13
1149 Words
Robert Montgomery
Whatever little I managed to dig up on Charlotte Beaumont, I was able to verify. She did go to a local high school in Portland, but she enrolled when she was fifteen. She also never applied for college even though she had remarkable grades. Instead, she did odd jobs. It was almost as if she had no money and was trying to earn a living.
Very odd for a vampire. More so for a fifteen-year-old one.
Vampire clans take pride in their children. I found it puzzling that one of them had been struggling at such a young age and no one seemed to have intervened. I followed her trail all the way back to a women’s shelter. I couldn’t get a hold of the person who ran it during that time, but I did get confirmation from their records that a Charlotte lived with them for a while. The person couldn’t find much information on her, but she remembered Charlotte’s red hair and green eyes.
She has worked at human-owned establishments since as far back as I can trace her. I even got a hold of her financials. She has some decent savings but nothing to indicate that she’s a spy of any sort. Everything I’ve uncovered about her shows that she has been living like a human among humans.
But why?
Why is a vampire living like that?
My family didn’t want me, okay? I’m a defective vampire!
It makes me feel foolish that I wasn’t able to put two and two together. I knew that vampires take pride in strength. They don’t tolerate the weak, even in their own ranks. But I’ve never heard of a clan exiling a child, because that is what Charlotte was when she arrived at the shelter.
I didn’t realize a lot of things.
The fact that I didn’t find her in any of the registries meant that her name had been removed. Only a legal guardian can do that.
She hadn’t known.
The shocked look in her eyes when she came to that conclusion made me feel like a monster. She had tears in those pretty eyes, a devastation that I put there. It made my wolf miserable.
It made me feel regretful about not showing tact.
I knew she wasn’t a threat when I walked into the coffee shop tonight. I knew of her background to some extent; I simply wanted to know the name of her clan. It hadn’t occurred to me that they had thrown her out, that she belonged nowhere.
I pull my car to the side of the road and get out.
It’s late, but I’m not ready to sleep yet. Aside from the pretty vampire whose heart I pretty much broke today, I’ve got other things bothering me, as well. To be more precise, the fact that nobody seems to remember where Harry came to pick me up and where the clean-up crew came to install the new door is making me nervous. I’m beginning to lean more and more toward the idea of a witch or warlock in Portland.
Witches and warlocks both practice magic, but witches do so using nature while warlocks supposedly draw power from something much more sinister. Both were driven out centuries ago, way before my time, and ever since the act of registering every supernatural being came into play, the ones who had stayed behind or returned at some point found themselves targeted by overly ambitious vampires or shifters. They’re a minority even in other parts of the world.
I close the car door and look around. I parked around the corner from where I was attacked. I still don’t remember much of anything from that night, but it would make sense if I made my way down the street closest to me. The only way to find out is to check out the area, which is a mixture of houses and shops.
As I walk toward that street, I see a tabby cat strolling toward me. It has a collar around its neck and only one functioning eye.
As it approaches me, I stop. “Well, hello.”
It winds between my legs, purring.
“Aren’t you friendly?” I pick it up, and it settles in my arms without a hint of protest. “Where’s your owner?”
The cat lets out a meow and happily rubs against my neck.
I look in the direction of the street I was heading toward and decide to take my little companion with me. It most likely escaped from somewhere over there. As I begin to walk, I hear someone crying out.
“Mano!”
The voice is very familiar. We’re on a long, winding street, with woods on one side and shops and houses on the other.
“Mano, come back!”
I can feel the cat growing restless in my arms as we get closer to the voice.
“You must be Mano, then,” I murmur, looking down at it. “Bad kitty. You upset your owner.”
“Mano!”
The broken heartedness of that cry makes my wolf howl. Unwittingly, I find myself moving faster, the desperate nature of the call making my heart tighten. As the road curves, I see a woman standing in the middle of the street, wearing pajamas only a child would willingly wear, her red hair tied in a bun that has no chance against those wild, loose curls of hers.
Charlotte.
No wonder that voice was familiar.
No wonder my wolf reacted. It always does to her.
She’s crying. I can smell the salt of her tears all the way from here.
For a moment, I stand there and watch her, even as the cat wriggles in my arms.
Her whole body is shaking as she sobs out the cat’s name again and again.
I don’t like it.
I don’t like the sound of those broken sobs.
“Charlotte.”
She turns around, and those pretty green eyes are red-rimmed, devastation evident in them. Her face is wet with tears, and I hold out the cat who is desperately meowing now. “I found your cat on the main street.”
“Mano,” she mumbles before darting toward me and snatching the one-eyed tabby from my hands. “I thought I’d lost you!”
The cat doesn’t shy away from her hold, and I watch Charlotte’s fingers dig into its fur. She’s trying to control her tears, and it’s hard to resist the urge to comfort her.
I give her a couple of minutes and study her in the meantime. There’s nothing cold or manipulative about this woman. She wears her heart on her sleeve. The way she’s bawling over her missing cat affects me. I know those are relieved tears, but there is something incredibly innocent about Charlotte that tugs at my heart strings.
- Writer
