Chapter 3: Chapter 3: Cavendish Carousel

Clara sat in the back of Hana’s car. It was comfortable, midrange and unassuming. Films and books had taught the British woman that vampires were all rich, driving fancy cars and flashing cash at every opportunity. Gross wealth fetishism. The woman’s hand rose from her curled fingers, stirring from the blank stare out of the window she’d been enjoying. Those words didn’t feel like hers. Perhaps in her previous life she’d been some communist revolutionary from the USSR. Who knew how long she’d been in that bog, after all? She smirked, amused by her own thoughts.

The car pulled up into a dilapidated industrial park where old waterfront warehouses sat with broken windows and crumbling rooves. Several figures sat slumped against the walls of the surrounding buildings, cardboard laid out under them and swaddled in threadbare blankets. As the trio walked by, several regarded them with suspicious eyes. Clara noticed that for the most part their hands were hidden in their clothes, something that set her on edge.

“I’ll be honest, I expected the nice part of town.” She observed in a wry undertone. They were walking toward an old mill of some kind that had been patched up in recent years with new bricks, some sheet metal and a lot of faith in hobo engineering.

“Newbies always do. Ever since Stoker people think we’re all rich.” Hana shrugged s she held open a tarpaulin doorway that kept the draft at least mostly out. Ducking inside, Clara saw a stairwell that had been dug into the foundations of the mill. So, the renovations went beyond a few patches then. She cautiously made her way down the stairs with an eye always to what her two benefactors were up to. Her nose was filled with the scent of humans and the sound of conversations drifted through the door as she approached it. Looking to Mary for assurance, she was given the nod to enter. Clara took a steadying breath before opening the door.

What greeted her was something that looked like a cross between a speakeasy and a library. Dull red lights illuminated everything like a photographer’s work room, booths lining the walls with curtains at each entrance. Some were drawn, others contained smiling and laughing patrons. Clara assumed they were patrons since many of them had drinks prepared for them. Her sharp eyes flicked between their faces, sure enough seeing fangs under their lips. All throughout the strange bar, soft music played. A very eclectic mix of Georgian, classical and modern pieces accompanied their presence that night.

Clara moved through the place with trepidation. She had never felt more catered to yet so unwelcome. This place was not for her. It was for the type who’d come to terms, accommodated their condition. She couldn’t imagine casually picking a woman and feeding on her. A series of very unhelpful analogies presented themselves to her that made this place all the more arson worthy. There was that burning smell again. She cleared her head with a slight shake. Hana had taken point and was guiding her toward the rear of these booths, taking a right angle toward a large space that held the majority of the books, rather than the shelves behind the seating of the booths.

Curiosity getting the better of her, the young vampire allowed herself to scan the titles with her unsettlingly good night vision. They were not titles she’d seen before and seemed to be an entire parallel literary tradition unique to vampires. Which made it all the more unsettling when she saw familiar names such as Shelly. Polidori was closer to the mark than he’d realised, Clara thought with a smirk as they approached one of the large cordoned off segments of the club. A VIP lounge, most likely. Men like Cavendish often liked to think of themselves as very important.

The man who Hana presented herself before was a deceptively young seeming man. Looking to be in his thirties, a sharp three-piece suit adorning his broad frame, he held aloft his champagne with a grin. He had a lantern jaw with dark designer stubble. His fingers had a few precious rings while his shirt bore a tie meticulously tied and fastened with a pin. Clara half expected a top hat, as she took note of his immaculately shined shoes. She wasn’t the kind to judge, at least she hoped she wasn’t. But the man whom she assumed to be Cavendish gave off a distinct Patrick Bateman aura. This was made all the more apparent by the gaggle of trophies he’d accrued with blonde hair and bright shining blue eyes. Clara felt something stir inside her, looking at them. Something close to desire yet fuzzy, indistinct when she attempted to truly feel it. Where they humans and this was just her new hunger?

“Hana, darling! Always a pleasure.” Edward greeted with a saccharine smile and confusingly a British accent. “What have you brought for me this time, hrm? A delectable brunette by the looks of things.” He asked with a hungry look over the petite woman’s shoulder. A look that was hungry for more than simply her blood. Clara fixed him with a neutral expression that bordered on icy, not daring to give him even the modicum of a hint. He took a moment to take her in before the grin was supplemented by his fangs. He shook his finger gently in her direction, a chuckle escaping him. “Ah one of the family I see. Sam will be overjoyed.” He commented as he leaned back, sipping from his flute with a satisfied air.

“Not so fast there, Edward.” Hana interjected with a hand placed on the low table between the pair. Cavendish’s grin slowly vanished. He bravely attempted to keep his gracious air, but the annoyance seeped through his stare. “She’s British. And murdered.” She expounded. It caused the simpering air of Edward to vanish instantly.

