Impatiently he turned his back on her and prepared to vault the barrier into the vast wasteland that lay beyond it.

"Adam, don't be silly. One does not simply walk out of the grounds of Heathrow..."
She giggled to herself, as if this was either a joke that had gone over his head, or common knowledge. Perhaps it was both,
"..and it's miles to Hatton Cross."

"What?"

"That's the nearest tube station, and you're going the wrong way."

"And why would I take advice from the person who is using a road specifically designated for the use of buses?"
He quipped dismissively.

She sighed heavily,
"You'll never make that distance....especially when you haven't fed."

His head snapped up at her words, his jaw tightening as he desperately tried not to dwell upon his thirst. It had been several hours since he'd consumed the remaining contents of his flask, and the hunger, the incessant need for blood was beginning to take it's toll.
"Do you have any?"
He asked reluctantly, momentarily despising himself for enquiring.

She smiled wryly at him, sensing his resistance wavering,
"Not with me, at the house."

He scoffed openly at her now, a crooked smirk which was uncharacteristic of the man whom she hadn't seen crack a smile in centuries, pulled at the corners of his mouth,
"If you honestly believe I'd go anywhere with you, then you'd be the fool I've always taken you for."

"And what is your alternative?"
She fired back persuasively,
"Do you intend to feed off some London guttersnipe? That's what you call them isn't it? What's happened to you Adam? You used to loathe the old way, so why would you risk contamination when I've got some really good stuff back at mine?"

He absentmindedly licked his lips at the very thought of devouring some pure, untainted O negative. His fingers had begun tingling inside his black leather gloves, the initial onset of the withdrawal symptoms, well over an hour ago. And now it had escalated to the sensation of his own blood quivering through his ancient veins, making him feel like a snow globe which had been shaken up vigorously and then set back down.
And in that moment, he made the decision. One of which he knew he would most probably later live to regret. But what did he have to lose? Nothing. He'd already lost it all.

Apprehensively he approached the car, and opened the passenger door with his trembling hand.
"If you're intending to lead me on some kind of wild goose chase, you'll fucking regret it."
He warned as he climbed inside.

"Oh Adam, can you not just trust me?"
She smiled, triumphantly. Not bothering to hide her elation for having coaxed him into the car.

"No."
He replied bluntly,
"You and I both know that I did once. You abused that trust, and like my good opinion, once lost, it's lost forever."

Pulling away from the kerb, she crunched the gears and sped away. Ignoring the way in which he flinched at the sound of the gearbox grinding.
Dear, sweet Adam. He never really altered. Here he was, alone and abandoned with no place to go, in a city that he once called home but had since changed to the point of being barely recognisable. Yet her mistreatment of the vintage vehicle still bothered him, despite the fact that it should've been the least of his concerns.

"Nice car.."
He muttered, for want of something better to say as they joined the M25 motorway,
"...1963, sports saloon, 3.4 engine.."

"I knew you'd appreciate it's beauty."
She remarked with a giggle,
"No doubt you're envious of me for owning such a thing."

"Not envious. I'm more inclined to wonder how on earth you came by it."

"Why are you surprised? Did Eve not tell you I'm a woman of substance now?"

Visibly bristling at the mention of his estranged wife's name, he stiffened in his seat,
"She mentioned something about you marrying some wealthy zombie. Your heir hunting came as no great surprise, but prostituting yourself with one of their kind just so you could secure a fortune is beyond the pale....even for you."

"Oh Adam you're such a condescending snob. Do you believe I'm incapable of falling in love?"
She glanced at him, and gave him a poignant look, which he appeared to register but refused to acknowledge.

"So you married for love? And the fact that he was heir to a fortune was just a fortunate and happy coincidence?"

"I'm not arguing with you."

"That's a first."

"Oh shut up will you. I cared about him, that was enough."

"Wow. Who said romance was dead?"
He jibed. But this was not playful banter. His scathing remarks were cruelly meant,
"As dead as he himself is, right? And as much as I detest the zombies, please tell me you didn't kill him?"

"No I didn't!"
She protested, her voice raising by several octaves,
"It was a skiing accident, for your information."

"How tragic."

"Give me a break..."

"Like the kind your dearly departed endured?"
He ploughed on remorselessly, his tone heavy with sarcasm.

"You're not funny. I can't believe you'd think me capable of murdering my own husband."

He turned to stare out of the window,
"I wouldn't put anything passed you."

They journeyed on in awkward silence, a tense atmosphere having somehow descended in the car. It made him feel almost claustrophobic. Trapped and suffocated by the confines of the metal contraption, and the presence of a woman who made the hair rise at the nape of his neck.
An ominous feeling of foreboding gathered around him like an impending storm, which threatened to break at any given time. Even the air within the car seemed to have thickened somehow.

The motorway at last gave way to suburban streets, and he caught sight of the sign for Hampstead. As he continued to gaze out at the twinkling yellow streetlights, his mind inadvertently wandered back to the last time he'd visited Hampstead Heath. Before London became an ugly concrete jungle. No doubt the view from Parliament hill would be much changed, the millions of twinkling yellow streetlights of the city now resembling a jewellery box. He contemplated the possibility of them affording a certain charm to the urban decay and degradation.
"There's a hole in the ground like a great black pit, and the vermin of the world inhabit it...and it's morals aren't worth what a pig can spit. And it goes by the name of London."
He pondered aloud.

He vaguely became aware of Ava tutting, pulling his focus back to the present,
"You really are a buzzkill Adam."

