The fear had started in the poor quarter. Rumours spread of an evil, which hunted in the night. Loved ones would leave for an evening and never return.  Whispers circled of the old legends, tales of a terror worse than anything previously imagined; death was walking the streets of London, and none knew where next it would strike.

Not long after, the terror began to spread; it worked slowly outwards, extending to the more opulent areas of the city. As the panic began to take its toll, gripping hearts with cold dark fear, the exodus began. Families uprooted themselves, leaving behind lives and lifestyles that had been built up over long decades. I had pleaded with Pierre, begged him to consider a move. We could go to Cornwall to Isabella; not for forever, only until the danger had passed.

Or, I begged, we could flee to France; I had never been to France and I longed to see my brothers, whom I had not seen in so long a time. I spoke longingly to him of his tales, his adventures in France, the places he had woven into romantic tales of mystery and delight for the entertainment of his starry-eyed offspring. How I would love to behold these magical wonders for myself. The French court, the gardens of Paris, the Cathedrale Notre Dame de Paris with its high-reaching spires, incredible gargoyles and beautiful rose windows.

Although he had always abhorred my infrequent tears, and would on most occasions do almost anything to calm them, on this he held firm. London was our home, and we would not be driven from it by ancient fears and myths in which he held no faith. One day, he promised, he would take me to Paris, and to Rome and Venice. He would show me the world and all its wonders, but not now and most certainly not under the duress of foolish, mindless fear.

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One balmy summer’s night, after a wonderful night of theatre, we had taken a stroll along the Thames toward The Strand. Pierre’s laughter floated like music on the warm night air as he recalled with amusement the antics of one of the players. His eyes crinkled with mirth, his rich baritone voice filled with joy as we reviewed the performance with delight.

My arm was linked in the crook of his, our strides were matched and leisurely. This was always my favourite time of the day; the bright moon and the stars above were lighting the street in cool mysterious tones, our heads were filled with the magic of our most recent distraction, and our stomachs were most eagerly anticipating the rich warm meal that awaited us. I loved to watch Pierre when his mood was so light; not that he was prone to dark moods—on the contrary, he was an even-tempered man. However, when his mood was as buoyant as it was that night, he shone with an incredible vitality and his deep green eyes glittered brightly with mischief and endless promise.

A young girl stepped from the shadows ahead of us.  She was dressed rather strangely, in boy’s clothing; however, there was no mistaking her femininity.  Her long dark hair cascaded in raven waves down her back; her form was slight and slender, and her face was exquisite, delicate of structure with high cheekbones and large round eyes. It was the face of a highborn lady, marred only by a cruelly-fixed maniacal grin which lent a rabid, feral quality to her otherwise perfect features. 

“Run, ma chère, run.” Pierre then pushed me backwards, behind him and away from the evil menace that confronted us. I tried to protest, to convey my wish, my need to stay by his side, to not leave him to face death alone. “Vite, Marie, vite! Go now, there is no time. I will come for you, my love.”

He never took his eyes from the girl before him, never saw my eyes fill with tears at the thought of leaving him. In almost fifty years we had not been separated, and it tore at my heart to run from him, to flee for my life while he fought at the risk of his to save us—or, at the very least, me. Each racing stride that carried me further and further from my sire, from my love, was agonising. My steps began to falter and slow despite the fear that gripped me still at the memory of the Slayer’s cruel eyes burning with such evil intent.

I was three blocks from our house when I felt it—the tingle down my spine, the familiar feeling of warmth and safety that screamed ‘Sire’. I turned and saw Pierre come around the corner and into view, his long running strides uneven and jolting as he made his way toward me. I ran back to him and wrapped my arm around his waist, supporting his weight across my shoulders. I could feel his pain; he was badly hurt, and I had to get him home to safety and tend his wounds. Tears threatened to overwhelm me, and it was only by extreme effort of will that I held them back. My sire did not have time for my weakness now; he needed me, and I needed to be strong for him.

We made our way home as rapidly as possible, Pierre obviously in tremendous pain—a fact that he went to great lengths to try to keep from me as we staggered together toward the sanctuary of home and bed. The scent of blood, sire’s blood, was thick on the air, its heady aroma filling my senses with longing and my heart with fear.

Once inside, Pierre eased himself carefully to the divan in the parlour while I fetched soft cloths and water with which to tend him. Kneeling at his side, I quickly divested him of his already tattered doublet and shirt to expose a large deep gash from his breastbone down across his ribs that bit deeply into the soft flesh of his stomach. Now that he had stopped moving, the blood was no longer flowing freely and was already beginning to heal.

I gently washed the area clean of the dried encrustation of blood surrounding it; even though I tended him with the greatest of care and with as little pressure as possible, his indrawn hiss of pain spoke volumes to me of the extent of his injuries. His eyes drifted closed as he attempted hide from me the torment burning in their exquisite green depths.

Later, after his wounds had been cleaned and dressed and I had produced for him a fortifying half-filled balloon of his favourite brandy, I queried him on the events that had occurred after my departure from his side.

He had fought the Slayer, holding his own at first, allowing time for my escape; then, as the fight continued, she had steadily worn him down—punching and kicking him, her blows coming hard, strong, and fast. He had looked for, but not found, an avenue for escape. I had seen the evidence of her attack marring his beautiful porcelain white skin; large purple and black contusions covered his torso, and several of his ribs were badly broken.

He told me how he had feared he would be unable to keep his promise to me—that he would be unable to come for me; he told me that he had regretted that he had not had the time to tell me once again of his undying love and devotion. Finally, the slayer had struck and he had seen the blow coming; at the last moment, he had managed to twist enough that the stake had glanced off his ribs and been deflected downwards, digging deeply into the soft flesh of his abdomen.  The blow had caused excruciating pain and substantial blood loss, but it was not the fatal blow she had aimed for.

The miscalculation had thrown the slayer slightly off balance, allowing Pierre the opening he had been searching for. He had fled, adrenaline and need driving him to the full blinding speed that only a master vampire could achieve, urging him on beyond pain, to home and my side.

My eyes had filled with tears as his tale progressed, the large heavy drops spilling over to run down my cheeks as I contemplated a world without my beloved—my lover, my companion, my sire. He reached up to gently stroke the tears from my face, his fingers tender and loving as he brushed them in delicate whispers across my skin while his rich voice murmured loving endearments in both English and his native French.

Taking my hand, he led me up the stairs to our bedchamber, where we drifted to sleep wrapped safely in the comfort of each other’s arms. My dreams were filled with nightmare images; of a malicious grin, cruel and evil and completely devoid of compassion, of hard cold eyes that burned fear and terror deeply into the heart. I woke with a gasp, limbs trembling as I pressed ever closer to Pierre’s slumbering form, seeking his strength and the sure comfort of his presence.