Belle Morte Bites (Belle Morte 4.3)

A Meeting at the Marquee: Part Two

Ysanne

"After World War Two, I lived in the countryside for years, in virtual isolation, but when London started to grow and develop, when I saw the cultural significance it was making in the world, I decided it was time to leave my old way of life and move into the city," Isabeau explained as they left the club.

"Where do you live?" Ysanne said.

"Jacksons Lane. It's only a few miles from here. It won't take us long to walk," Isabeau said. She paused. "Unless you'd rather get a taxi."

"Walking is fine," Ysanne assured her.

Vampires moved quicker than humans; it wouldn't take them long to get there.

Isabeau gave her a dazzling smile. "I always walk if I can. I love this city."

Ysanne did not consider herself prone to instant infatuation, but she could not take her eyes off this woman. Isabeau was so bright and vibrant, almost dancing along the pavement in her blue mini-dress, her heeled boots clacking on the pavement. Under the light of the streetlamps, the chestnut curls that fell just past her shoulder-blades looked like a tumble of autumn leaves, and her eyes shone like the stars. She was fascinating.

It had been so many years since she had felt anything for anyone, not since poor, sweet John and William both met a bloody end.

She'd known Isabeau for little more than an hour, and somehow Isabeau had already made her feel more alive than Ysanne thought it was possible to feel.

Isabeau grabbed her and kissed her, in the middle of the street, and Ysanne's keen hearing picked up a couple of shocked whispers from across the road, but that was all the reaction they received.

The world really was changing.

It filled her chest with something she thought she'd almost forgotten – hope.

It didn't take them long to reach Isabeau's house, and thought Isabeau had wanted to walk so they could absorb all the sounds and sights of the city, Ysanne barely noticed any of it. Her focus was on the long length of Isabeau's legs, and the way they ate up the pavement with a brisk stride, the movement of her hips beneath her dress, the way that glorious hair bounced with every step.

The world was going mad for the fashions of the moment, though if Ysanne was being honest with herself, she did not like the garish patterns and boxy dresses, and she did not like the heavy eye makeup and thick, false eyelashes that were becoming so popular, but on Isabeau, those short dresses looked magnificent. Isabeau was magnificent.

Even when they arrived, the sound of their heels echoing around the quiet, residential street, Ysanne still couldn't look away from her.

But once they were inside, once Isabeau was turning on the lights, revealing an entrance hall with Laura Ashley paper on the walls and a slightly battered sideboard, Ysanne felt suddenly out of place.

Without the electricity of The Marquee, without the music and the people and the feeling of being wild and free, Ysanne found herself wondering what she was doing here.

Once, she wouldn't have hesitated to fall into bed with someone she was attracted to. But it had been a long time since she had so much as kissed anyone, let alone slept with them, and the last person she had slept with . . .

Bess.

Ysanne liked to think she didn't still feel guilty about Bess, but sometimes, when she remembered the sadness and confusion in Bess's eyes, that feeling of having taken something she shouldn't have, there was an uncomfortable flicker of guilt.