Until the Next

By Rose Q. Addams

The confectioner’s window is a mouthwatering sight.

A miniature garden complete with caramel truffle walls, a spun-sugar pagoda, marzipan birds, a rock-candy fountain, and a couple carved from chocolate that kiss one another within the shade of a sprawling bon-bon tree. The whole scene is shaded by an awning to keep the sweets from melting in this afternoon sunshine.

A dirty boy of perhaps twelve stands within the shade, hands pressed against the glass, staring intently. Most people pass by without a glance, and that’s the way it should be. When they’re moved to help, it’s my time to get involved.

Of course, that happens rarely here in the baker’s district. Most are too busy to notice. Those who can afford to are often too snobbish to help, but I still can’t take the chance. He always was a charmer.

“Whoa.” A cab slows to let a fruit vendor pass, blocking my view of the boy for a moment. The horse looks me in the eye and snorts, shying away. When the driver urges it along once more, a woman lingers in the shade, conversing with my target.

Blast.

I pull down my cap, turn up my collar, and step from my alleyway hiding spot.

One of those wretched horseless carriages screeches by, missing me by inches. I bolt across the street, every nerve on edge. If he noticed… but he seems to be in the midst of his act, shuffling one foot along the ground as he stares down, lips moving in a murmur.

Reaching the sidewalk, I lower my head and bustle by, just another laborer. As I pass the woman, I snatch the reticule under her arm and put on a burst of speed.

“Thief!” she shrieks. I dart around the people who scurry outside to see what’s going on. She’s surrounded now, and he’ll slip away. He always does when a crowd forms.

I continue my mad dash as a few passersby give chase, but I outrun them easily, dropping her bag about halfway down the block. Then, I dart into the safety of another alley and slow down, skirting the man slouched against the bricks as I return to my post.

He resumes waiting, forgotten. I’ve won this one, and he knows it. But there’s always another round. He’s always hungry. This must stop.

Two hours pass. The sun sinks beyond the horizon. It’s touch-and-go now—time’s running short. I press my head to the side of the building and try to take in the putrid stench of the alley, instead of scents that twist my gut with hunger—and the ones that bring back memories.

Fresh bread. Sugary sweetness. The acrid tang of coffee. An abundance of spices and seasonings. Above it all is the smell of people, animals, and smoke. London is still beautiful, despite the hunger that claws at your insides and the darkness that dances in every fleeting shadow.

What’s important is that I don’t let it win. I don’t let it take and make me something I’m not. And he’s forgotten.

Now, the people are fewer and farther between. They hasten along in little spurts and rivulets, as though the arteries of the city clot for a second, then run free again. As the last of the sunset fades, a lamplighter comes through spreading a warm glow that tips the streets in gold. I step a little closer to the light, drawing a deep breath of relief as he leaves. The street is silent. It’s just me, the boy, and the deepening shadows.

“You should leave,” he says quietly, words carrying clearly across the cobblestones.

“Not until you do,” I reply.

“This is my territory,” he says, voice dipping into a guttural snarl.

“You know very well that I don’t want your prey. Or any prey at all,” I reply. “I won’t stand by and let you do this.”

“Still holding the grudge?”

“It’s not about a grudge, Philip.”

“Don’t call me that!” He whirls on me, teeth bared. His elongated canines glisten. His eyes are no longer the gentle hazel I once knew—they haven’t been for decades. They’re an eerie, empty black. A match to my own.

“You know very well that Philip, the whelp, died long ago. And I rose in his place, stronger than he ever was.”

“Stronger? All you do is serve your stomach. You drink the lifeblood of others and leave them dead, if they’re lucky.”

“Pfft. Dunce. I shared immortality with you, and you’re complaining about it.”

“If your idea of immortality is unending temptation and agony…”

“Only for you. You’re foolish enough to deny what you are.”

“I won’t consume others to tide me over until the next hunger pang strikes!” I bash the lamppost, and wince as the iron dents under my blow.

“You’re getting stronger,” he murmurs, lifting a brow. “Abstinence, hmm?” His smirk taunts me.

I grit my teeth. “I’d lose control if I didn’t find something to eat. I’ve tried to take you before. Clare Market. Old blood works well enough.”

He guffaws. “You’re taking castoffs and drainings from the butcheries?”

“I’m not a murderer, like you!”

“Murder is killing another of your kind. We’re vampires, not men. There’s nothing to keep me from taking my fill… except maybe you.” His eyes narrow, and he shifts his weight as I stride toward him.

A shadowy figure emerges from the alleyway beside him, and his head snaps toward it.

No!

I rush him, and we collapse into the gutter. My hands close around his throat as he thrashes beneath me, and the figure draws closer.

“Move, Ben,” the figure says, raising the stake we prepared. “You heard him. He has no regrets.”

The monster who was once Philip goes still beneath me. “Not a murderer, eh?” he hisses.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper. “I tried to help.”

“Leave off with the pity,” he growls. “You’ll join me soon enough.”

The stake falls.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Rose Q. Addams loves cheesecake, hats, and her family, who she blames for her love of reading. Some of her best memories are hearing tales of Heidi, Winnie the Pooh, Beauty and The Beast, and the prophet Ehud— which explains how her taste runs wildly throughout genres. She can be found scribbling madly on any paper she gets, and praising her Savior for the weird and wonderful things in her life.

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