Here Lies...

A Story by wearywanderer64

A Scottish vampire finds a note tacked to her gravestone. As she goes to meet the priest who penned the note, she finds out something about her past life that had been blocked from her memory.

Here Lies...

Here lies a tarnished angel

Heaven refused to call

No halo above her head

Nor wings to break her fall

THE TARNISHED ANGEL

The Lucky Shamrock paid homage to Irish writers whose quotes and portraits adorned the walls and mirrors. A knot of men standing at the end of the bar broke off their conversation, gave Christine the once-over, exchanged glances with each other, nodded and smiled. A tall, bald barman with crooked teeth sloped away from them.

"Whit can I get you?" he asked.

"I'm here to meet Sam," she replied.

The barman shrugged. "Never heard of him." He turned to the others. "Do any of you know -" He tutted and slapped his forehead. "Whit am I saying? The guy came in a wee while ago. Said to tell you he's in the lounge." He gestured at a door to his right. "Jist go right through."

"Thanks," she said and entered.

The lounge was empty apart from a small priest in a grey raincoat and tartan bonnet, sitting in a corner next to the cigarette and fruit machines. He caught her gaze and gestured with a curt nod at the seat opposite.

He didn't look threatening, unless he had a stake hidden down his trousers. She smiled at the thought as she strolled over and sat on the proffered seat. She glanced over his shoulder at the portrait of Oscar Wilde on the wall. Then lowered her gaze at the sound of a cleared throat.

“The Necropolis, eh?" the said. "It's got some great views over Glasgow. I suppose if I was undead, I’d want to spend my eternal rest there.”

"It could be arranged.”

"Er...no thanks." His face scrunched up in an intense stare. "I'm Father McLaughlin. but call me Sam. I'm from St. James in Renfrew. And you?"

She didn't know her real name. A year ago she had woken up in the grave under the holly bush. When she had clawed her way out she took the name etched on the headstone: Christine Solans. (Seventeen seventy-eight, died seventeen ninety-nine.) The epitaph beneath read:

Here lies a tarnished angel

Heaven refused to call

No halo above her head

Nor wings to break her fall

Very poignant, considering her present situation. "Christine Solans," she said.

Sam shook his head. "Your name's Margaret Stewart. And your a baobhan sith." He swept up his drink in a bony hand and sipped.

Her face contorted in confusion. "A what?"

He slid the back of a hand across moist lips and slammed the glass down. "It's the Scottish equivalent of a vampire." He rolled his hand. "You still suck blood and lure men with your femininely wiles. But you don't kill anybody." He pointed a finger. "That's what save you from getting staked."

She knew she was a vampire of some sort, but didn't know there were different types. Of course, she had to deny it. "No idea what you're on about. I found a note flying around St Mungo Cathedral. I just came here to tell you that it wasn't delivered." She scraped back the chair as she rose.

"There must have been a hurricane. Cos I nailed it to your gravestone. Ach, sit down and listen to what I've got to say."

His perseverance was getting on her nerves. She bared her teeth. "See. No fangs."

"Look. There's somethin' you should know. Marr paid me a wee visit earlier. Said he wanted you back working for him. You've got 'til dawn."

She had no idea who he was talking about. "I can handle him."

“No you can't."

"If you say so. Anyway, gotta fly.”

He banged the table with a clenched fist, making the glass jump. "Will you listen to me, damn you?"

She leaned over the table towards him. “I'm already damned."

BUSINESS AS USUAL

A knot of guests blocked the receptionist's view of Christine when she entered the Highland Hotel. Good. She wouldn't have to explain her presence. She moved to the lift and ran her eyes over the foyer as she waited. The red tartan carpet and wallpaper seemed to undulate in the light thrown down by the glass chandeliers. Above the reception desk hung a painting of a stag, standing proudly on top of a misty mountain. Other paintings depicted otters, Highland Cows, birds and Scottish historical figures. The hotel was nowhere near the Highlands, but much further south at Glasgow Airport.

The lift pinged open. She took it to the third floor, hung a left and paused outside room three-five-five. A black shoe was wedged in the doorway. She kicked it aside on the way in and let the door click shut.

Henrik called from the bedroom. "I'm in here." His Swedish accent was music to her ears.

She had found him in a cafe at Glasgow Airport a few nights ago. She often went there or to city centre pubs to find foreign hosts. That way she wouldn't bump into them again.

"Just a moment," she said, setting down her Luis Vuitton bag on the floor. Unfastening the toggle of her hooded cloak she added, "Need to get ready first." She hung up the cloak on the coat rack next to her and carried her bag to the bathroom opposite, locking the door.

On these occasions she never wore jewellery as it tended to snag or scratch. Nor did she wear make up. Her rosy cheeks, emerald eyes and red hair were the only colours she needed. Her slender body and ample bosom did the rest.

