[Vivienne Mary Ramsay]

The streets of Isle Voletta were generally a safe place to walk, in as much as the word safe can apply to a vampire like myself. I had been living here for over three months now, and the days had seemed to pass like sand through my fingers. Or rather the nights had, aptly. Sometimes I had to take a step back and remind myself what year it was; not only had the past three months flown by, but the past three years, thirty years, hell even sixty years.

I don’t have a great memory, but I think I can be forgiven that flaw. You wouldn’t expect your great-great-grandma to have a perfect sense of recall and clarity, so why would you expect me to? I’m probably older than her, it’s just that I still look like a twenty-year-old girl.

I can probably count up the amount of events that I can remember clearly on my fingers. I remember the house I grew up in, in Sain-Fargeau-Ponthierry, to the south of Paris, a huge rolling forest of pine, fir and cork oak trees that nestled into the curve of the sedate river Seine before it joined the restless Marne further north. I remember making the decision to leave home and travel to Paris, home of artists and forward-thinkers. Baring in mind that this was before the turn of the twentieth century, don’t judge my choice too harshly.

I remember meeting Serg in an absinth bar just outside the impoverished commune on the hill of Monmartre, and though I don’t remember exactly what he said to me, I remember him siring me. Funnily, I don’t remember the handful of days following it, but Serg later told me that I was barely conscious for most of it.

From the point onwards the years became somewhat of a blur. A haze of faces, drinks, places, emotions that span more years than I care to remember, let alone think about. At some point Serg decided to bring us, his family in un-life, to the new world and escape the growing torment of fear and pain that was coming from the east.

I remember distinctly the night that the Hunters came for us at our house and Serg sacrificed himself to give me time to escape. Three of my brothers and my last sister also escaped that night, but I was the one who Serg gave himself to protect, not them. Me. The memory brought a tear to the corner of my eye, and I had to wipe it away with the back of my hand.


I came to a junction of two roads crossing, the traffic lights above the intersection glowing bright in the moonless night, with only the orange streetlamps to compete with. I realized that I’d never been in this part of town before. Funny to think that in the town I’d lived for three months there were still places that I’d not seen. I mean, it’s not a big town by any imagination, and I was hardly a hermit who stays at home day after day, or night after night. But I was a creature of habit. The manor house that I lived in had an impressive library, the local bar was only four blocks away so I had a source of food nearby, and my entertainment was usually gleaned from either of those choices.

I looked down the road that headed to my left, seeing the dark canopy of trees that lined the edge of the town park. Further in, away from the road, there was play equipment for children painted in bright primary colors, and woodchip and bark covered the floor to avoid scrapped knees and palms. Small copses of trees made for dark enclaves of shadows, perfect for stalking, I knew them well.

I turned my head to the right and didn’t recognize any of the buildings there. The library and the hospital seemed to be up that way, as was the community outreach centre. I know of the outreach pro gramme building, a red brick one story building that managed to look squat amongst the taller neighbors, even with it’s hand-written posters in the windows and notice board outside with fluttering leaflets and displays.

I sighed and turned back around and headed the way I’d come. Call me whatever you want, but sometimes the road less travelled is done so for a reason.