ONE AMBER Sometimes, when I was alone, I'd follow my husband and his third wife around Central London at night. Not like a complete psycho, but I'd see what they were up to in Mayfair or Marylebone. It was hard to believe he'd be out after sunset since he never wanted to bebop around town with me when we were together. No, Malcolm Wells liked to curl up with a dusty old book about World War II to wind down on a weekend, sipping on a hot toddy or a cup of tea until it ran cold. Even way back then when he was still only in his thirties. He'd always been an old fogey in a young guy's body. But soon enough, and much faster than I'd like to admit, he was old, and so was his current wife, Geraldine. Still, there he was, regularly taking her out on dates in the city, enjoying their retirement together. Dinner. Drinks. The theater. I guess the third wife was the charm. Malcolm was probably mortified when I started going out alone without him, not long after we got married in the summer of '79, but what was I supposed to do? Sit around and listen to him spout off facts about Winston Churchill? I mean, respectfully, who cares? I was twenty-three years old and, come on, we're only young once. Or so I thought at the time. When we met earlier that year, Malcolm said he was attracted to my joie de vivre and I swooned. Just imagine some sophisticated British man speaking French to you when you're a small-town Wisconsin girl who came to Chicago for the day, only to get rejected at the Rockettes audition you've been waiting for your whole life. I was devastated when they didn't call my name. It was supposed to be my ticket to a whole new life. I really didn't want to go back home to my miserable family, who wanted to control my every move. So as I was drowning my sorrows at some fancy businessman bar in River North before getting the late train to Milwaukee, Malcolm swooped in with his accent and handsomeness and money, offering to fly me back to London with him instead. Listen, it was the '70s and we were delightfully tipsy and how could I reject such a juicy invitation? I'd never been out of the country before. What was meant to be a one-week jaunt on some richie-rich fella's dime quickly turned into something serious, and before I knew it, we were engaged. I fell in love with London the second I got here. And yes, I probably got that mixed up with true love for Malcolm, which now seems a little nuts. It would be a few months before I admitted it to myself, but we were a god-awful match. Unless it was for business reasons, he wasn't much for being social, and all I ever wanted to do was flit around town. Go dancing, see live music and shows, alongside other young people. But Malcolm? It was books, tea, the BBC and repeat. Nightmare. Not that I knew what real nightmares were just yet. I didn't tell anyone back home in Wisconsin about my potential screwup. It was a different time and I'd never confided much in my parents. Everyone was always hanging on by a thread as it was. Emotionally. Financially. And I knew my dad would have just said something about getting what I deserved after being so impulsive. My mother didn't have too much to say about it, but she didn't protest either. Money talks, obviously, and Malcolm had it. We never did. So Godspeed to her eldest daughter. One less thing to worry about. And she still had the little one. I feel bad about leaving my sister behind to this day. But I try not to think about it. The first time I revisited Malcolm, after I left him and after I turned, it was the early '90s. He was still in his second marriage with Cheryl, the show pony with no personality, who was also the mother of all three of his small children, so I figured he'd be up for a cheap thrill. Enough time had passed by then, over ten years, and I didn't see how a quick cameo would cause much of a fuss. The two of them were having a nightcap at the American Bar in the Stafford Hotel. Not the Savoy. Way too much of a scene over there for Malcolm, with the chatty pianist and the tourists and the hustle-bustle of the Strand. The Stafford was understated and classic, tucked away on a quiet street not far from St. James's Park. Honestly, I had always liked it, too. For kicks, I asked for my usual at the bar to get his attention. A French 75. Malcolm told me once he thought it was a charming order. I agreed. When I was sixteen and on vacation in the Dells with my family, using the term vacation lightly, a much older man ordered one for me at the Ishnala Supper Club. My parents made me send it back, but when I could finally order drinks of my own, that cocktail was always my go-to because I never forgot the sweet smell from its quick stop at our table. The second Malcolm heard my voice at the bar that night, we made eye contact. I smiled, but he did a double take. Eeeep! He could see me. Someone from before. The only one from before. I started to feel warm in my body, but it had to be in my head only, since the blood in my veins was downright frosty. Oh, it was just nostalgia, which always feels great until it doesn't anymore, taking a quick turn before you know what's what, the kind that feels like a good friend stabbing you in the back, hurt by someone you thought you knew so well. "Amber?" Malcolm whispered softly. I think only I could hear him. I raised an eyebrow, pretending to be confused. "Amber," he said again, louder this time, with more conviction. So much so that Cheryl looked over Malcolm's shoulder, visibly annoyed, with pursed lips, showing more emotion than she had all evening. "Hello," she snarled, trying to intimidate me. Good luck, babe. I bite. "Hi there!" I said, laying my American accent on extra thick. "Do you know her?" she asked Malcolm, but he couldn't stop staring at me. His big brown eyes blinked rapidly, highlighting his crow's-feet. The kind I'd never have. "Sorry, darling." Malcolm brought his attention back to Cheryl. "Thought she was someone else. Have a good night, miss." He didn't even turn back around. The bartender handed me the fresh cocktail and God damn it, she smelled so good. I missed the fancy buzz of a French 