Tracking wasn’t something she regularly did. The first time Jacques took her hunting he stood her in the middle of the woods and asked her what she smelled.
She took one long, concentrated sniff expecting the world to open to her in entirely new ways.
How disappointing that nothing exceptional happened. The forest smelled like trees: damp, crisp but with an underlying scent of decay. She knew the foliage and vegetation around her but if you asked her to find a plant while blind folded with the breeze blowing it would take an extraordinary amount of time to find it.
And most importantly, she could never find an animal in that sharpened way her family hunted. Sure, perhaps she could catch the muskiness of a deer, but following it on smell alone was out of the question. They smelled too much like their natural homes and when she could find a trail, she inevitably lost it.
Jacques had encouraged her, soothed her, and eventually consoled her when they finally called off the practice.
Those failure weighed on her coat laden shoulders and whispered around her legs, pleading with her to turn back, turn back, as Estella stepping into the cool Chicago evening. She knew how Oliver smelled: clean, fresh, with just a hint of evergreen. It was a decidedly unexceptional scent, but it was his.
Now, if she can just avoid confusing it with laundry.
Thankfully, the evergreen scent stood out among the burgeoning neighborhood around them. She turned and followed his trail past the houses, the brick-and-mortar businesses, deeper into the heart of the city where the more active night life made the smells mix together. By the time she made it downtown, the evening had fully bled into the night. The groups of families on their way home turned into couples and friends heading out. Oliver’s scent got lost in the change. What had once been distinct in the night air against the stark pavement, now blurred and melded with the crowd.
Standing around the corner from a dance club, Estella cursed. She’d been looking for hours. At first, she assumed that she’d catch up to Oliver quickly --- she hadn’t left that much later than him.
Whoever she hoped to save tonight --- Oliver, a stranger --- she had failed.
“Why a pretty lady like you so glum?” It took her a moment to realize that the voice was addressing her.
A man stood in an overcoat with a tilted fedora on his head at the entry to the alleyway wall she leaned against, muffled jazz music filled the street behind him.
“I --- uh.” She waded through the muddled disappointment and surprise. The men in New York had also been bold in approaching her and Oliver. Truly, what was with Americans? Although this one seemed to sway a bit on his feet, so maybe he was drunk.
Emboldened by her tied tongue, the man stepped forward, crowding her deeper into the shadows. He smelled faintly of gin and strongly of sweat. People passed behind on the streets, but none attempted to peek over the broad shoulders of his padded coat.
She would not be cowed by a human man, of all things.
“Hey now, sweetheart, don’t be fussy. I only wanna check on you, that’s all.”
Estella did not bother to respond in words. If Theodora taught her one thing, and one thing only, it was not to suffer men. Albeit, she’d never really had to put it into practice before, but this fool seemed as good a time as any.
With more force than she normally used in her daily life, she swatted away his encroaching hands, smacking one of them into the brick wall. Sidestepping him quickly, his curses were lost in the crowd she swiftly joined. She followed it along, unsure where to go, and feeling oddly giddy about the recent encounter.
She was alone, in a foreign city, a man had attempted to accost her, her new friend was hurting others to hurt himself, and she felt joy. It was like a bubble had filled up inside her and floated her along to the beat of the music.
It guided her to a club, The Savoy. Terribly underdressed and underfunded, she didn’t even bother with the line. Instead, she found herself another alley (she was becoming rather fond of side streets) around the building and snuck in through a maintenance door. When she broke through to the main floor, it was like stepping into a fever dream.
It was darkly lit, there were people dancing in styles she had never seen, and they were contrasted by the booths and tables filled with couples drinking and smoking. The band played on a stage, bopping to the rhythm of their music.
The bubble that brought her there pushed its way up her abdomen, through her throat, and burst in her mouth in a fit of excited giggles. She’d never seen anything like the club in all her time in Paris. Had never even considered partaking in nightlife, despite Jacques’ best coaxing, out of fear of the boogie man.
But there was no boogie man here. She had lost the creatures somewhere in time and space.
Maybe, for a little bit, she could live.
The euphoria was like a drug. In her day dress and overcoat, she approach a man standing aside, watching the dancers.
“Care to dance?”
His head snapped to her, eyes trailing her body, as the corners of his mouth curved upward.
“Absolutely I do.”
“I don’t know any steps.”
He grinned. “Won’t be a problem.”
His name, she learned, was Jackson, and he was perfectly amiable. He was a patient teacher, and she was a fast learner. Soon enough, the lesson turned into an enjoyable dance. Another man came up to ask her for a dance, and then another, and then Estella simply didn’t know what time it was, but she knew she’d drunk enough from the cup of freedom when the tables started to clear.
