Chapter 1: Sarah

Foreword

Vampires, shapeshifters and ghosts have appeared in myth and fiction, in some form or other, for thousands of years. Each generation of myth-makers and writers has brought their own twist to the legends, and I am no different in my writing of this story. Some elements you will regcognise. Others I have modified, or left out, or changed entirely, to create something that is new.

So welcome to my tale of destiny, love, loss, friendship, discovery and mystery. I hope you enjoy the ride!

Chapter 1: Sarah

“Roberto this, Roberto that, Roberto calls and you run off to him without a second thought!” Brian complains in that polished voice of his. He never shouts. He prides himself on that. Perhaps that should have been a warning sign. “You're nothing but his bitch. I bought those tickets weeks ago, and you're cancelling because Roberto needs you. You can't just drop everything at the last moment because your boss says so! It's just a job, not your life! I need you!”

“Roberto Bonetti is the conductor of the Britannia Symphony Orchestra, Brian,” I correct him patiently. “It's a television appearance. You don't turn down an appearance on national television with an internationally acclaimed orchestra just because you have a date with your boyfriend to watch a soccer match. Especially when you're the soloist!”

“Oh how self-important of you," Brian sing-songs. "That's you all over. You're just a selfish, self-absorbed bitch, thinking that everything else is less important than you are. The world will keep turning without you. Get your priorities in order! This is the semi final!”

“It's the Championship League, Brian, not the Premiership,” I say placatingly. "There will be other matches."

“You should say you were sick! Relationships are more important than work. You know I'd make a good husband for you, but you'll never make a good wife if you don't learn to treat your partner properly. This is our life, Sarah! Our time together is sacred! This is what we share, the national sport. How many people care about classical music these days, anyway? Nobody. Soccer is so much more than your little concerts.”

I can feel my temper simmering, but, unlike Brian, I don't enjoy making a scene. “It's Accrington Stanley against Blackpool. It's not even Wigan Athletic. It's certainly not televised. Unlike my concert.”

“I knew I should never have dated a Wigan fan,” Brian grates out. “You're a selfish bitch who'll never keep a man. I bet you only got to play solo because you slept with your conductor, but you wouldn't sleep with me, would you, whore? Kissing you was like kissing an ice block. We're through.”

I watch with a sinking heart as he throws his napkin on to the table next to his plate, shoves back his chair and stalks out of the restaurant. Another relationship crashes and burns. I don't mind so much that he's left me to pick up the bill. I can easily afford it. It isn't the vitriol he threw in my face. Sadly, it's not the first time or even the tenth time that I've faced insults like that. No, it is the fact that I don't even like soccer all that much that I find the most depressing part of the argument. I only follow Wigan because it's my younger brothers' latest inexplicable craze. The twins would be ecstatic if I got to see them play.

I sigh and look down at my hands where they rest on the table, flexing my strong, slender brown fingers. Svetlana at the salon always hates how short I like my nails kept, but I need my left hand quite short for my violin strings and who wants lopsided nails? This time Svetlana has painted them a metallic gold, smooth like little mirrors so that they flash in the concert hall lights as I play. I bunch my hands into frustrated fists and my nails reflect my frown ten times over. Why can I never find a man who won't assume that my career is just some game I play at until I can settle down with him and get on with real life? Why have I never met a man who likes me for the whole of who I am? A man who likes me romantically, I amend mentally. My brothers like me just fine. My brothers, and Tony, of course.

People sometimes find it strange that I call my father and mother by their first names, Tony and Katie. I was adopted, you see, and old enough to remember my biological parents well. The usual names one gives to one's parents were already taken, in my heart. My new parents were very understanding. I was lucky. We were lucky, my biological brother and I. Most people want to adopt single babies. Few people want to adopt older black girls. Nobody wants to adopt an older black girl inseparable from her angry black teenage brother with ADHD and dyslexia. Nobody except Tony and Katie. Tony, Katie, and Tony's father William, who managed to infect my brother Toby with his own passion for history. Toby is a lot less angry now, and lectures as Professor of Archaeology at the University of La Paz.

I pull myself out of my reverie to find the waitress hovering uncertainly beside my table. “Please can you bring the bill,” I ask her, politely of course. She doesn't deserve to be the recipient of my frustration. She makes a sympathetic face at me, but is too professional to comment on the now-empty seat opposite me.

There is a full length mirror on the restaurant wall, and I catch sight of my reflection as I prepare to leave. Tall, with just enough muscle to look toned, curves in all the right places. I smooth down the sheer burgundy silk of my form-fitting, tailored dress, and check my makeup hasn't run and my hair is still neat within its braided updo. My looks were never the issue, when it came to attracting partners and keeping them. It was always something else. My never having a free evening, or spending too much time practising and rehearsing. Some men were jealous of my success, or felt intimidated by my Olympic-medal-winning family, or- on too many occasions- they were trying to use me to get the chance of meeting my godfather. Suppressing a sigh and holding my head high, I turn away from the mirror and head outside to the taxi that is waiting for me.

My rented apartment is small, which is only to be expected given the ridiculous prices in London. The walls and carpets are all cream or pale beige, the curtains and seating a rich blue. It's in a good area, expensive enough that everyone minds their own business but cheap enough that the paparazzi don't have a permanent camp on the doorstep. The fake log gas fire could almost be real. It's after midnight when I kick off my Louboutins and sink into one of the velvet-plush armchairs, staring absently through the dancing flames of the fire. Out of the corner of my eye I see the ghostly form of Bellmouth step through the wall. The giant hound pads soundlessly up to me and gently places his huge head in my lap, the chill of his breath puffing across my knee in sympathy. I keep my eyes on the fireplace and softly stroke his ears. If I don't look, I can ignore the strangeness of being able to feel something that looks as insubstantial as smoke.

The fact that I can see Bellmouth, and touch him, was proof that I was a de Montfort, adopted or not. Technically he is only supposed to appear when one of the family is in danger, but he seems to interpret his role fairly loosely, and will sometimes show up to offer comfort. As he is right now. Perhaps he thinks I'm in danger of sadness, or loneliness.

It's just as well that Brian broke things off, I think. He'd never have been able to cope with Bellmouth, But then, other than a de Montfort- or my godfather- who ever could?