Rain

[Claude Lambert]

Autumn and Winter were dark and cold and often wet in Canada, with dreary grey clouds being a permanent fixture in the sky. Rain pelted the window in steady drips like anxious fingers drumming against the pane. It had been raining since the afternoon, and now that it was late into the evening, it seemed as though this storm would never pass. Night and day blended into a single, coercive time-frame under the dark sky. As a result, the lamps in Claude’s office had been left on, filling the room with a soft, warm glow. It was a million miles away from the cubicle farms that were squeezed into the 200m2 footage of city skyscrapers. Instead, the humble space was reminiscent of an archive and records room; every conceivable centimeter of wall space was fitted with shelving, cabinets, or bookcases to house the fragile artefacts and antique books. In the centre of these tall pillars of knowledge was a single oak desk and chair where the Blood Thief would sit for countless hours, poring over documents.

A stack of unfiled papers cast a long shadow over Claude’s workspace, reminding him of all he had left to do despite the similarly sized pile on the opposite side. An angry noise heaved from Claude’s nostrils as he sat back then, the swivel chair yawning under the effort. He was careful not to lean too far, not merely because he questioned the integrity of the antique leather chair with its dusty wooden parts, but because there was an oversized bookcase just behind his head. Nevermind the minor injury he would achieve by knocking mantels, the books on that particular wooden fixture were older than he was and endlessly more valuable. The fact of the matter was that the German would be far more likely to meet his doppleganger dressed as a cowboy and sporting one of those vile hobby horses than he was to locate another copy of some of those books.

The poignancy of their existence had only intensified to him since his stay in Harper Rock. These books were a collage of parts that belonged to once living organisms that, individually, could not have persevered all those long years and inspired such education. Yet, once slain and sewn and stamped together, they had become a sum far greater. Debates had been had regarding mankind’s values and his sacrifices, but Claude had never considered himself one of those very sentimental humans. A life in and of itself was not precious to him, but what one chose to do with it was. He was certainly preoccupied with knowledge, science, power, and magic and so these books were worth the lives that had been taken to ensure their creation, in the development of their contents, and the practical exercises they taught.

As he contemplated immortality and its possible subsequent defilement, the air dispersed behind him suddenly. A chill swept up along his shoulders, traced cold fingers along the side of his jaw, then pressured his chin to tilt his head in the direction of pewter eyes and an insidious grin. White hair made an ethereal bridal veil around the Vampire’s solid features before it slinked behind his black-dressed shoulder. Claude smiled on impulse before correcting the expression, diluting its radiance into a warm greeting as he watched the Vampire withdraw and then seat himself on the desk. It took a fair amount of effort to withstrain the irritated sigh from whistling out of his nostrils as his papers were pushed aside to accommodate the Telepath. He crossed one leg over the other and laid his hands to rest, fingers laced together atop his knees. Those pewter eyes narrowed on Claude and the grin faded.

“Hello dear,” Myk crooned. “Busy working again are we?”

Those melodic words wore an elegant ensemble of inflections and a rhythm that was typical of a very polished English accent. Still, Claude couldn’t help but feel that he was being judged. The Vampire often sported a look of contempt; it made his pretty face spoil and reveal a glimmer of the cursed creature that he truly was. In those moments, Claude really pitied him. Yet, the only mercy he could offer collided with his ego.

“Yes, well,” Claude said. “I am allowing myself a small break.”

“Always so thoughtful..”

Claude hummed, displeased. “Is there something you need?”

“I never need anything,” the Telepath corrected. His eyes turned to the stack of papers to his right. “Well,” he said sharply before addressing Claude with a grin again. “Aside from some entertainment.”

“You have the attention span of a goldfish, you do know this, yes?”

“That’s not true!”

And Myk performed such a grand impression of being insulted, humiliated, and utterly appalled by such an accusation there that Claude couldn’t help but let out a small smirk. The sincerity made his cheeks burn and dimple while Myk’s depiction of a 1920s aristocrat.

“Besides, I can’t very well help it if you suck at your job.”

“My… what now?”

“Your job,” Myk repeated, folding his arms over his chest. “Your job of keeping me entertained.”

“Right…”

Claude felt the swift, well-placed kick collide with his knee, causing him to jolt forward. The growing bitterness of the Blood Thief’s reaction reflected the glimmering amusement in the Telepath.

“You’re lucky I’m not wearing any shoes,” Myk purred, leaning his top-half toward the German.

“I don’t think luck has much to do with it.”

“I suppose not,” he agreed, sitting back again.

“You rarely ever wear socks either.”

“I like the freedom of being barefoot.”

“It never troubles you what you might step in?”

Myk made the effort to look like he was considering the question; his chin tilted toward the ceiling and he twirled ringlets into his hair. “Hmm. No,” he determined at last before chuckling to himself.

“Ah, to be young and without cares…”

“Aww, you’re not that old, sweetie.” The Telepath gave a saucy wink and a smile before prodding Claude’s knee with his foot. “You just act like it.”

“Charming.”