Silk Over Razor Blades (11 page)

Hugging herself, she entered
the kitchen. Completed washing up and a note stuck to the fridge
reminded her that her father had been there.

WASHED UP.

CALLED WORK FOR YOU; DONNA SAID
DON’T WORRY.

CALL ME WHEN YOU WAKE UP.

DAD x

Letters in the note blurred
beneath the appearance of tears. She filled a glass with water and
carried it back to the living room, wiping her face the whole time.
Her own thoughts broke the peaceful silence, thoughts of screams,
shouts and the clash of weapons. Voices, some fearful, some
desperate, others hot with anger.

Water slopped over her hands.
While her fingers clutched the glass and her body trembled, Lenina
tried to think about something else. Anything else. Shoes. Dresses.
The wedding. Catering.

Each time she managed to steer
herself away from the horrors of her dreams, they returned with a
stinging snap, filling her mind with horrific detail.

More sips water. A quick flick
through a magazine. Day time talk shows and local news. None of it
helped.

Lenina sat on the sofa and
curled her knees up to her chest, hugging her shins. Long moments
she sat that way, stubbornly resisting the wild, peculiar urge to
think.

‘Why is this happening to me?’
she murmured, brushing tears from her cheeks.

The images flashed across her
eyes again. The tall, slender man with choppy dark hair and serious
eyes. Something troubled her about his expression, his words, his
manner but what bothered her more was the chest-tightening
sensation of longing each time she pictured his face. The sense of
loss mingled with raw, white-hot anger.

It had to mean something.
Dreams often linked to the unconscious mind as it tried to work
through a problem. Everyone knew that.

But two men arguing over
whether or not to kill the king had nothing to do with anything
happening in her life. Not even if the king happened to be one her
job required her to specialise in.

She thought again of the
palace, the names, the clothes. Then further back, to the first
dream and the tower in the distance, half-shrouded from view by
clouds of dust. Enough historical and archaeological texts
discussed that incredible building to make it instantly
recognisable. At least to her.

The Pharos of Alexandria; one
of the world’s first lighthouses which once stood at the end of a
mile-long stretch of sand and silt connecting the coastline to the
island of Pharos upon which it sat.

But even that made no sense.
Work at the museum hadn’t touched on that part of Egypt for very
many months, focused instead on the Incan Empire and new finds from
South America.

Lenina lowered her legs and
took a deep breath.

The presence of the Pharos
dated her dream at no earlier than 293 BC and pinned it inescapably
in Egypt. Talk of Cleopatra, Octavian and Antony narrowed the range
still further; close to the end of the Ptolemaic Dynasty, before
Egypt became part of Rome’s republic in 30 BC.

Another deep breath.

Thinking about the dreams in
those terms steadied her heart rate. She risked another sip of
water, pleased when her hands successfully brought the glass to her
lips and back again without spillage.

Leaving it behind, she
approached the bookcase near the TV and skimmed the contents. The
top two shelves held Nick’s books: westerns, science fiction epics
and the occasional piece of horror. The next two, an explosion of
pink and purple spines, held Lenina’s preferred reading material:
general romance, fantasy and a huge section dedicated to Mills and
Boon. The last shelf held old textbooks, notes and journals from
her archaeology degree.

From there she pulled down
Ptolemaic Egypt: End of the Hellenistic Period
and flipped
it open to the index.

No entry for Saar. While
Romans, Antony, Octavian and Cleopatra featured heavily, she saw
nothing directly related to the man in her dream. She left the book
and selected three others. Fifteen minutes later Lenina closed
Cleopatra: Queen of Kings
and exhaled a long, slow breath
through her nose.

Again, nothing. Saar wasn’t
real.

As she returned her text books
she stared at Nick’s collection of ugly black, brown and grey
covers. Towards the middle, the words ‘Bram Stoker’ beckoned. On
the cover she saw a man in a black suit, with pale skin, dark hair
and a pronounced widow’s peak. Dracula of course.

Lenina scoffed, prepared to
tuck the book back into place when she noticed the small white
fangs peeping from between his stylised lips. Her right brain,
fuelled by sudden terror, raced through different scenarios in
which the word ‘vampire’ featured prominently. Despite that, her
left brain growled and insisted on a more rational explanation that
didn’t involve fantasy and make-believe.

