Vampire Seeker (25 page)

With my hands shaking over the keyboard, I typed in the name “Harry Turner 1888.” Nothing. I tried again, but
this time I typed in “Harrison Turner 1888 Colorado.” Nothing. I didn’t know the preacher’s real name,
but I tried Zoe Edgar and Louise Pearson, still there was nothing about what had happened to my friends.

Had they really existed?
I wondered, as I flopped onto my bed and pulled my jeans down over my hips. Had I really been back to 1888 and stopped a
serial killer who would have gone on to commit murders one-hundred-and-twenty-four years later in London? Had I killed Jack the Ripper? Had it really been a vampire who had stalked
those dark, narrow streets of Whitechapel over a hundred years ago, seeking out his prey? Is that why the murders stopped
so suddenly back in 1888, because he died with me in some remote mine on the other side of the world?

But I didn’t die
, I thought. I was right here, trying to squeeze out of my rain-soaked jeans. It was then I felt something in my pocket. I
reached inside, and gasping out loud, I pulled out the rosary beads I had taken from the chapel in the town of Black Water
Gap. I jumped from my bed and went to my coat, which was hanging from the back of the door. I rummaged through the pockets
in search of the crucifix, bottle of holy water, and cloves of garlic I had when I was…
taken
? They had gone.

Marley took them
, I heard Zoe whisper in my ear.

I heard Sally cry out with joy from the room next door and I thought of Louise. Holding my hands over my ears, I threw myself
onto my bed.

Six weeks passed, but it was like my life had stopped. It hadn’t moved on – or it was like I hadn’t. What
I had seen, everything that I had done back in 1888 seemed to fade that little bit more every time I opened my eyes on a new
day. I didn’t want to lose those memories of what had happened to me. I didn’t want to forget about the preacher,
Zoe, Louise…
Harry
. Every morning, as I lay on my bed reluctant to open my eyes on a new day, knowing that my friends would fade a little bit
more, it was like I could hear Harry whispering in my ear,
keep your eyes closed – if you look at me, then this isn’t real – it’s just a fantasy.

As I lay awake at night, listening to Sally whoop it up with another new boyfriend, I tried to think of Harry and remember
what had happened between us, but even that memory was fading. And however hard I tried to get those feelings back on my own
– it just wasn’t the same.

Why had I been so keen to return?
I would lay and wonder. I had been a part of something back in 1888. There had been adventure in my life – and some
passion! What did I have here? Not a great deal.

So of a night, when I couldn’t sleep, I would go back to Aldgate Tube Station and ride the Circle Line, going around
and around in those tunnels, searching the faces of fellow passengers, hoping that I would recognise something – recognise
the man who had grabbed me around the throat. Maybe he could take me back again. But it was impossible – I hadn’t
seen his face. He could’ve been anyone. And when I got tired of going around and around in circles, I would watch the
trains pass through the station. I would study the faces of each passenger.

Then one night, as I sat on a platform bench waiting for trains, I saw him get off and head up the platform towards the exit.
It looked like him from the back, the same colour hair in the same scruffy style. He even had that arrogant slant to his walk.
I rushed through the crowds, desperate not to lose sight of him before he disappeared amongst the throng of passengers heading
for the exit. Reaching out, I grabbed his shoulder.

“Harry!” I said.

He turned and looked at me with a quizzical look.

“Sorry,” I said, realising it wasn’t him. “I thought you were someone else.”

The man turned his back and headed for the exit. Tired and pissed off, I decided to go home and spend another lonely night
wondering if I was going mad. Then I heard a song start up that I hadn’t heard for years. My dad used to play it in
the car when we went on holiday. I stood and watched the busker strum on his guitar as he sang,
Bad Moon Rising
by John Fogerty.

Instead of leaving the station, I decided to stay a while longer and listen to the song, perhaps I’d wait for a few
more trains. Just a few.

Look out for book two in the Samantha Carter series.

Coming soon from Piatkus!