Spoilers: For 'Moments of Transition'
Content Rating: PG
Type: Drama
Characters: Original
Summary: A one-shot postscript to Moments of Transition, set, as the title suggests, in Paris. Can probably be read without reading that monster, although I'd recommend it. (What good author wouldn't plug their own work?)

Shadows danced through the caves. Guess the Ren Faire impression saves on power bills, mused the vampire as his eyes followed their source, two opposing ranks of torches that drew lines of fire into the distance. “Ah, my turning,” said the vampire in his customary Southern drawl. He slipped down a side-passage, barely a metre wide, but enough to admit his thin frame. It continued for some fifty pitch-black metres until it came out in a small cavern. It too was lightless, but that was no hindrance to a creature of the night. Allowing his demon onto his face, the vampire growled softly, and readied himself.

Scuttling creatures, spiders of nightmare proportions, encircled him. The vampire could likely have dispatched them with his bare hands. Not being a fan of arachnids, he preferred the colt 45 automatic in his waistband, which he drew and discharged in one fluid motion. The cavern flashed as the vampire spun, and the scuttling ceased. As the last shell casing hit the rock underfoot, the vampire knew he’d got what he’d come for. The darkness receded as a ball of light appeared and illuminated a stone slab that had once served as an altar.

The light spoke. “You defile this place with your presence, vampire,” it said in a sing-song voice, which echoed around the cavern, the words ricocheting as fiercely as bullets.

“I’d like to say I don’t make a habit of it,” drawled the vampire as he slammed a fresh clip into his pistol. The slide snapped forward. “So I will.”

The walls shimmed as the light dissolved, and reformed into a robed woman, whose grey hairs blew around an ageless face. “Prepare to do battle, demon,” she spoke in the same singing voice. A sword swirled into existence in her hand.

“Nice blade,” commented the vampire. He levelled his gunsights at the woman’s head with a languid flick of the wrist. “Ever heard of Colonel Colt?”

The woman knotted her brow. “That is your name, demon?”

The vampire laughed. “Name’s Martin Jakes.” He pulled the trigger, and the woman was thrashed back against the rockface, where she exploded in a burst of white. “I’m just a fan.” Stooping beside the altar, he lifted its sole contents, a scroll. “Got my vacation reading,” he called over his shoulder as he exited the cavern, scroll in one hand, his still-smoking gun in the other.

* * *

The train curled around the base of a mountain as Martin read the scroll yet again. He was not bored by repetition, since the text was constantly shifting beneath his brown eyes. He took a sip of his merlot, and his lips curled alongside the juddering train. “Well, who’d’ve expected that?” he asked rhetorically. Another sip, and he took a cell phone from the holdall on the seat beside him. “Hey? Yeah, none but he. Cassy, a pleasure to hear your words as always, but a pleasure greater still to hear them in person. No, doesn’t matter. I’ll be in Paris before the week is out. In our place, you know the one. My love, always.”

Martin thumbed the keypad, and finished the remainder of his glass. “Still thirsty,” he muttered. He got to his feet, and went to find something more filling.

* * *

“Oh, merde,” snapped the woman by the window as ink spilled across her lap.

“Sam, glad as I am to see you learning my language, we need to work on your choice of vocab.”

Samantha Lawrence turned in her chair to meet the eyes of the taller woman entering the room. “My choice fits just fine, Lu. Which is more than can be said for this cap.” Sam nodded at the ink bottle on the small writing desk that shone with the late morning sun.

Kneeling beside Sam, Lucinda Vincent squeezed the smaller woman’s shoulder with a gentle clasp. “I’m sure you can slay the proprietor later, Sam. I’ve a mind to do it myself after what he’s put my friend through.”

“Never mind your friend, just look at her skirt.”

Lucinda nodded. It was unlikely the white chiffon skirt would ever be clean again, but on the off-chance, Sam went to change.

“Sam?” Stopping her wheelchair, Sam spun around. Lucinda had seen the manoeuvre countless times, but remained impressed. “After you’ve changed, there’s a letter waiting for you.” Sam smiled, and spun back towards the door. “And Sam? Ruth’s gonna be just fine with a letter written in Biro.”

Laughing, Sam left the room, already hoping beyond hope that the letter came from the subject of her failed missive. Coming to the pigeonholes of the apartment block some ten minutes later, however, left her disappointed. Sam could tell from the post mark that the letter wasn’t from Ruth. As she thumbed open the envelope, she wondered for a second whether it was from another old friend.

It wasn’t. It was from an old acquaintance.