She took off her boots and put them under the sink. Then slipped out of her jeans, t-shirt and underwear, folding them neatly over a towel rail warmer behind her. From the bag she fetched a red, boned corset with black lace trim and matching underwear. Perfect for the purpose.

Henrik's face expressed schoolboy enthusiasm when she padded to the foot of the bed. He was handsome, blond, blue-eyed and toned. As arranged, he lay on top of the bed, his head resting on a face towel to stop blood spilling onto the pillow and sheet. She had expected him to wear shorts or trousers, not a bath towel wrapped around his lower half.

She crawled over the bed next to him and lay on her side, head propped up by an elbow. Henrik turned to look at her, his lips curled up in a smile.

"Ready?" she asked.

"Yes. Do you want me to take off the towel?"

She wanted to say yes a thousand times. Instead she shook her head. "No." Her outfit was only to loosen men up, to tease, hint at a reward to come, but which never did. For what man could say no to her bite when she was dressed like this? None so far.

Henrik generated heat like a radiator and with his calm aura, made her want to snuggle into him and make small talk. But he was a client and she had a job to do. Still, there was no real hurry. With her finger she slowly traced a straight line from his chest to the towel, tempted to slip her hand underneath for curiosity's sake. Of course, she knew about the birds and the bees, although she had no idea where she had learned it. Her memory only stretched back a year. Strange. In all that time men had never interested her, no matter how dishy they were. So why this sudden attraction to Henrik? Okay, he was drop-dead gorgeous, but apart from that.

Her face burned at the sudden curiosity and she smiled at her silliness. The smile dropped when she spied a condom packet on the night table. Did he expect extras or was he using it for somebody else?

"I'm ready," he said.

For what? She hoped he didn't think of her as a glorified w***e. Anyway, she had no interest in sex, although she wouldn't have minded prolonging her visit. But once she bit him, he'd be too gaga to be any good for anything else. Face it, girl. You're just an expensive high for travellers. He wasn't interested in you or your small talk.

"Okay," she said nonchalantly. "Let's do it."

Henrik's expression turned sad. "If you don't want to do this," he said, "we can do it another time. Honestly, I don't mind. I was just curious." He frowned. "Do you really bite?"

"Yes."

He pursed his lips, released a faint, "Hmm!"

"What does hmm mean?"

"Nothing really." He turned to face the ceiling, tucking his hands behind his head. "I just thought you seemed really nice and wanted to get to know you better. I didn't know you were touting for business. Is that the word, touting?"

She suddenly felt dirty and snapped at him."Wouldn't call it touting. A service maybe." God. How pathetic did that sound? Like a prostitute, trying to glorify her job.

"Oh, I see," he said. "Well, I'm ready when you are."

Somehow she couldn't go through with it. "Some other time." She'd go down to the Hotel bar and find somebody else. She sat up, intending to go.

"I've offended you," he said. "Sorry."

The apology caught her by surprise. She glimpsed over her shoulder. Henrik's face was red and sorrowful. She felt guilty.

"You haven't offended me," she said. "I tend to get over-sensitive in this job. Sorry for snapping."

He thrust out a hand. "You forgive me?"

Grinning, she shook it. "Forgiven."

"I am glad." His smile turned into a mischievous grin. "I am ready for your bite." He placed his hands by his side.

"Okay. Turn your head to the side."

Turning, he gave her a sideways glance.

She took that for suspicion. "Don't worry. Nothing bad's going to happen."

She knelt beside him, pressing her hands down on his head and shoulder. She sank her fangs into a protruding vein that ran the length of his stout neck. Henrik took a sharp intake of breath, his body juddering.

She drank a wine glassful, then used the hand towel to dab her lips and face. Meanwhile, a long, drawn-out moan escaped Henrik's lips, his eyes flickering. She had learned from the internet that draining blood from the cervical nodes produced a rush of blood to replace what was drained, causing euphoria.

She fetched the first kid kit from her bag in the bathroom and repaired his neck.

"There," she said when she was finished. "You're all done."

He was too far gone to reply.

She went to the bathroom to dress, then re-entered the bedroom. Henrik was purring in sleep. She fetched a money envelope from the drawer of the night table and shoved it in her bag, zipped it up.

She lingered beside him, tingling with nervous excitement. Finally, she thought, what the hell, and kissed him. She threw a hand to her mouth, giggling like a schoolgirl. You wicked girl. She kissed him again.

Henrik's eyelids fluttered open and he muttered something incomprehensible.

She blew him a kiss, “Sweet dreams."

She was still blushing at her boldness as she got into the lift. Something had passed between them when she kissed him. She had sensed it. Or was it just wishful thinking on her part? Let's not get too far ahead of ourselves, she thought. Maybe she could meet him some other time for a drink, minus the blood-sucking afterwards of course. She doubted it would ever happen. The thought depressed her.

Something cold pressed against the back of her head. She made to turn round, but a male voice said, "Look straight ahead." Her nose crinkled up at the reek of cheese-flavoured crisps.