The New Year Invite
Iris hated the new year celebration, more so since she’d moved to New York last year. She normally hid in her penthouse apartment, curtains down, windows shut and relaxing music playing out until dawn brooked across the cry. By then, the city quietened, if only for a brief moment. So, to be outside her safe haven with only an hour to midnight, pushing her way through the busy streets, bodies bearing down on her on either side. The air was dizzingly fragrant with fumes, booze and horrid amounts of perfume and cologne. It was loud, too, full of music from parties that were nearing their crescendo.
She clutched at the paper in her hand, her nails biting into flesh to the point of pain, hurrying on. Focus solely on that she wove her way through the busy streets before she came to a stop before a towering skyscraper, gleaming in the city light. She pushed open the front door, proceeded to the front desk. A woman peered up blearily from behind a computer screen, opening her mouth to ask why Iris had come. Iris slid across a simple business card, which had been delivered with the note. The woman picked up the card with her manicured nails, studied it, then slid it back to Iris, gesturing to the elevator.
“Top floor,” she said dismissively.
Iris nodded and went into the elevator, sliding the note and the card into the deep pocket of her jacket. She pressed the button for the indicated floor, then held her breath as the doors whirred shut, followed by the ascending hum. Anxious, she tapped her feet rapidly, whilst her arms were crossed over her chest. Upwards the elevator went, passing floor after floor. It didn’t stop, so she was still alone when the doors finally slid open, revealing a long hallway. Floor and ceiling were polished marble, the roof a plain white with regular intervals of down lights. There were paintings, too. Each one was a gothic portrait, the same blonde woman in each. She wore a silver dress, made of silk, floor length and clinging to her slender frame. Some scenes had her sitting on a stone throne; one standing atop a hill littered with bloodied corpses, like that from a battle; another had her standing by a man, with skin like ebony, cut in a fine tunic and pants; the next the woman stood over a grave.
It was a story.
Her story.
Rage twisted through Iris. How many centuries had she spent trying to bury that story, her story. It was up on display, as though it weren’t anything more than a picture. Her story had been reduced to a series of images and all that grief roared through her like a storm. When she reached the door at the end of the hall she stilled, looked down. Her hands were trembling; no, she was trembling.
Shaking, she tested the front door. It wasn’t locked. She went inside. It wasn’t like anything she expected. For a top floor apartment, it wasn’t flashy or even furnished. It was empty, with a thin layer of dust clinging to every surface. The rage rushed from her. There wasn’t anyone there. She checked every one of the six bedrooms, two bathrooms, the study and the main living areas. All empty. She went out onto the balcony, sighing as the icy wind bit into her cheeks. The wind roared viciously.
She sighed and leant against the balcony, closing her eyes. She was a fool to have come. After all, the note hadn’t been sighed. Not that it mattered because it was the message that had caught her attention, lured her from the safety and seclusion of her apartment.
Come find me, my north star.
There was only one person in her long eternal life that ever called her that. He’d called her that because she lit every room she went to; she was his north star. As he was hers, drawing her in a way no one ever had. No human had caught her eye like he had, made her think, learn, actually want to involve herself with humanity. For an elf, one of the last immortals wandering the earth, it had been easy to detach herself. So very easy.
Problem was his mortality. She tried to ignore it as best she could but reality stung her, the truth driven through her like a sword. She wanted to bury the memories of her life, had done just that, yet that note had come. It called her.
The wind howled again, then stilled abruptly. A shiver snaked down her spine, the hairs on the back of the neck standing up. She straightened up, turning slowly. The air rushed from her.
“Alexander?”
He smiled at her, fangs glinting in his smile. Vampire. “Happy New Year, my north star.”
ns 15.158.61.17da2