Sam’s hand trembled slightly as she read his words. Then, unexpectedly, the fear died. Sam had every reason to be afraid. The very workings of the world told her that she should tremble. But something inside Sam chose a different path. Resolve crossed her face as she crumpled the letter into a tight ball. “Hon, you’re not coming home to this.” She threw the ball away from her. “It ends.”

* * *

“Ah, Paree,” drawled Martin as he leant against the balcony overlooking the Seine.

“It’s been a while,” said his companion as she joined him beside the glittering river. The glittering was caused by headlights, streetlamps, and the occasional boat, but she found it romantic, all the same.

“Indeed,” agreed Martin, turning his back on the Seine, and lighting himself a woodbine. “Sixty-seven, wasn’t it?” His companion nodded. “I tell you Cassy, that’s what you call lousy timing.”

Cassandra arched an eyebrow slightly. “Depends on your priorities, Martin.”

The vampire shrugged. “Guess it does.” He reached into his pocket, and withdrew a leather tube. “Speaking of which …”

Cassandra took it from him, flipped the cap, and slid out the scroll. Everything in her wanted to throw the paper into the water below. After introducing it to Martin’s lighter, just to be sure. Well, most everything. Instead, she read the latest words, and her brow knotted. “Martin, is this …?”

Martin took the paper, scanned the text, and nodded. “Yep. Sure is.”

Cassandra handed the scroll back to Martin, and hugged herself. She got the feeling that she’d just squandered something vital, but shook it away as she rubbed some warmth into her bare arms. Seeing this, the vampire slid the leather jacket from his own shoulders and draped it across his lover’s.

“Cassy, I gotta do what I gotta, y’know?”

Cassandra met his eyes. “That’s the thing, though. You don’t gotta do it.”

Martin smiled. “No. But I want to. And what I want, I do.”

“A choice.”

“Yep.” Martin blew a skein of tobacco smoke past Cassandra’s face, which swirled away into the night. “My choice.”

Isn’t it always, thought Cassandra, resigned. Martin chose to do what he did because he was a monster. And she chose to help him. Did that make her worse? Cassandra shrugged. Right and wrong had no meaning to her. Anything was worth it to feel, and Martin made her feel. She thought back over centuries in seconds, thought back to the spell that had cursed her with life, and returned her gaze to the light-flecked water below.

* * *

“Great,” said Sam as she looked into the phone booth. “Get with the accessibility, 21st
arrondissement.” The receiver was little problem, and in her hands with a tug of its aluminium-encased wire. The keypad was a different matter. With a sigh, Sam hugged the grey box containing the telephone, and hauled herself to her feet. Once her legs were on the ground, it wasn’t so bad. True, she couldn’t move more than a few muscles in her hips, but she was balanced well enough, and leant against the Perspex.

“Hi. Yep, it’s me.” A smile crossed her face at the squeal from the other end of the line. “Reciprocated in spirit if not in kind. What? Yep, I’ve been swotting up some this year. No competition with you though, brainiac. What? ‘My turnip at stop.’ Well remembered, hon!” The next few minutes were passed reminiscing. “OK, fun as this is, I’m afraid there was a purpose to the call. No, of course I wanna talk! Gotta do something about that insecurity gig, take it from one who knows. I’ll call back in a few days. But right now, I need your help. Both, actually. Combined, if possible.” Sam listened for a few seconds, and nodded, although the instinctual gesture was of course pointless, since the person it was intended for was four thousand miles distant. “OK, my little hacker, this is what I was thinking …”

* * *

“Hon, love you, but we’re long over!”

Laughing, Lucinda continued to bring in the wine and roses. “These aren’t for us, you great silly.”

Sam smiled warmly. “I know. And I’m still thinking how to give voice to that warm fuzzy bundle of gratitude you’ve just ignited. So I resort to the piss-takin’. Jus’ me, I guess.”

Lucinda walked over to Sam, knelt beside her, and embraced her. “You know it, angel,” she whispered in Sam’s ear, and pecked her cheek. The met each other’s eyes, but in friendship. The other thing was past, and neither was willing to risk what they’d built in its stead. Besides, Sam’s affections were very much focused elsewhere.

“Lu,” said Sam, with a little rub of her companion’s shoulder. “I’ll be going out later.”

Lucinda looked mildly surprised. “Where to, hon?”

Sam looked away, and her lips curled slightly as she thought back to the phonecall from two days ago. “Oh, nowhere special.”

* * *

“This is special.”

“The stench is,” said Martin as he followed Cassandra down the ladder. “I hope for its sake the scroll’s got the right address.”

“Martin, you can’t threaten a scroll.” Cassandra’s booted feet hit the slime underfoot.

“Watch me,” said the vampire as he dropped down beside her.

