Part II

She should not be this curious, but the facts that laid in front of her eyes within the shadow-rested house lingered on her mind.

The lamp flickered near her, as she thought of what to write in her notebook.

October 15th.

Charlotte had talked to the locals on her way to the house. They have all advised her to tread carefully. She knew they would say that. She also knew she would not take their advice literally.

That night, Claude would talk about how his achievements made him. He would attend balls. He would be making close friends. He even would meet Elaine Winchester, a socialite who had befriended him.

“Elaine Winchester? You mean the—”

Claude chuckled. “Yes. Elaine. We were betrothed, you see.”

Charlotte nodded, scribbling away. She did not need to mention to him that she was the founder of the news company she worked at. It would have been too convenient.

“And what happened?”

Claude had been reminiscing fondly, but as Charlotte asked the question…

…I died.

He had said it like a finality. He had said that like the last shreds of humanity left him. The whole conversation rang through Charlotte’s head. It was driving her insane.

“Wait… what?”

Claude sank into his chair. “I’m sorry… I need a moment.”

Charlotte’s head swayed around. Her vision swam. The near cursive way she wrote words started blurring in her retina…

…and everything went dark.

October 16th.

Charlotte jolted up. She had fallen asleep on her desk, arms bleeding shadows of marks through some areas of some pages.

Deep sleep.

As she was getting ready to go out and do some more digging, she pondered that thought. Deep sleep, was it something Claude has not experienced in a while?

If he was dead…

…how was he talking to her?

From the way she moved, down to the inn’s place to the streets of Edinburgh, she was deep in thought. She paced quickly, being careful not to slip on leaves.

She looked down, missing the yellowish-brown tone the city had even in the morning. She kept her head down to concentrate her thoughts in one place.

It was perhaps too much concentration that she bumped into someone and fell.

“Ah…!”

She tripped. The sensation of it stung, but she knew she would be fine soon. The man that had bumped into her quickly helped her up.

“Oh my goodness, are you okay miss?”

The voice sounded very elegant and very clear. As Charlotte was helped up, she found the voice coming from an older gentleman: tall, visibly aging in years, with a mustache and beard that made him weathered yet still refined.

“I’m fine now, sir,” Charlotte replied. “My apologies, I was not looking at where I was going.”

The gentleman stared at her. Charlotte thought he was examining her from top to bottom, which was strange.

“You’re that lady asking about the old house…”

“…! How did you know?”

“I talk quite frequently with the locals here,” he replied. “It’s part of my job.”

“What a coincidence. I’m also here for my job.”

“Are you now? May I ask what job that might be?”

“Investigative journalism.”

The man nodded. As if right on cue, he extended his hand.

“Where are my manners? Dr. Tavon Finch. University of Edinburgh. Anthropologist.”

Charlotte shook his hand. “Charlotte Foster.”

To her, Dr. Finch was a pleasant sunny surprise, against the sepia-toned season and the cold air. Charlotte was comfortable in the sudden meet-up. He was an academic, a professor, an anthropologist—in that regard, he read people brilliantly. She knew of it. She had interviewed anthropologists before.

Nightfall had set, and while Charlotte had been writing more and more, Claude’s reminiscences had made him a lot happier. He started joking around with Charlotte. And hearing her laugh with him…

…hearing her joy made him warm.

“I admit…”

“…?”

“When you’re here,” Claude began, standing up. “You make me feel alive.”

“Uhm… Claude?”

He was inching closer to her, and Charlotte could feel the tension. Her shoulders started to become rigid. Her eyes widened as Claude stared intently at her. Right then and there, she noticed something about him.

“Ever since Elaine… ever since Anne… you… you make me feel again. You make me…”

A drop of sweat went down from Charlotte’s face.

…thirst.

In the blink of an eye, Claude was right in front of Charlotte. But she could not scream, she could not say a word, she could not move.

Her blood.

Charlotte finally realized.

He was dead. He felt joy with Anne. He felt joy when he saw her. And now he felt… thirsty.

He wanted her.

“Claude…!”

It was soft, alluring, but it had the hallmarks of pleasure… desire. She was ready to succumb to his world, if it meant she could unravel his truth.

But he backed away.

Charlotte gasped. Her eyes closed as Claude’s face went close to him. She slowly fluttered it open, and breathed deeply. She frantically touched her face. No marks. Not anything.

“You met him, haven’t you?”

Charlotte paused.

“What?”

“Finch. The anthropologist.”

