The idea that vampires don’t have a heartbeat was a myth. The true curse, her family contended, was that the natural order of their lives was to harm others to survive. But Estella swore that she was truly among the living dead when she saw the date on the New York Times’ front page.

Her eyes frantically searched the page, looking for anything that would tell her this was a joke. Instead, she found news that formed a hard knot in her stomach. There were concerns about Germany and Poland; about what’s happening in Spain and Italy. Nothing serious to the article author but with her 21st century hindsight, Estella knew what was coming. Nausea rolled in her stomach.

Mouth slightly ajar, she continued to flip through the pages, back and forth, back and forth. She threw it into her lap and looked at Oliver with wide-eyes. “This isn’t funny.”

His mouth was set in a firm line, “It isn’t funny.” He repeated.

Estella guffawed at his matter of fact tone and stared at him. Really stared at him. It was, she realized, the first time she had actually taken a good look at him since he found her. Estella wasn’t up to date on American fashion, let alone 1930s American fashion, but his shirt and tie were a notably different cut from what she’s seen men wear in Paris. His trousers too were a looser fit than what she was used to.

And his eyes. They were still the same devastating shade of dark green that she knew but there was an undercurrent of red that wasn’t there when they met. Stomach flipping, Estella rolled the newspaper between her fingers. The red was a mark of a human diet. It shouldn’t be there at all. Oliver’s family, like her own, took a stance against hunting humans.

That day in the kitchen, when she looked so deep into him that she fell into the well of his life, came to her mind. She had found the pain underneath. Estella suddenly felt like she was right in the middle of it again.

If this is real… “What’s my name, Oliver?” she asked.

Never breaking eye contact, he said, “I don’t know. But you clearly know mine.” He cocked his head, “You’re not panicking as much as I thought you would. Startled, yes, but losing it? No. I thought I’d have to restrain you.”

A hysteric giggle broke out of her. Did he not see her panic? She felt like a trapped and wounded animal forced to submit their way through a situation. With immaculate calm she said, “I do not see how harming myself would help the situation.”

He tilted his head the other way as if studying her from a different angle would improve his view, “No, it wouldn’t help.” After a pregnant pause he asked, “Are you going to tell me your name or am I going to have to keep spending time with a Jane Doe?”

Estella searched his face again, still hoping to find soft familiarity underneath the cruel circumstances. His eyes were kind but there was no twinkling spark of recognition, no melted warmth that she had come to expect. “You truly don’t know me?” she was pleading, she knew, but what else is one supposed to do?

He ducked his head, his eyes crinkling in sympathy, “No, I’m sorry.”

An involuntary sniffle escaped her, “My name is Estella. Estella de…” she stopped herself. To be of Satin-Tourre here may cause more trouble than assistance. What does it mean to belong to people who cannot and would not claim you? What does it mean to belong to a family that does not know you?

Who was she without them? Not long ago she was wearing the name like armor; now what was she supposed to do when her family is no longer there to protect her? To tie her to themselves?

Swallowing thickly, she wrapped her old name around herself like a blanket. “I am Estella de Luca.”

“Well, Estella de Luca, it is a pleasure to meet you.” It was kind of him to not ask about her hesitation, she thought. “I know it’s not necessary,” he continued, “but I am Oliver Morris.” he stated, his hand over his heart.

You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

Estella gave him a tentative smile even though her chest tightened.

Oliver’s hands flexed, “Would you tell me? How you know who I am? Either I am a vampire with a distressingly poor memory or you have met me before…whatever happened to you.” he said with a wry smile.

“You mean before I magically traveled back in time eighty years?” Maybe if she teased about it she wouldn’t be so afraid.

But she over-corrected. Oliver’s eyes bulged, “Eighty years? You traveled back in time eighty years?”

“I didn’t do it,” she said defensively. “It was done to me.” Dieu, was her family cursed?

“I’m sorry, I do not understand.”

Of course not, she thought. “I was being taken.” Estella explained. “As payment for a…family thing. I fought back and they dropped me. Here.” She mulled over the events for a moment, “I suppose they could have dropped me anywhere. Maybe I can hide here a while. Find out how to get back to my family.” And she would go back to her family. They would not lose her like they lost Marguerite. Fear could not win again.

“Do you think they’ll come back for you?”

She barked a laugh, “I should be more worried about them coming back for me at all.”

Oliver clasped his hands on his knees and held that position for so long that she thought he had given up on not only the conversation but her too. It surprised her when he asked, “What will you do?”

What will she do? “I don’t know.”

Estella tossed aside the newspaper, sick of it before she could even fully read one article. Oliver kicked it further away behind the stool.

What could she do? She supposed Saint-Tourre was an option. As a direct descendant of Matthieu she could just walk in and search the library. But could she even get to France? The war was about to ravage the country and besides, she had no money for travel. Or food. Dieu, she thought, je ne peux pas me nourrir. I can’t feed myself.

Putain. Fuck.

Oliver’s voice drew her out of her spiral, “Were we friends?” His face twisted into a grimace, “Or are we friends, rather?”

She didn’t know if she wanted to castigate him for thinking of himself or console him because he looked so vulnerable sitting there, still holding his knees like a school boy and staring at her like she held the answers to the universe.

“Of a sort,” she replied but his imploring eyes begged for more information. “We’ve only known each other for one month but,” she bit her lip and hated herself for the heat she felt rise in her cheeks, “I believe we became very dear to each other. It’s only that—well. Neither of us have many friends outside of our families and we seemed to get along so well…”

Blessedly, Oliver didn’t focus on what she meant by “dear to each other.” Estella wasn’t sure she could explain it nor did she want to understand the connection she felt to the man across the room from her. Or rather, the man he will become.

Instead, he asked about his family. “I go home? To my parents?”

Estella let out a shaky breath, “Yes. One day.”

“Did I tell you that I left? Why I did it?”

“No, you did not. Do you want to tell me now?”

He looked away from her, out the window. “That’s okay,” she told him, “we only just met after all.”

The weak joke didn’t land. Oliver gave her an odd look but whatever his response was he kept it to himself.

What he said instead surprised her. “You should rest. We’ll leave after dark tonight.”

We? She fisted the blanket in her hands, “Where will we go?” she asked. We? What was he thinking? Taking her to his parents? What would they do for her?

“We. Uh. I.” He put his hands on his hips and breathed deeply, which on the stool made him look like a drinking bird toy descending into water.

“We—John, Eva, and I, I mean—we used to live in a neighborhood outside of Chicago. They still have a house there that we can use. We’ll have to go to New York City though to get the train.”

Nel. Fuori. Nel. Fuori. In. Out. In. Out. She told herself, letting the air pass through her lungs. “And how will we do that?” If he had a car, it would be the eighth wonder of the world because it was the quietest car she would ever see.

Oliver tipped even further over on his stool. “How do you feel about motor vehicle larceny?”