Origin of the Vampyre

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Rachel slid the letter carefully back into its envelope, placed it with the others in the drawer, and reclined into the depths of Polidori’s wingback chair. She wondered whether the Archives of New Scotland Yard would contain cases from the Bow Street Runners. The Runners had kept the peace before the official police force was formed, but still there might be a chance. She made a note on her spreadsheet.

The rain was loud against the window panes. It was almost 3:00 am. Almost 10:00 pm in New York.

The front door of 38 Great Pulteney Street creaked open and then closed with a loud thunk downstairs. Aubrey had returned. The air in the room stirred, and the temperature dropped.

He wasn’t alone.

Rachel smiled as she heard uncertain, intoxicated footsteps, low voices and muffled giggles. Aubrey had had a good time; still was. Though they must both have been soaking wet. The hot water pipes in the wall rattled, followed by the dull pitch of flowing water.

Were these the sounds Polidori would have heard, living here with his father and siblings, Rachel wondered? There would have been no plumbing in the walls, but surely he’d have been aware of where each family member was and what they were doing? Or had he been alone in the townhome when he returned from Europe? Rachel was certain his father lived with him at the time but made a note to re-confirm.

Rachel hoped to find Polidori was not alone in his last years. That he’d known some kind of happiness. Some kind of love. Not only in his work, but personally.

She stood and peered out the window above the mahogany desk to gaze upon the deluged courtyard below. She guessed it looked the same as when Polidori had leaned against the same wall she was leaning against now. She imagined the warmth of his shoulder touching hers, his chest against her back, his cheeks ruddy from the cold. How she longed to truly know him, as closely as they both knew Mary. The yard, one story below, was slate-covered ground, whitewashed walls, and a wrought iron table and chairs. Urns at the edge contained topiaries of thyme, mint, and other herbs. A gas lantern reached out from the wall beside the kitchen door, flickering, sending stippled shadows amongst the raindrops and across the water-slicked flagstones.

The multi-paned bathroom window on the opposite side of the yard was steamed to translucency. Shadows and light within suggested a tender moment for her host and his companion. A n***d, muscled back and buttocks—stark white—abruptly pressed against the fogged panes. Flesh and unruly hair, undoubtedly Aubrey’s, wiped away streaks of condensation. Hands grasped him at the waist, urging him up until he appeared to be sitting upon the sill. The features of his companion were diffused and ambiguous within the mist. A lithe but toned body. Shaved head. Thick lips. A complexion to match Aubrey’s, making them together appear as one surreal, affectionately writhing creature. Hands skimmed up the sides of Aubrey’s torso, squeezing the V-shaped musculature about his shoulder blades, before the companion pressed face and lips into the crook of Aubrey’s exposed neck, nuzzling the flesh, hard.

That’s going to leave a mark, Rachel thought, and smiled.

She picked up her cell and sank into Polidori’s bed. Adam would be in bed, too, ploughing through his latest book, Anna Karenina, no doubt. Rachel had never understood that book nor appreciated its heroine and had been almost glad when—

“Hey babe, you’re up late. What’s up?” Adam asked.

“I think, Mr. Walton, you need to tell me what you are wearing.”

Adam snickered. “Ma chérie d'amour, you are well aware of what I don’t wear in our bedroom.”

The video icon flashed on the screen.