“Martin, you’re incorrigible.” Cassandra flicked on a flashlight. “Besides, watching anything’s going to be hard down here.” She heard a familiar sound from behind her, and turned to see the vampire wearing his gameface.

“Speak for yourself, my love,” said Martin, passing Cassandra and motioning his lover forwards. The couple walked for a good ten minutes before Martin drew up his hand, and Cassandra halted beside him. To their left was a passageway.

“More sewers?”

Martin shook his head. “Catacombs.” He shrugged. “Doubt we’ll notice the difference, but means we’re close.” The passageway led them a short distance into a network of catacombs, which vanished off into the distance. Grids from the street far above cast infrequent circles of light on the ground below them, and as Cassandra watched rats scurry about her feet, she wished they didn’t. If it bothered Martin, the vampire didn’t show it, for he was fixed on one objective. “We’re here,” he said, softly, and Cassandra followed him some twenty metres, until the pair were beside a nook in the wall, within which was a single box. Martin took it in his long fingers, flicked open the lid, and smiled as he held up the ornate vial within. Reflections from distant streetlamps flicked about his fanged lips.

“That’s not for you.”

Starting, Martin spun, his yellow eyes darting around the surrounding passageways. “Who …?”

“… Me.” A flashlight burst into life, its beam focussing on Cassandra, who covered her eyes to shield against the glare.

“Cassy, take this.” Martin handed his lover the vial, and walked towards the light’s source. “Me and Miss Lawrence have some reacquainting to do.” He got a few paces before the slabs underfoot shattered, and the passageways echoed with the sound of a gunshot. “Stupid girl,” snarled the vampire, although he nethertheless halted. “You forgot some things about my physiology.” He smiled. “That means …”

“… We’re versin’ on biology,” said Sam, in a Southern drawl.

The vampire smiled. “Well, well, the gimp’s got herself some book learnin’. That is, if …”

“… Oh, still a gimp,” said Sam. Martin couldn’t see past the glare of the flashlight, but if he had, he’d have seen Sam slumped on the glutinous slabs. “Dragged myself down here special. Didn’t want to miss Cassy’s big moment.”

“Cassy’s …” Martin turned to his lover, and at once, the demon melted from his features. “No.”

Cassandra was quiet, looking at the vial in her hands.

“Cassandra,” said Sam, her voice gentle, “I know we’ve not met face-to-face before, but I know what you did for me, back in LA. Gave me hope. I’m returning the favour.”

“Cassy,” began Martin, walking carefully towards his beloved, “put the vial down, hon.”

“No,” said Cassandra simply. She turned back towards the flashlight. “You found a way to break the spell?” she said, her voice alive with ancient pain.

“Not exactly,” said Sam, who was struggling to keep the flashlight steady. “A friend hacked it.” The flashlight moved, and illuminated Martin’s hand. “Not the only thing she hacked.”

“You bitch,” spat the vampire, throwing the scroll into the muck, and bolting towards Sam.

“Drink!” screamed Sam as the vampire closed on her.

Martin skidded to a halt, and his feet slid from under him. Landing face first in the slime underfoot, he spun, and faced Cassandra. “No, Cassy, please …” he begged.

Cassandra’s hand was trembling furiously, but she managed to get the cap off the vial. “Martin, I’m sorry,” she said, and upended it. Yellow liquid passed her lips with a slight glow. “Goodbye.” With that, she crumpled like an Autumn leaf. As she hit the ground, there was a look of total peace on her face.

Martin howled, the sound radiating through the catacombs and up to the streets above. Lost to a feral rage, he clawed at the slick ground, scrambled to his feet, and sprang like a coiled spring in Sam’s direction.

His knee went first, exploding in a burst of pain and flesh. “You’re not a god no more, Jakes,” said Sam coolly, pumping the shotgun in her steady hands. “You’re a common’o’garden leech in a mingin’ body.” She levelled the shotgun at Martin’s neck.

“You gonna kill me, or keep gassin’?”

Sam smiled, without mercy. “Oh, I killed you two minutes ago, Jakes. This is just insurance.” Martin saw the same golden light that had passed Cassandra’s lips begin to circle him. Sam continued, “More to the point, Cassandra killed you. Poor woman got to die at last.” The light was spinning now, a golden vortex that surrounded Martin. “You’ve died many times, Jakes. Now your life support’s gone.” The catacombs screeched with terrible voices. “It’s debt collection time.” Martin made futile warding gestures, and looked through the light to Sam’s piercing eyes as she spat, “You come here, threaten me and my beloved? You were always going to die for that.”

“No,” croaked Martin, his look one of unadulterated horror. “You’re just a girl.”