Her dance partners escorted her out the door, tried to hail a cab for her, offered her rides, or beds. She laughed and flirted and begged off. Maybe some men could be suffered, for a time, at least, she thought as she disappeared around a corner.
The dark night was eking into gray morning when she walked up to the house at the end of the street. Happiness had carried her home, but the sight of the front door brought her back to reality. There was man, probably inside by now, whose life was a mess, and she was somehow caught up in it.
When she crested the top step, the door flew open, and Oliver stood in the door frame.
“Where the hell have you been?” He demanded, the fresh red glare in his eyes piercing in the dark.
This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.
Estella couldn’t raise herself to meet his mood. She didn’t owe him an explanation and she certainly wouldn’t offer one. Tonight had been depressingly low, and enchantingly high. A disorienting combination for anyone. The worst of it was that she wished he’d been there.
Instead of answering him, she side stepped him, the grace of the maneuver belying the disjointed feelings in her abdomen. He called after her when she ran up the stairs to her temporary room, where she let the long shadows consume her.
____
Sleep, unsurprisingly, evaded her. Oliver, who surely heard her restlessness, quietly asked for a cup of coffee from Mrs. Klein when she finally tottered down the stairs.
Estella offered him a subdued thank you from her side of the table. He watched her again over his newspaper, but today she wouldn’t meet his eyes, wouldn’t invite conversation.
Despite his kindness, despite the pleasure she got from his company, last night showed her why they could not stay together. The journey ahead of her will be a long one. It will require studying, perhaps of material difficult to find. It will take her full concentration to understand what she needed to do to get home, and to actually do it.
She’s been so concerned with the danger that she can put Oliver in that she forgot he could be a danger to her too.
For all her life, Estella was overly cautious in public. That she went out, alone, in the dark, into a strange city searching for a man, a full-bodied vampire no less, who had made his choice about his life because she thought she might be able to save him from himself was the hallmark of self-important stupidity.
Yes, Oliver Morris made her stupid. And she couldn’t afford lack of clarity right now.
She had to leave him before he took up any more space in her head.
Hopefully the guilt won’t eat her first.
____
By the next day, Estella roused herself enough to act normal with Oliver. Now fully aware of the dangers he posed to her, she was alarmed at the ease of their companionship. Sure, she knew him already but not this Oliver and he didn’t know her at all. And yet, he chose her.
What was the basis of his attachment? The nagging concern that it was too late, that their connection was already permanent, roared in her eats, threatening to overcome every conversation, every glance.
She had to get away from him. But how?
The answer came with the afternoon post.
Jacob had written her back to tell her that his sister was currently living in Oregon, in a small town west of Portland. He took the pleasure to call his sister and inform her of this most curious charge and she, in turn, was quite eager to settle her curiosity and invited Estella post haste to her home, “No further contact necessary.”
“What did he say? Can Jacob help you?” At Oliver’s voice, Estella quickly folded the letter over his fingers, hiding its contents.
“They. Uh. Yes.” She cleared her throat. “Yes, he can.”
“That’s great. When do we leave for Georgia?”
“Next week.”
Oliver didn’t look convinced by her enthusiasm. Before he could ask she continued, “This is such great new! Finally, I’m getting somewhere.”
That, at least, wasn’t a lie. She was excited to Esther and Eloise.
“I’ll go to the state to check the schedules and get our tickets.”
“I’m coming too,” she insisted. Maybe she’ll be able to see if a train can take her to Oregon. Having no money of her own for a bus, Estella figured she’d have to go by foot or trade in the train ticket Oliver will buy.
Her morals did not stop her from preferring the latter course of action.
At the station, Estella found that she could take the Great Northern Railway from la Salle Station to Portland in a trip that rounded into two full days of travel.
Two full days between her and Oliver.
“You’re quiet,” the man in question said, bumping her shoulder.
Staring at the schedules had made her plans real. She was going to leave him. It was for the best, for the both of them. But that didn’t stop her from feeling sick over it.
And worse, she left room for a week of sweet torture before the separation.
When she told Oliver a week she wasn’t thinking --- just trying to buy herself some time to figure out a plan. She hadn’t expected it to come around so quickly.
A soft pressure on her arm drew her attention. Oliver. He had asked her something.
“Oh. Um. Oui.” Still in a bit of a fog and not entirely well from the direction of her thoughts, the words came out heavily accented.
