‘It faded on the crowing of the cock... and then, they say, no spirit dare stir abroad.’
The street was blue and black, the receding night shadows pierced fitfully in dashes of morning light as the sun began to ease upwards over the horizon. Seven fourty-four a.m., and the cold city was beginning to warm: purple and black shadows eased into lighter blues, silver and gold highlights in the window as the sun’s rays lanced through the city skyline.
The common misconception was that sunlight would kill a vampire. But how could it, when all vampires were dead during the day? When the sun rose a vampire died again and his body was rendered as stiff and lifeless as the day he first died. Whether that body was in the sun was of no consequence, the rays couldn’t possibly harm him; but discovery of his body would be a different matter entirely. In his one-hundred-and-three year existence Julian had never left his body to be discovered by the light of day - but he had heard terrible tales of what had happened to others of his kind. The idea of reawakening on a cold metal autopsy table with his chest cracked open and a forensic scientist grabbing at his lungs made him feel physically ill.
Julian was terrified. The hour-long shift from night to day was the most dangerous. The birdsong was chilling, the brightness of the sky horrifying. If he had a beating heart it would have been racing.
He could feel his chest tighten as the death set in. His senses were quickly dulling; no longer could he hear the smell of blood as he passed mortals in the street. This was it; the daily death was starting to set in. He clutched his chest and willed himself to keep moving, desperate to find an abandoned building to die undisturbed in. A bloodless night had left him feeling sluggish and slow but still he staggered on down the street looking just like any other drunken reveller trying to find his way home.
He turned a corner and stumbled blindly onwards. This street was different; tightly-cultivated trees lined the way to chic little apartments over trendy shops. Delicatessens, wine merchants, handbag shops… Julian leaned heavily on the window of an antique bookstore, staring unconsciously at the dusty books on the other side of the glass. He panted, his chest heaving in an entirely unnecessarily human way. It was often like that when he died; he felt himself going through useless human motions: feeling for a pulse, panting without really breathing and checking for blood when he was racked by coughing fits.
His strength failed and Julian’s legs nearly gave way beneath him, a sure sign that somewhere behind him the day was creeping ever closer. Gritting his teeth and clutching the glass window with cold hands he dragged himself to a little yellow door beside the shop.
Desperation drove him to it: he needed somewhere to die. In the streets he would be discovered but if he could just convince whoever lived behind this yellow door not to call the police - or even worse, an ambulance - then perhaps he could come up with some explanation when he awoke again. Even as the strength fled his arms he managed to wrench the handle off the door, the wood splintering easily under his thin fingers, and he hauled himself through the broken door as it swung awkwardly inwards.
His knees buckled and Julian collapsed, a heavy bundle of damp trenchcoat and woollen scarf sprawled in the hallway. Julian groaned as he buried his face in the musty patchwork rug beneath him, hoping against all hopes that the occupier was on holiday.
The common misconception was that sunlight would kill a vampire. But how could it, when all vampires were dead during the day? When the sun rose a vampire died again and his body was rendered as stiff and lifeless as the day he first died. Whether that body was in the sun was of no consequence, the rays couldn’t possibly harm him; but discovery of his body would be a different matter entirely. In his one-hundred-and-three year existence Julian had never left his body to be discovered by the light of day - but he had heard terrible tales of what had happened to others of his kind. The idea of reawakening on a cold metal autopsy table with his chest cracked open and a forensic scientist grabbing at his lungs made him feel physically ill.
Julian was terrified. The hour-long shift from night to day was the most dangerous. The birdsong was chilling, the brightness of the sky horrifying. If he had a beating heart it would have been racing.
He could feel his chest tighten as the death set in. His senses were quickly dulling; no longer could he hear the smell of blood as he passed mortals in the street. This was it; the daily death was starting to set in. He clutched his chest and willed himself to keep moving, desperate to find an abandoned building to die undisturbed in. A bloodless night had left him feeling sluggish and slow but still he staggered on down the street looking just like any other drunken reveller trying to find his way home.
He turned a corner and stumbled blindly onwards. This street was different; tightly-cultivated trees lined the way to chic little apartments over trendy shops. Delicatessens, wine merchants, handbag shops… Julian leaned heavily on the window of an antique bookstore, staring unconsciously at the dusty books on the other side of the glass. He panted, his chest heaving in an entirely unnecessarily human way. It was often like that when he died; he felt himself going through useless human motions: feeling for a pulse, panting without really breathing and checking for blood when he was racked by coughing fits.
His strength failed and Julian’s legs nearly gave way beneath him, a sure sign that somewhere behind him the day was creeping ever closer. Gritting his teeth and clutching the glass window with cold hands he dragged himself to a little yellow door beside the shop.
Desperation drove him to it: he needed somewhere to die. In the streets he would be discovered but if he could just convince whoever lived behind this yellow door not to call the police - or even worse, an ambulance - then perhaps he could come up with some explanation when he awoke again. Even as the strength fled his arms he managed to wrench the handle off the door, the wood splintering easily under his thin fingers, and he hauled himself through the broken door as it swung awkwardly inwards.
His knees buckled and Julian collapsed, a heavy bundle of damp trenchcoat and woollen scarf sprawled in the hallway. Julian groaned as he buried his face in the musty patchwork rug beneath him, hoping against all hopes that the occupier was on holiday.