Belle Morte Bites (Belle Morte 4.3)

The First Step

Dublin, Ireland, 1979

Ysanne Moreau gazed up at the block of flats soaring overhead, grey and bleak against a sky painted bright by a summer sunset.

Caoimhe lived here?

She checked the address scrawled on the piece of paper in her hand. This was the place, all right.

As she strode up the cracked path, someone else walked out of the block; Ysanne caught the door with her foot before it could swing shut. The building was no less bleak inside – grey walls, grey floor, grey staircase. It smelled faintly of cigarette smoke and spilled beer.

Apparently Caoimhe lived on the fourth floor. Ysanne eyed the lift in the corner, before turning to the stairs. Over the decades, she'd overcome her mistrust of those metal boxes, but someone had taped a handwritten OUT OF ORDER sign onto the lift door.

The smell of beer grew stronger as she walked up the stairs, coupled with the sickly-sweet weed smell that had become so familiar to her during the 60s.

The fourth floor was a grey corridor stretching out on either side; Ysanne turned left and stopped at the fourth door. She knocked.

The door opened.

At first there was no recognition in Caoimhe's face. Her blonde curls were held off her face by a patterned silk scarf, and bright earrings dangled almost to her shoulders. Vampires couldn't get piercings – they'd simply close up in seconds, so maybe Caoimhe was wearing clip-ons.

"Can I help you?" Caoimhe said.

"You remember me, don't you?" Ysanne said.

Caoimhe frowned.

"Or maybe you don't. It's been more than a hundred years, after all."

"Wait." Caoimhe's expression cleared. "You were on the train. Ysanne, isn't it?"

Ysanne smiled.

"What are you doing here?" Caoimhe exclaimed.

"I came looking for you."

Caoimhe gaped at her a second longer, then beckoned her inside.

The flat was small, but warmed with soft furnishings and stacks of books, though Ysanne noted a distinct lack of the appliances that humans had come to rely on – no telephone or television – and every surface was home to lit candles.

"Electricity did catch on, after all," said Ysanne, giving her a knowing smile, and Caoimhe looked sheepish.

"I know, but I still can't get used to it."

They sat on the sofa. Through the window, Ysanne could see the city spread out in a medley of roofs.

"How did you know I was here?" Caoimhe asked.

"I hired a private investigator," Ysanne said. "I knew your name, and once I paid an artist to sketch you from what I remembered, the investigator knew what he was looking for. I knew there was every chance you weren't in Ireland anymore, but it seemed as good as place to start as any."

"It's a good thing I'm currently using my real name and not an alias."

"I was lucky," Ysanne agreed.

"But why are you here?"

Ysanne linked her fingers together. "Do you remember what we talked about on the train all those years ago?"

Caoimhe scrunched up her forehead, thinking.

"We talked about a world in which vampires didn't have to hide anymore," Ysanne supplied.