Her eyes widened. She had no idea what he was talking about. Finch only ever said he was an anthropologist…

…and there was no malice in his words.

“Y… You know Dr. Finch?”

Claude sighed. Then he cackled. A dry, bitter sound.

“That rat bastard earned his doctorate.”

There was no malice in Dr. Finch’s approach to her, but Claude’s voice had some venom. She had noticed his fangs became sharper, almost as sharp as the tone of his voice.

A connection.

A journalist’s interest.

But Charlotte at that moment was not a journalist. This man had connections with her grandmother. This man… with something off about him.

“What happened between you…?”

“None of your business.”

Charlotte knew she needed to run. She should have.

But she stayed.

Claude didn’t know what compelled her to stay. She should have been frightened.

“What are you still doing here?”

“I told you,” Charlotte replied, the modulation of her voice masking the trembling she was experiencing. “I want to know all of it—”

“You will not be able to handle it…!”

Charlotte paused. Claude’s eyes widened.

She did not flinch. She was steady.

Claude has never felt intense amazement as much as he did dread. Something about her, however, felt wrong…

Charlotte, however, wanted to know the truth. She slammed the notebook down onto his desk. Staring down, filtering to find an empty page, she held her pen and pressed it onto the paper.

“What the hell are you doing?!”

Charlotte looked up. Claude was baffled. She was not scared of him. She was scared for him.

“Tell me the truth, Claude. I will be your witness.”

“Why…?”

Charlotte smiled. A faint smile. A smile that Claude was familiar with. A smile he was scared of.

“Because someone has to.”

Stroke of midnight.

Charlotte was on her way back to the hotel. She had given Claude an ultimatum. Her heart was pounding, her mind was hazy, her eyes were bagged and soggy… 

She had been up all night.

She didn’t care.

She just wanted to know.

Her grandmother. Anne. His deep, terrible history with—

“Miss Charlotte.”

She jumped up. She had been brisking down the foggy sidewalk. This time, she didn’t bump into him.

“Dr. Finch…?”

The gentleman that she had seen the morning past. Only this time, he carried an air of seriousness and worry. His face could have been stone, itself not budging from the cold wind oscillating, shaping the foggy haze.

“You need to come with me.”

He pulled her hand and took her down a nearby building. A quaint café. A place where an anthropologist might do some research.

Charlotte blinked as soon as he guided her to sit down.

“What could be the matter, Dr. Finch?”

Dr. Finch placed his elbows on the table and made a grim expression. Charlotte became more worried, as she clutched her notebook to herself. He did not look pleased.

“Miss Charlotte.”

“Um… yes…?”

“Charlotte Foster…”

She blinked. “Th-that’s my full name, sir…”

“You’re Emily Mayfield’s daughter.”

Her heart sank. There was no way anyone in Edinburgh should know about that.

“And the granddaughter of Anne Cunningham.”

No one should know that either. Yet all of a sudden, this stranger in front of her had just stated two facts about her that she will never reveal to just anyone, especially not to him.

Charlotte clutched the notebook tighter.

“Who are you?”

He finally looked up from his thinking position. His emerald eyes pierced directly into Charlotte. She felt as if she was a deer in his headlights. She had been caught completely off-guard.

“I’m Dr. Tavon Finch. Vampire hunter.”

Vampire... hunter?

Charlotte processed what he just called himself. She thought if Brandon had joined her on her quest to find Claude Douglas, he would also have perhaps thought Dr. Finch was clinically insane. 

Vampires? Hunters? He's insane.

“This may be overwhelming for you, Miss Charlotte. But I’m doing this to protect you.”

“…”

“You’ve been going into that house for two nights.”

Charlotte looked to her side, waiting for a chance to run.

“And what of it?”

“The man you met inside that house… Claude Douglas…”

…killed your mum Emily.

“You’re bluffing.” Charlotte’s eyes widened. But she was a journalist. She knew when to spot bluffs and fake stories. She was an investigator. She only wanted the truth.

“Am I?” Dr. Finch’s voice escalated, as he leaned closer to the table. His voice roared with urgency, concerned for what Charlotte was doing.

“That man is a danger. He hurt them, and he will hurt you.”

Charlotte was still in disbelief. She needed more answers. She wanted more information. She desired more truth.

“If you’re a vampire hunter… then why didn’t you kill him?”

Dr. Finch paused. The dead silence was all Charlotte needed. Almost as quickly as she was dragged into the café, she bolted out.

Wait…!

He grabbed her free hand. She pulled away.

“Do not stop me.”