“Are you certain? We don’t have to go out tonight if you’re not feeling well, Estella.”
Go out? What were they --- the show. He had promised to take her to see a show this weekend and it’s Saturday.
A lump lodged in her throat. Maybe she should bow out, put some distance between them before she leaves him.
But a part of her, a significant part of her, wanted to enjoy his company as much as she could before the separation. It will likely be years before she sees him again. Why not embrace the moment?
She managed to wade through her conflicting thoughts and emotions to respond, “Positive. Let’s go.”
____
Later, when she came down dressed in a simple lilac dress and spotted Oliver at the foot of the stairs, Estella forgot all her misgivings, doubts, and plans.
Oliver always dressed well in the sense that his appearance was exactly proper and never once disheveled but tonight she thought he took extra steps in his routine. There was a kerchief tucked neatly into one breast pocket, a pocket watch chain dangled against his thich, and there wsa the faintest scent of cologne in the air --- just enough to be pleasing but not overbearing. At feat for a vampire, to be sure.
These were small touches, really, that shouldn’t signify anything more than they were going out for an evening. But the tiny pull in her gut said otherwise. Like.a fly to honey, Estella tucked her hand into his proffered elbow and let him lead her into the night.
The streets downtown were bustling with friends, lovers, and lost souls, all off on their own adventure. Was it truly a few days ago that she followed Oliver to the heart of Chicago? Determined but overwhelmed? But unlike that night, alone on an uncertain path, tonight she had Oliver’s guiding hand and steady presence. Instead of the streets, he had hired a car. And instead of a meal, they were looking at the bright lights of a marquee sign that advertised a Quiet Wedding.
The play was funny, it was heartfelt, it was a good lesson on proper relationships in 1939.
Estella felt incredibly sympathetic towards Janet. “It’s just so sad,” she told Oliver over her after theater dinner. “I know it is poking fun at the social mores of propriety but they were engaged! Why should they have to hide that they spent the night together?”
He tried to answer, but she waved him off. “No no. Do not tell me. I know why. It only hit me, I guess, why we had to be ‘married.’”
Wiping her mouth with her napkin, she continued, “And all of that is to say: thank you fo rlooking out for me. If Janet was afraid of what her family would think of her spending the night with her fiance, I’m certain the neighbors would be scandalized by me. Afterall, us French women will be depicted as gifts to your GIs in a few years.”
Oliver covered his heart with his hand. “Am I not scandalizing too? Perhaps I needed the cover to protect my virtue, not yours.”
A snort escaped her, “I think they might be too preoccupied trying to marry you off to their daughters to care.”
“Much to my dismay, I assure you.”
His obvious sincerity pleased her greatly, like a warm, happy feeling bubbling in her chest. She beat it back viciously.
“As if you didn’t enjoy the attention,” Estella tried to tease.
He gave her a wolfish grin, leaning towards her across the table. In the small space it brought them uncomfortable close. “I never said I was a saint.”
There went those bubbles again.
Estella angled away from him and watched other late-night couples walk by their window, admired the flowing bodies in the reflection of dancers deeper in the restaurant. Pop pop pop.
“Do you dance?”
“Not really, no.”
“Do you want to?”
No. “Yes.”
The trip home wasn’t as much of a crush as it was to get downtown. She didn’t have the hold onto Oliver to navigate the crowd or the traffic. Instead, she allowed the wind to fill the space between them, to cool her skin where she felt his shoulder on her cheek, his hand in the dip of her hip. The air danced around them, as if enticed by the reluctant energy of their separation.
Estella breathed cautiously, lest the breeze fill her lungs with action instead of mere desire.
____
Nothing changed too much after their outing on Saturday night. Over the blood ordered from the butcher, Oliver and Estella finalized their plans for Georgie. And later, alone in her borrowed room, she nailed down and repeated her plot to leave him.
Despite her better judgement, she had gotten thorough attached to the man. Each repetition of her journey west chipped away at the hole in her chest.
She didn’t know it could get any bigger than the day she lost her grandparents. Even as she gained Jacques, Mathieu, and Theodora, Estella knew she could not keep them. Or that they could not keep her.
On the Friday they were set to leave, Oliver and Estella packed their clothing and notes. She enjoyed a simple breakfast and the news articles Oliver read to her over the table.
Together, they packed a hired car that took them straight to La Salle Station. Together they carried their cases to the train that would carry them to Georgia. Together they boarded and took their cabin, but before settling in Estella begged to look around, leaving Oliver along in their cabin. Alone, she stepped off the train.
In the end, it was too easy to leave him.