Belle Morte Bites (Belle Morte 4.3)

The Fishing Village Murders: Part One

Devon, England, 1814

It had been too long since Ysanne Moreau had eaten, and the predator inside was getting restless. Her fangs ached in her gums.

She leaned against the nearest wall, watching people pass by, searching for the right opportunity to get one of them alone.

The fishing village of Clovelly bustled with life. It was too small for Ysanne to feel comfortable staying long, but there were still some dark, narrow streets that she could pull prey into.

But everyone walking up and down the steep, cobble main street was in groups or pairs – Ysanne needed to find someone on their own.

She moved further down the street, heading for the harbour.

Clovelly was a remarkably beautiful village, clinging to a four-hundred-foot cliff. Old cottages wound their way down a cleft in the cliff to the harbour itself, and the streets were steep enough that sensible shoes were required. Seabirds chattered night and day, and the air smelled wild, briny. If Ysanne wasn't a vampire, she might have stayed longer, but in a small village like this, locals tended to be more observant of people who didn't fit in.

She was almost at the harbour when a flash of blonde caught her eye – a girl walking across the shingled ground, between the boats that had been pulled up out of the water. Two men followed her, and Ysanne's instincts prickled. It wasn't uncommon for people to walk the harbour in the evenings, but there was a singular purpose in the way the men moved. They looked like predators – and Ysanne should know.

No matter how long she lived, it seemed that some things never changed.

She quickened her step.

If those men thought they could hurt that girl in any way, they were about to find themselves dealing with an angry vampire instead.

By the time Ysanne reached the harbour, the men had cornered the girl against the harbour wall. It was dark down here, but not too dark for a vampire. Ysanne was about to stalk forward, when the girl suddenly stopped cowering, straightened up, and gave the men a smile like the edge of a knife.

She swatted the nearest man with the back of her hand, a movement that looked almost delicate, and he crashed against into the side of a fishing boat. While the second man was frozen in shock, the girl grabbed his arm and pulled him in close, twisted his arm behind his back with one hand, and gripped his throat with the other.

"You can come out now," she said.

Ysanne thought the girl was talking to her, then a shape rose up from inside one of the wooden boats that peppered the harbour. He moved with the fluid grace of a vampire, but he was uncertain too, as if this was something he was still getting used to.

The girl pushed her captive at the man who'd climbed out of the boat, and he buried his fangs in the human's throat.

Ysanne moved her foot, deliberately dislodging shingle. The faint scrape of stone on stone caught the girl's attention, and her head whipped around.

"Who are you?" she said, curious rather than suspicious.

"I was coming to rescue you, but apparently you don't need that," Ysanne said.

Realisation dawned in the girl's eyes, followed quickly by concern. "Are you alright?" she said.

"Me? Why wouldn't I be?"

"How long ago were you turned?" the girl asked, her voice soft with sympathy.

Ysanne was missing something here. While it was common for vampires to be curious about each other's ages, it wasn't usually a question they opened with.