But hadn’t the stranger bitten
her throat? Sucked at the blood? What else could that be if
not—

The doorbell rang.

Lenina screamed, spinning on
the spot to face the unexpected sound.

‘Nina? You okay?’ Ramona’s
voice floated through, muffled by the door between them.

Rushing to the door, Lenina
flung it open. ‘I’m so glad you’re here.’

‘Aye, I heard about the
caterers. Bummer.’ Ramona flounced into the living room like a
bubbly red-haired puppy. She dropped a carrier bag near the sofa
and crossed the room to fling open the curtains. ‘Don’t sit around
in the dark moping. It’s bad for you.’

Lenina flinched beneath the
sudden stab of sunlight.

Ramona gasped. ‘What happened
to your face? And your neck— is that a bandage? What happened to
you?’

Lenina slumped on to the sofa
and cradled her head in her hands. ‘It’s a long story.’

‘Aye, then make it short. I’m
listening.’

But Lenina had no idea what to
say. Her recent revelation about vampires skimmed across the
surface of her thoughts like a drop of fat on a skillet. Her tongue
felt thick and refused to form the words she wanted.

‘Come on, you can tell me
anything. Were you shaving? Do you have a hair problem? My aunt has
the same thing. Nobody knew until I caught her stealing razors from
the supermarket.’

‘I don’t have a hair problem,’
she snapped.

Ramona gave her a pointed
look.

Lenina launched into her story,
starting at the boutique car park, through to that morning when her
father had left her in bed. Despite ample opportunity, she couldn’t
bring herself to mention the dreams. Or Tristen’s solo visit.

Ramona listened in
uncharacteristic silence, her eyes widening with every word. When
the tale finished, she scratched the trail of freckles across her
nose and cheeks and closed her mouth. ‘And you say nothing ever
happens to you. You okay? Need a hug?’

Surprisingly, the offer was
exactly what Lenina needed. She leaned over and wrapped her arms
around Ramona’s shoulders. The balm of physical touch soothed
instantly and in the wake of that hug she gathered the last traces
of her dreams and packed them away at the back of her mind. Instead
she closed her eyes and enjoyed the tickle of Ramona’s hair against
her nose. The red strands curled all over the place, carrying the
scent of pencil shavings and fresh paper run through a
photocopier.

Ramona patted her back. ‘Are
you crying, honey? Lots of sniffing going on.’

‘No.’

‘Maybe you have a cold?’

‘I’m fine.’ But Lenina kept
sniffing, focused on something beneath the familiar natural perfume
of her friend’s clothes and skin. Something sweeter. Warmer.

When she buried her face in the
space between Ramona’s neck and shoulders she saw the source. A
vein pulsing gently behind her ear.

Blood.

A fine tingling spread through
Lenina’s gums. Sharp points scratched her tongue.

How she knew, Lenina couldn’t
be sure, but the fact remained the same; Ramona smelled like blood
and the blood smelled like . . .

She clung tighter and sniffed
again, this time to snort back tears.

Another pat on back. ‘Don’t
worry, honey, it’s over now. Let’s get you something to eat.’

‘I’m not hungry,’ she
murmured.

As if to prove the lie, her
stomach gurgled. Saliva flooded her mouth and she thought again of
the blood rushing hot and sweet beneath the flimsy protection of
Ramona’s skin.

She jerked free and put her
hands in her lap.

‘When did you last eat?’

‘Last night.’

‘Then you threw up this
morning. There’s the test by the way.’ Ramona nudged the bag with
her toe. ‘Of course you’re hungry. You pee on that there stick.
I’ll make sandwiches.’

‘No.’ She could think of
nothing worse.

‘That thing about ignorance
being bliss is a lie, Nina. Believe me.’ She tipped her head and
narrowed her eyes, adopting her ‘teacher face.’ It worked on
sixteen- and seventeen-year-olds and Lenina flinched beneath it
too. But it did offer the chance to escape and catch her stampeding
imagination before it carried her straight into a psychiatric
facility.

In the bathroom, she dropped
everything and focused on the mirror. Her wide, startled eyes gazed
back at her, pupils dilated to huge black pools, lower lip
quivering. She caught a flash of something white and opened her
mouth to get a better look.