“Wonderful. On top of not getting someone to keep Sam occupied, I get to play Sherlock Holmes.” He responded with a sarcastic cheery tone. Clara’s confusion must have showed on her face for her would-be clan leader or whatever gave her a condescending look. “Your education is lacking, forgive Hana and her help. If a murdered vampire shows up, it’s our duty to find their killers. And care for them until we do.” He said over the rim of his glass, running a hand through his short crop of hair. The man was so slimy he probably didn’t need gel.

“Clara, go behind the bar. Go ‘ave a chat with Sam.” Mary suggested through tight lips and narrowed eyes. Upon noticing that their charge wasn’t moving, for fear of offending their host, Hana nudged her with an elbow. Taking that as an excusal, she left them to their conversation which suspiciously held the phrase ‘beat his ass’ before Cavendish supplied some jovial threat.

The bar was an expensive-looking dark wooden affair of the kind she’d seen in the pubs of home. It was the kind that had a long brass bar across the bottom while the top was covered with mats, ring stains and strangely humans. She supposed there was a rule about vampires at the bar. After asking the one of the many bartenders for Sam, the dark-haired mixologist pointed to a small kitchenette that had been appended to the basement. She nodded thanks, expecting to see some aggressively lesbian woman with an undercut and at least thirty percent tattoo coverage. Cavendish had said she was one of the family, after all.

What greeted her instead was a tall Native American man with thick black hair bound up in a hair net. He wore traditional adornments on his neck and wrists, a chequered apron tied about him. As he extended a hand and took hers, she felt his firm handshake with appreciation. The smile he gave her was comforting, even if he held a large cleaver in the other hand. Aware that he was a vampire by her lacking thirst, she checked his culinary project with some nervousness. Thankfully, it seemed to be a rack of perfectly ordinary beef ribs. She’d never been so happy to see a dead animal, truly. As he returned to his work, Clara made sure to stand clear. She felt like chefs enjoyed their space when working. Probably the sharp implements.

“So, why’s Cavendish sent you to me?” Sam asked with a distinct accent she couldn’t place. Perhaps it was her inexperience with the Americas. She’d heard the accent, but it somehow seemed more specific. Perhaps he was old enough to remember a time before Mayflower. Curiosity burned in her eyes, but she didn’t want to be impolite. Was it even impolite to ask a vampire their age?

“If you don’t know what this is about, I’ll sound like a nutter.” Clara sighed with knotted fingers before looking over at Cavendish’s little court, barely visible from that angle. But visible, interestingly. “He thinks I like girls. I thought he was trying to set me up.” She explained with a degree of awkwardness. Ever since waking up in the swamp, it had just continued to get weirder and weirder.

Sam turned with an amused expression before looking her over thoughtfully. He seemed to focus on her eyes for an uncomfortably long time before his expression almost imperceptibly shifted. A masterful masking worthy of the savviest politician. Eventually he shrugged and returned to his ribs, applying far too many spices for Clara’s taste. Dear god, she really was British.

“My sister likes women. She got out of a relationship recently.” Sam explained with a shrug as he began carrying a metal pan laden with his labours. A sensation overcame Clara in that moment. A mysterious, unsettling clarity that spoke of her faint recollections being more than just a wobbly. “Edward’s a pig. He views every woman as interchangeable. I don’t think you’re a good fit for her.” He added with an apologetic expression. He did pause however at his opening of the fridge.

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“You’re lying.” Clara breathed, unable to contain herself. Her eyes were wide, fearful as she realised with dreadful certainty that she’d seen Sam before. “You never had a sister. You had two brothers. They murdered you.” She continued as if the words were being drawn out against her will. Something had stirred within her soul, clawing at the walls of her mind. Her eyes flicked to the ribs as the fear evolved to terror. Visions of flint axes hewing at a spinal cord, thick dark blood clotting over flayed meat. Hollow-eyed, gangly monsters that ran in fear from a creature more terrible than both. They spoke with familiar voices, inviting her closer.

“What the fuck is going on?” She spat. Her eyes were closed tightly against the involuntary sights. Sam practically dropped his pan and ran to her side, soothing her as if she were having a fit or psychotic break. Perhaps she was. Could anyone blame her?

“I’m sorry. I should have known you’d find your way back here. Forgive me.” Sam responded in a voice surprisingly choked with emotion. Such sentiment made Clara all the more confused. Her sorrow and frustration began to boil over as she gritted her teeth. In that moment, the dark-haired man’s eyes widened with terrible revelation. “No fangs.” He observed numbly.

What sounded like fireworks detonated repeatedly in the room opposite. Clara’s attention snapped over with wild eyes. Within the spacious chamber, thick clouds of sparkling gas had begun to spew forth from metal cylinders. Her eyes picked out several markings, though none were familiar to her. The reaction in the vampires though was all she needed for survival mode to take over again. They were standing, drawing weapons with angry faces. Cavendish stood, pulling a gold-plated handgun from his side holster with bared fangs. Of course, he had a gold-plated gun. Suddenly, she was grabbed by both shoulders and the firm eyes of Sam found her.

