Belle Morte Bites (Belle Morte 4.3)

The Second Meeting

Great Yarmouth, England, 1904

It was long past midnight and the beach was deserted, the stretch of golden sand faintly illuminated by the lights of the seaside town behind it, the moon a bright silver coin hanging in the sky.

These were the nights that Gideon Hartwright liked best, when the beach was his, when he could kick off his shoes and walk through the shallows, smell the brine rolling in from the North Sea, feel the wind in his hair.

This was when he felt most at peace.

His boxing days were long behind him.

He had moved on from the loss of Isaac, and had even had another relationship two years ago. It hadn't lasted – Frank had always suspected that Gideon was keeping something from him, which of course he was, but Gideon, remembering Howard's reaction, had never dared tell Frank the truth. Ultimately that had killed the relationship, and that had hurt, but Gideon was coping with it.

He no longer felt the need to hurt himself to feel anything.

His life in the town wasn't perfect, but it was the best it had been in a long time.

Kicking off his shoes, Gideon walked across the sand, first where it was dry and golden and then where it was damp and dark and packed down until he reached the sea itself. Small waves rolled over his feet, deliciously cold, and he smiled, pulling the smell of the sea into his nose.

But he wasn't alone tonight.

A woman was walking down the beach from the opposite direction, long blonde hair fluttering in the breeze.

Gideon narrowed his eyes.

There was something . . . familiar about her, and he couldn't put his finger on it.

She was a petite slip of a woman, a girl really, with delicate features and hair that glimmered like pale gold in the moonlight –

Something clicked in Gideon's head and suddenly he remembered exactly where he had met this woman before.

"Jemima?" he said.

Sixty years had passed since he had met her on the banks of the River Cherwell, since they had sat together and talked, and he'd all but forgotten about her, but now that she was walking towards him, the memory of her became crystal-clear.

She froze when he said her name, looking suspiciously at him. It seemed her memory of him was not so clear.

"It's Gideon," he said. "We met in Banbury sixty years ago. I had only recently left the vampire who made me, and you thought I needed help so you offered to let me travel with you."

Jemima's expression cleared, the coolness fading from her eyes. "Gideon!" she exclaimed. "I almost didn't recognise you – you look so different."

She was barefoot too, and her feet left small imprints in the sand as she approached him.

"Do I?" Gideon looked down at himself to try and see what she was talking about. As far as he was aware, he looked exactly the same as when they'd first met. So did she.

"I mean, you look the same, but you're different too. You carry yourself differently. You don't seem so . . . lost."

Gideon considered that. "I don't think I am."

Jemima sat down, pulling her skirts up to her knees so the sea could wash up her legs. "Sit with me," she said, patting the sand beside her.

Gideon sat.

The damp sand leaked through his trousers but he barely noticed.

Jemima was still practically a stranger to him, and yet at the same time it felt so ridiculously good to see her again.