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He shuffles back and forth. “I do, sorry.” He shoves his hands back into his pockets. “My friends all got wasted and fell asleep at the hotel. I was bored and came for a walk.” I don’t respond, hoping to discourage his conversation. “Where are you from?”
I sigh before answering. Occasionally, humans are attracted to the energy of a vampire. Attracted to the danger they sense in me. “Scotland.”
His eyes open wide. “I thought I heard a slight accent. I’ve always wanted to visit.” He shuffles once more. “What brings you to Charleston?”
“I was hungry,” I answer, hoping he’ll lose interest.
He runs a hand through dark hair. “I was just about to grab something to eat. Would you like to join me?”
The insatiable thirst deep inside rumbles at his words. “Just the two of us?”
“Aye.” He smiles with his word. “That is what they say, isn’t it?”
“Aye, it is.” I move closer toward him. As hungry as I am, I don’t want to hurt this man. I don’t want to hurt anyone ever again. I look into his eyes, focusing on thedark pupil in the middle. “Michael, you need to leave me alone. I am not who or what you think I am.”
“Who are you,” he whispers.
“I am death. Go, before you are my next victim.”
Michael’s eyes come back into focus. “I need to leave.” His voice is monotone and robotic.
I turn, facing the sea and giving him time to return to reality. “Hey, listen,” he stumbles. “I’m going to go.” He backs away slowly, never taking his eyes off me. “It was really nice meeting you.”
I don’t respond as he leaves me alone on the river’s edge. In the two hundred years I’ve been on the run, I learned many things. Compulsion was just one of them.
I turn, heading through the crowds and the city streets to the home I’ve rented during my time here. The rental listing advertised the home as a “vampire home,” banking on the history of vampires in the city. Whatever their reason, it was enough to convince me to bite. I laugh at the irony of my thoughts.
The house is four stories high and narrow. Most of the older colonial-style homes fit the same mold: tall and narrow, with each floor hosting its own piazza. To be honest, I don’t know why I chose such a large home to live in alone. Six bedrooms are much more than necessary for one person, especially for someone who doesn’t sleep. I make my way to the third-level piazza and sit, overlooking the Ashley River a few blocks away.
Thoughts of my mother, raising my siblings alonein a new country, overwhelm me. She was the strongest woman I ever met. I can’t imagine how she survived.
Through the research I’ve done, I learned that after arriving in Charles Town, Mama worked tirelessly to support her family, never remarrying. Through the years, I’ve been able to find information on all of my siblings except Bertram and the baby. I’d like to think he survived, but I’ll never know. There are records of Bertram arriving in Charles Town, but nothing about his life afterward. Over the years, I gave up, assuming he moved away or changed his name.
“I’m sorry I wasn’t here, Mama,” I whisper, remembering the day I was taken. Over the years since, I’ve avoided thinking too much about that day. The memories only bring pain. The phone shoved into my pocket vibrates, bringing me back to the present and away from my haunting past. On the screen is an address. One that I’ve been waiting all week to receive.
417 East Bay Street
“417 East Bay Street,” I repeat the address out loud the private detective I hired sent out loud. Butterflies take flight in my stomach. A quick search on my phone tells me the address is less than three blocks away. “It’s now or never, Elsie.” I don’t waste time walking. Leaping from the piazza, I’m in front of the Colonial Style home in less than a minute.
Chill bumps cover my skin at the thought of whoonce owned this home. The man I’ve thought about for three hundred years.
The thick nautical rope-shaped woodwork surrounding the door shows that the people who built this home earned their money from the sea. This has to be it. I take a deep breath, moving up the walkway toward the narrow front porch.
“Hello?” a soft voice says from a chair in the corner. “This house isn’t on the tour, sweetie.”
“I’m not looking for a tour,” I answer.
The woman stands, giving me a full glimpse of someone who looks to be in their late seventies. Her shoulders are slumped slightly, and glimpses of once dark hair peek through a head full of perfectly styled white curls. “If you’re here looking for a room to rent, I don’t have anything available at the moment.”
I fight the urge to help the elderly woman walk. “You rent rooms?”
“Aye,” she answers, giving me a slight hint of a familiar accent.
“Do you know when you might have one available?”
“Hmm. Tomorrow, I think. The couple in the honeymoon suite are leaving in the morning.”
“I’ll take it,” I interrupt.