Fangs. Six of them; sharp,
bright and white.

She touched one and an
unmistakable bead of blood at the end of the finger dissolved any
doubts.

Definitely real.

Lenina turned her back on the
mirror, aware her chest was heaving again. She heard blood rushing
in her ears and the pound of her pulse in every sensitive spot from
her throat to her wrists. The lights seemed suddenly far too bright
and she yanked the cord near the door, plunging the room into
darkness. Perching on the toilet she buried her face in her hands
and hugged herself. Rocking back and forth, she did her best to
focus on her breathing. To slow it down.

Though her breathing took time
to steady, the fangs in her mouth did recede. The sharp points
shrank down to the straight edges of her teeth that eighteen months
of braces and retainers gifted her during her teenage years.

Ramona knocked the door some
minutes later. ‘Nina, honey? Can I come in?’

‘No.’

‘Are you crying? Is it the
test? Did you do it? Can I see?’

‘No.’

‘It can’t be that bad. Let me
help.’

Lenina fought the urge to pound
her fists on the door shrieking.
No, you can’t! No one
can!

Instead she made a show of
using the toilet and flushing it. She even dribbled a little urine
on the test stick, fumbling with the packet while she sat.

Wiping her eyes on her sleeve
she opened the door and pressed the stick into Ramona’s hands.

Her friend frowned past her
shoulder. ‘Why were you sitting in the dark?’

Only then did Lenina realise
that she’d performed a handful of complex motions in the pitch
dark. Repressing a shudder she switched the light back on and opted
not to answer.

Ramona stared at the white
stick of plastic. Seconds later her shoulders slumped. She let out
a huge sigh. ‘Not pregnant. Thank God. Not that you wouldn’t make a
great mum,’ she hastened to add. ‘But if you got pregnant now, I’d
never hear the end of it from Verni. You’re already getting
married, she hasn’t stopped pestering me.’

Lenina thought again of the
fangs in her mouth and the horrible bruises on Nick’s face. She
even thought of Tristen and the gorgeous twist of his smile. His
peppermint breath. His warm, soft hands on hers and her heart’s
flutter each time he looked her way.

‘I can’t get married,’ she
whispered.

Ramona cocked an eyebrow.

‘I mean— I can’t— like this.
I’m a mess. The caterers pulled out, I hate my dress, Nick looks
like a boxer, and we still haven’t decided on goodie bags for the
guests.’

‘Calm down. Don’t let this,’
she waved the stick, ‘worry you. Nick won’t mind waiting. And
you’ll have fun trying, aye?’

Lenina shook her head.

How could she possibly explain
that babies were the last thing on her mind? Especially without
mentioning the dreams?

Ramona tossed the test stick in
the bin. ‘Come have a sandwich. I made loads: tuna, ham or
cheese.’

Once again Lenina opened her
mouth to decline, but her stomach clenched tight and gurgled so
loudly that it seemed churlish to do so.

Back in the living room, now
lit by the overhead lights, Ramona lifted the plate of sandwiches
and held it across her palm like a waitress. ‘Madam?’

Lenina selected a tuna sandwich
and nibbled from the one corner while listening to Ramona talk
about her latest batch of maths students. Halfway into an
explanation about the changing curriculum for A-level, Lenina zoned
out and focused instead on what she’d seen in the mirror.

It isn’t possible
, she
thought, still munching. How could it be? Perhaps a trick of the
light or a result of the stress?

People couldn’t just
spontaneously grow fangs like a sabre-tooth. And then shrink them
again . . .

She lowered her hand to the
plate again, but found only crumbs. ‘Wow, Ramona, don’t I get
any?’

Her friend stopped mid-flow.
She glanced at the plate. Her eyes popped. ‘Me? This is my first
one.’ She waved the remaining corner of a cheese sandwich. ‘What
did you do, inhale them?’

Lenina stared. ‘I didn’t. I
can’t have.’

‘And you said you weren’t
hungry. Aye . . . maybe we should do another test. I did buy
two.’

‘I’m not pregnant.’

‘But with an appetite like
that—’

‘Romey, I’m not pregnant. Stop
badgering me.’

The smile faded from Ramona’s
face. She shuffled in her seat while avoiding Lenina’s gaze then
finished the last of her sandwich. ‘I’m just worried.’