It had been another busy day. As expected, the meeting with Mme Goossens had overrun, and Charlie’s schedule had gone downhill from there. Left the office late, arrived backstage just in time for Cara to slap on a face and go slay without delay.
It hadn’t helped that Zelda had hidden Cara’s favourite lashes. The fuchsia ones, with the sequins. Obviously, Zelda had sworn she had no idea what had happened to them. She had even managed to conjure up a slight air of surprise.
Cara had worn the cherry-and-lime ones instead, and she’d been in too much of a rush to realise that, for once, Zelda hadn’t pointed her in the right direction eventually. Mulling it over on her way to the taxi stand after the show, Cara decided that she’d had just about enough of the mermaid’s manoeuvres.
Zelda had never seen Cara lay down the law. It was not an experience people tended to forget.
Time for a showdown, ASAP! But meanwhile, Cara had bigger fish to fry: the new wig had finally arrived.
With this crucial accessory, her experimental ‘blend-in’ outfit was now complete. No one gave her a second look as she strolled through the midnight-mellow streets in her maroon winter coat, her stylish ice-grey bob held high. It was a whole new world.
She smiled at a group of young women in party mode. They returned her smile as they walked past. Charlie wouldn’t have dared.
On a whim, she decided to take the scenic route to the taxi stand and headed into the Galeries Saint-Hubert. It was cold, but it might still be a good night for the street musicians who shared that glorious spot under the arcade’s venerable glass roof. Classical repertoire, usually – by coincidence, or by design? Whenever she could, she stopped to listen to the arias, the concertos et al, marvelling at the performers’ skill.
As she entered the gallery, she bumped into a man who had clearly expected her to step out of his way. She’d forgotten about that.
Inside, someone was singing. A male voice, powerful and resonant, yet without the trained polish of the artists she had heard there so far.
***
There’s a pull to many a tradition, even if you reject it. Mirko had never regretted his decision to go into exile, had never been tempted to return to the place of his birth and to the culture of his kin. That didn’t mean that the break had been painless.
He missed his sister, for one, and the sense of belonging. Shared identity, unquestioned acceptance. The elegant language of his ancestors and the landscapes he’d once taken for granted. He had found a good place to be and good people to be with. And yet, his native mountains would forever hold his soul.
To his surprise, his homesickness tended to peak when the Feast of the Crags rolled around every year. The first time this sense of loss submerged him, he was truly surprised – as soon as he had been old enough to understand what his people’s favourite holiday was actually about, he had dreamt of boycotting the whole thing. So far as he was concerned, the callous betrayal that had cemented the cragborns’ power should have been a reason to repent rather than a cause for celebration.
His parents hadn’t seen it that way, and they had insisted that he take his turn at the ritual recital of the Oath as befitted a child of his rank.
In fairness, when he was very young, he had done so with pride. He had thoroughly enjoyed the annual reminder of the deal that had once been struck by seven vampire outcasts and the villagers that had taken pity on them. The supernaturals had been in a sorry state; weakened and wounded. The locals had agreed to save their lives in exchange for protection from the mountains’ brutal bands of brigands.
It had taken him years to fully grasp the meaning of the final stanza the cragborn had later added to the original 99. The one that revelled in the fact that the vampires had turned on the locals as soon as they had regained their full strength, and that rejoiced in their ability to rule over the mere mortals from their citadels on the high peaks.
The add-on now turned his stomach, but the original text was exquisite, the melody haunting. The ballad of the oath resonated with him like no other song could, taking him back to a time in his life when there had been no doubts or concerns. Just the carefree existence of a boy vampire with a firm sense of his place in the world.
This was going to be his fourth year away from the Feast, and the familiar lines had been on his mind all day. Seeing Milica’s look-alike earlier had only made it worse… Jade had asked to keep Zina with her for a few more days, and she’d left as soon as she’d been fed. He could have done with some company.
There was nothing for it. He’d just start his own tradition, on his own terms. Off he went to the corner where he had recently seen a tenor perform, in that ornate arcade. He’d sing the complete original version, secure in the knowledge that there wasn’t a soul in this city that would understand what the words actually meant.
***
The singer was ridiculously handsome. Not her type, and she wouldn’t have fancied the age difference. But she admired his smouldering good looks, much as she might admire a vibrant shade of red or the grace of a wolf.
Cara stopped to listen, captivated by the eerie ballad. She didn’t recognise the language, had no idea what tale was being told – but the performance had her spellbound. The intensity. The reverence. The notes conjured up a sense of wild mountain views, howling gales and soaring eagles, grief and promise and joy.
Other passers-by lingered a while, but who has the time for 99 stanzas? When Mirko reached the last line, only Cara was left. He closed his eyes for a few seconds, letting the final echoes fade before meeting her gaze.
“C’était magnifique,” she said quietly.
“Merci, madame,” he replied, before his vampire senses had parsed the scent of her blood. “Monsieur – ?”
“Madame,” she confirmed.
“Ah.”
“C’était quoi, cette chanson?”
“Une ballade de chez moi. Très loin d’ici.”
He seemed lost, and she was still hyper from her show. Might as well unwind in interesting company.
“Je vais boire un chocolat chaud. Ça vous tente?”
There was a tavern still open, just a few steps away.