“I’ve heard that a lot.” Sam smiled as the light contracted and drove into Martin’s flesh. “I’ve decided to stop believing it.” The vampire screamed, and the vampire burned. And Sam watched, and watched until the catacombs howled, and one more pile of dust hit the ground.

* * *

“You’ll want to do this alone,” said Lucinda as she helped Sam into her sleek wheelchair. It was not a question, but Sam nodded all the same.

Lucinda waited by the car as Sam pushed herself into Charles de Gaulle Airport. She wore the same stained clothes she had the night before, but did not care. She doubted the woman she’d come to meet would be wearing haute couture. This was not about that. As Sam passed the departure board, she looked up, and confirmed that the plane had landed where she was expecting it to land. It was. She noted the date. 22nd September. 1999.

Moving past the departure board, Sam lost herself to the moment, until she was before the allotted gate. Her half-gloved hand tightened around the wheel of her chair. A trickle of people was moving forward, but Sam looked past them. Past them to the tiny girl who was last from the plane.

Woman, corrected Sam as the woman showed her passport and was waved past customs by a bored official. She wore a t-shirt, shorts, and flipflops, and it was clearly a uniform. Stopping before Sam, she looked down.

“Ruth,” said Sam, with a neutral expression. “We … oh!” The girl had darted forward, caught Sam in a bear hug, and sent her flying. The pair landed on the carpeted terminal with a thud, in one another’s arms. Before Sam could get her bearings, she was enveloped in a long, hungry kiss.

“Sam,” said Ruth, breaking it off, and meeting Sam with equally hungry eyes. “You OK?” Sam nodded, wide-eyed. “Two more questions. We still together?”

“Hell yes,” confirmed Sam needlessly, giving Ruth another kiss.

Ruth’s face broke into a broad grin. “Question the second. Do you mind if we take things extremely fast?”

“Hell no,” beamed Sam.

Ruth brushed a strand of long black hair from her face. “Good. ’Cause I’ve a year’s making up to do.”

Sam said, “Ruth, was it every kind of awful?” and her voice caught.

“Every.” Noticing the stares drawn by lying with Sam on the floor, Ruth lifted her, and dropped her back into her wheelchair. Sam noted the strength in her girlfriend’s muscled arms. “And now it’s done. Forever.” Something dangerous blew across Ruth’s face. “They made me a slave, Sam. I’ve no mercy for them.” Her face softened. “But they’re not here.” She knelt, and draped her arms about Sam’s neck. “You are.”

“We are. We begin, properly.”

Ruth laughed, closed her eyes for a second, and shook her head. “Sam, I’m broke, estranged, and …” another kiss “… so not re-educated.”

“Always failing,” chanced Sam.

“Yeah. Only scraped a 3.9 GPA.”

Sam’s eyes went wide. “You got your high school certificate in that hellhole?”

“And 1540 on my SATs,” said Ruth with a blush.

“Wow.” Sam rubbed her girlfriend’s arm. “I’m working on a baccalaureate, and speak French.”

“Also wow.” Ruth pecked Sam’s lips. “Things have changed some.”

“Some things.” Sam laced her hand through Ruth’s. “Some are exactly where they were, and should be, and will remain.” She nodded towards the exit, and dropped her other hand into her lap.

“Pah, lazy-bones!” Ruth winked, and holding Sam’s hand tight, guided her out of the terminal.

“Repeat that after I introduce you to the petite mort.” Ruth smirked, and they were back.

Exiting into brilliant sun, the couple stopped before Lucinda. “Hey,” said Ruth.

“Hey,” said Lucinda, understandably nervous. “Good flight?”

Ruth nodded. “Slept for most of it.” She looked down. “So, local gal, know where an urchin can get herself some good threads in this town?”

“Think we can find something,” said Lucinda, a little more confidence in her voice. “Ruth …”

“Did you boff Sam while I was vacationing?”

Lucinda’s jaw dropped.

“I’ll take that as a no.” Ruth stepped forward, and to Lucinda’s further astonishment, Ruth embraced the taller woman. “Unless you two crazy kids have been doing the naughty, we’re all kinds of good, hon. You’ve been taking care of my Sam for the past year –”

“– How …?” began Sam.

Dropping to her knee, Ruth turned to Sam, and smiled. “Hon, unless you suddenly got the urge to go Francophile, I worked out what was up with the move to Paris.” She laced her hands around Sam’s neck. “I trust you.”

Sam felt her stomach tumble in a knot of nerves and relief. “I forgot just … I forgot.”

“No, you didn’t,” said Ruth with a wide smile that lit her eyes. “You remembered.”

“Memories are past, now,” said Lucinda, opening the door of her Citron.

“That they are,” said Sam as Ruth lifted her into the back seat. “That they are.”


Fin


© Byron, 2010