“The Church is here. You run away. Run as far as you can. Because I can’t save you like this.” He growled with an almost fraternal sympathy. Clara attempted to demand who he was to her, only to be shut down with a firm shake. There was no time. He pointed over her shoulder as the gas began to spread. Several figures moved within it. Their guns held at the ready, pointed directly at the vampires who stood off against them. They were shouting about treaties, demanding to know what the meaning of this intrusion was. From within the cloud, a feminine form wearing combat fatigues and body armour along with a gas mask emerged. A habit sat perched atop her head, her entire outfit being black like some strange combat nun.

“I am in a fucking Tarantino film.” Clara hissed as she ducked behind the kitchen island, eyeing the service door where Sam most likely received his ingredients. That or it was a walk-in freezer. With the desperate certainty of a cornered rat, the young vampire made her way to the door while the familiar stranger made his way into Cavendish’s room to speak with the nun and her gaggle of mercenaries. With serious consternation, she saw they bore black armbands embroidered with the Chi Rho symbol. Concern for Hana and Mary did battle with a natural cowardly instinct, all too aware that a sensible operation would have surrounded the building before going in guns blazing.

“You’d all better leave before I get angry.” Sam spoke with a deceptive calm. He held his hands up, Clara barely able to see him from her position ducked next to the door.

“We’re here for something you stole. The artifact was in Church possession until three days ago.” The nun informed them in a Polish accent. Her voice slightly muffled by the mask she wore. Sam’s first instinct was to cut over Cavendish in a tight voice, inquiring exactly what had been stolen. “You know exactly what’s missing. The auguries were very specific. If we do not locate it and soon, there will be war. Consider this the last attempt at peace. Return it to the Church.” She continued with conviction before circling her finger above her head. The commandos made their way through the smoke with eerie silence and speed, as if they were vampires themselves. Cavendish’s tone was far from the congenial gentleman he’d been before. Now he made demands of his underlings, aggressively plying them towards far off destinations and safe houses. Clara realised that her escape could work, ducking out of the back door with a subtle click and huffing it up the stairs on the other side into an alley. She could see with the limited light and hopped a fence. Once on the other side, looking down the docks, she realised that without her benefactors she was hopeless. No money or connections. Not even a bed.

She made her way back to Hana’s car with a dejected air, sitting herself on the hood with a morose, lost expression. Her attention began to wander. She looked to the empty, black expanse above her to the sickly yellow light that pervaded this once-great dockyard. Then she her attention turned to see a nondescript van, parked directly outside the compound. Standing behind the open doors, holding her weapon, the nun stared directly at her. Their eyes met. There was hate in those eyes. A hate so profound and perfect that Clara knew that her vendetta against vampires was far from whatever line of scripture they used as justification. Her face was beautiful, with a scarred lip and strong cheekbones. Clara chuckled to herself, shaking her head. Not only might she like women, but she had the unhealthiest taste in them too.

Her ears pricked up when she heard the soft rattling of bones on tarmac. She looked over to see the nun stooped on the ground with her hands at work. She’d rolled out a dark purple mat and had busied herself throwing bones. Whatever happened to that passage about letting witches live? Oh wonderful, the cackling women with crystals in one hand and meridian lines in the other were onto something. As if her day couldn’t get any stranger. It might as well be true for all it mattered to her revelation-addled mind. The vampires clearly believed in her auguries. It did beg the question of who’d be stupid enough to nick something from zealots with guns.

“Excuse me.” Came a polite interjection into her thoughts. Clara looked over to see the nun standing directly next to her, hands clasped at her hips.

“If you’re about to ask if I’ve accepted Jesus, I’m going to scream.” She responded with a sigh. She then turned her face to the nun with a flat, expectant expression.

“I didn’t think it was possible for vampires to look old. Usually, your body repairs the damage. Even the oldest vampires look no more than forty.” The woman observed with a level of passivity that made Clara almost believe it wasn’t an insult. She leant back on the bonnet with a sigh, arms behind her head as she waited for Mary. Fearing them was hard, especially when they talked about treaties and all the trappings of civilization. Trappings that fell away the second they became inconvenient, a little voice in her head reminded her. “Your remarkable ageing aside, I wanted to ask you some questions.”

Fast approaching her limit for prodding, Clara turned to stare at the nun with intense dismay before holding up a single digit. The woman nodded politely before taking a few moments to consider her question.

“What do you remember of your human life?” She asked. A question that sent distrust vibrating through Clara’s body. She couldn’t simply lie, tell some sob story. She didn’t know how good a liar she was or whether it’d be close enough to the truth to cause problems down the line. Yet telling her anything of the truth might have just the same effect.

“A bit personal for a first date.” Clara sniffed, satisfied her evasiveness would be enough to disassemble her clerical conundrum.

“I see. Thank you for your cooperation.” The woman smiled warmly before turning on her heel and beginning her walk back to the van, a hand lazily waving her goodbye. “I’ll see you later, Clara!”

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