"Well I'm sorry for not being as jovial as the usual company you keep.."
He replied distractedly,
"...what were you even doing looking for me anyway? Wouldn't you rather be hanging out with your zombie friends? No doubt you're quite the socialite now you've come into money-"

"I spoke to Eve..."
She announced, her proclamation silencing him instantly,
"...she told me you'd left, so I checked online for inbound night flights from Tangier."

"How did you know I'd come here? I never told her where I was going."

She shot him a knowing smile, the likes of which made him feel deeply uncomfortable. Because in spite of her irresponsible and often immature, devil-may-care attitude, there was a gentler, more serious side to Ava. Which surfaced occasionally, at times such as this, and it caused his guts to twist into knots.
"I know you, Adam..."
She said gently, fixing him with her large expressive eyes that made her appear like an uninhibited child,
"...whether you like it or not."

He shifted awkwardly in his seat, and focused again on the familiar yet unfamiliar surroundings outside that whizzed by in a blur.
He could still feel her eyes on him, scrutinising him, so he pretended to be oblivious, whilst she continued to survey every line and curve of his angular face. From his high-arched cheekbones, the likes of which one could probably cut glass with, to his straight-lined nose and sharp jawline....she knew that beautiful face so well. His appearance had never altered that much. Their supernatural genetics had him frozen in time like a crystallised rose, beautiful and never fading. But she still admired him each time he was in close proximity like this, even though she'd studied his features well enough to know his profile by heart. His stunning eyes of marbled glass remained hidden though, behind his dark sunglasses, preventing her from seeing what lay behind them. Most likely hurt, she surmised. Beyond the tired, red rims, would be the look of betrayal and heartbreak. She still couldn't quite believe that her sister had thrown away a love that had endured so many centuries. How could Eve have thrown away...him? She knew she shouldn't really attempt to broach the subject with him, especially now whilst it was still raw. And their own volatile relationship still so strained and uncertain, but tact and diplomacy was something she no longer practiced, so she could no longer refrain from asking the inevitable question,
"So, what happened?"

A lengthy pause ensued, until finally he responded begrudgingly,
"You spoke to Eve, surely she told you the sordid details? I've been replaced, it's as simple as that really."

"Don't say that, you're irreplaceable."

"Well clearly your sister isn't of that opinion."

"I'm pretty sure it'll all blow over, you guys will work it out. Your love for each other is unshakable."

"Not anymore.."
He argued, a notable air of defiance in his smooth voice. His tone was tinged with sadness yet he spoke as if he'd already accepted the hand of fate which had been dealt him, and wasn't prepared to demand a reshuffle.
"All at once everything, the next minute nothing...love really is as fragile as that."

His words caused an ache to stir somewhere deep in the cavity of her chest,
"The guy she turned, that's the new beau, right? Well, he may be younger than you but he won't be as handsome."
She babbled clumsily, and for a moment she could've sworn she heard his teeth grinding.

"Are we almost there?"
He demanded impatiently, his head now lolling back against the seat. It was almost just as much of an effort to lift it, as it was to keep conversing with her. Briefly he allowed his eyes to drift shut, his acute senses taking over. He listened to the soft hum of the engine, and the scent of the leather upholstery and Ava herself filled his nostrils. She always smelt the same. Soft and flowery, like a spring meadow, which was quite at odds with her overbearing personality.

"We're just around the corner."
She was saying now.

Opening one heavy eyelid, he peered out into the darkness, lifting his sunglasses in order to get a clearer look outside,
"Highgate..."
He raised a dark eyebrow,
"...you live in Highgate? How very bohemian of you."

Giggling girlishly, she appeared genuinely pleased by this. As though she secretly sought his seal of approval, and he'd finally awarded it her.
"Yeah I know, right? This place is boho central. Very gothic chic, it's über cool. You'll adore the house."

"Is it not a little too predictable and dare I say, 'Highgate vampire'?"

"That's the point!"
She beamed, her megawatt smile seemed to light up the darkness inside of the car,
"All those urban legends of the vampire...you've got to love the irony."

The très smart, hilltop village of Highgate, lay nestled between woods and parkland, six miles north of central London.
They drove by pond square, passed the infamous, and hauntingly beautiful Victorian cemetery, with it's high walls, ornate gravestones and tombs that captivated the eye with their elaborate, intricate carvings. Until at last, they reached their destination.
Stepping from the car, Adam finally removed his sunglasses, unsure of whether or not his weary eyes deceived him. Or perhaps Ava was. Could this be an elaborate prank?
This was Holly village. A fascinating, unique village within a village, created in 1865 by the Baroness Burdett-Coutts, a lady whom he could boast about having once been acquainted with, had he been that way inclined. But he was no braggart, boasting was not in his nature.
Approaching the gate, which was reminiscent of a gateway to another world, a sense of comforting familiarity swept over him, temporarily engulfing any weakness he felt from the hunger. The gated entrance featured a large gabled archway with two stone female statues, one holding a lamb and the other a dove. And through it, lay a village comprised of twelve unique cottages, which were all now grade ll listed buildings.
Built with colour stock brick and stone dressings, each one looked similar, yet had distinct variations of ornate wooden turrets and stone gargoyles. The striking gothic architecture somehow seemed to soothe him, as he drank in the sights, sounds and smells of the area. No polluting exhaust fumes choked his lungs, all he detected was the faint whiff of blossom and roses. No noise of rumbling traffic rang in his ears, only blissful quiet, save for their own footsteps on the path. No grotesquely ugly concrete blocks in sight, only opulent splendour. The overwhelming familiarity and unspoiled, enchanting beauty almost made him feel as if he'd arrived home...and in that instant, all the pain and anger which had been festering inside of him melted away. He felt the stir of something he hadn't felt in centuries. He felt alive...