75. Its tall flute, the fragrance of the gin shamelessly flirting out of the glass, complete with a sweet lemon twist on the rim. The preferred drink of a party girl with pizzazz. That's me. Always was. "Cheers," I cooed at the couple, hoping for one last lingering look with Malcolm, perfectly timed to the dreamy Cranberries song playing softly in the background. But he didn't look my way again. I didn't make a habit out of showing myself to Malcolm over the years. Especially as he got older. But something came over me one night as I was following him alongside wife number three. The night I saw him for the very last time. He was standing outside Annabel's-just for dinner, of course. Malcolm never did like to party and he wasn't going to start as a senior citizen. He looked about ready to go home and crack into the book he probably had waiting on his nightstand. A thousand pages minimum on the Normans or Oliver Cromwell or whatever. His hands were in his pockets, eyes staring off into space, as he waited dutifully for his wife to wrap it up inside. I had to give the guy credit. Sure, he'd gotten old and tweedy, but he was still handsome despite the cranky resting face. His mustache looked great on him now. A little salt, a little pepper. I rushed over to him, through Berkeley Square, as if I were just another busy bee off to enjoy the nearby nightlife. And then I gently bumped right into Mr. Malcolm Wells. "Oh! Excuse me," I gasped, wondering what he was going to do, just as that mysterious warmth flooded my body again. This time, though, there was no confusion from him at all. He smiled at me. It was sweet and sincere. Almost amused. Reminiscent of when we first met. "Ah," he sighed, as if it all made sense to him now. "You're a ghost, aren't you, love?" I lightly touched his shoulder and laughed, hoping something genius would fly out of my mouth, maybe even something poetic, but we were interrupted by someone behind me, clearing their throat. I knew who it was before I even turned around. She was watching us. God knows for how long. Her dark hair was swept up elegantly in a loose French twist, a few pieces falling at the front of her face. That hourglass figure of hers was draped in a silky crimson dress that accentuated her waist, long and flowy at the bottom, with an asymmetric hem. And those dark blue eyes, so deep they looked violet, grew smaller as she squinted at me in disbelief, before opening wide again alongside her signature twisted smile. Nicola Claughton. My best friend. The vampire who made me. Nicola always said my past was off-limits. It was too dangerous, too complicated. No one would ever understand my decision to turn. It was the fair price you had to pay to live forever. Vampires and humans could not knowingly coexist. At least not for very long. But these days? What was the harm? Malcolm was an elder statesman now, for God's sake. What trouble could he have caused us at this point, really? But that wasn't the issue anymore at all, was it? Nicola knew he was still important to me, in his own way. Because no matter what had happened between us in our whirlwind romance, Malcolm Wells was my last living link in London to the woman I used to be. Before Nicola. A time she never wanted me to think about, much less openly acknowledge. Nic had promised me she wouldn't touch Malcolm, and even though I believed her, I still kept my sporadic visits a secret. I knew she wouldn't like it. I knew she'd hate it. But now that she knew the truth, so many years later, I wasn't sure what she would do about it, if anything. Yes, Nicola could be ruthless. Of course. We're vampires. But with me? Her companion? No way; she always had my back. Still, I couldn't shake the thought. What if? In the moment, Nicola acted like everything was fine as she shuffled between Malcolm and me in front of Annabel's. She smiled again before ascending the steps into the club, passing Geraldine on her way out. The entrance was completely decked out with a display of roses. Hundreds of them in white and pink and yellow. Nicola plucked a single white one before she went in. I scurried away without another word to anyone, but I followed Malcolm and his wife at a safe distance, back to their town house in Belgravia. Watching and waiting. I stayed there as long as I could, but I had to get home before sunrise. I told myself that Nicola would let it go. Yes, she was probably mad, but I'd assure her that I wouldn't show myself to him again and I'd mean it. It would all be fine. She hurt a lot of people. But she would never hurt me. A few days later, Malcolm's death was all over the news. Murdered in his own home. Found in the bathroom. He was brushing his teeth. His wife was already in bed asleep. No suspect identified yet. Nor any motive. My hands shook as I held my phone in bed, scrolling through story after story, reading the words over and over and over again, visceral descriptions like grisly and bloody and vicious cementing the truth. Malcolm was gone. The last one left who knew me before. And his death was my fault. I felt this hollowness inside me growing bigger by the second, like nothing would fill it up again or round me out or nourish me or bring me back to some semblance of a moral center. It felt like there was no trace of the woman I was born to be, stuck now and forever with the monster she made. Was this it? I mean, was this really it for me? Just Nicola and me and the night? She'd sealed Malcolm's fate, just like she thought she'd sealed mine back in 1979. That was always the message, no matter how big or small the vessel. Her way or nothing at all. I can admit that I've always known that about Nicola, but most of the time our interests aligned. Didn't they? I wasn't so sure anymore. Malcolm's death was a punch to the gut that made me rethink everything about Nicola. About us. About our friendship. Because if she could break a promise like this, a serious promise she made to me, all those years ago, at such a vulnerable time, what else was she capable of? What else had she done? What else would she do? I think Nic was always jealous I still had someone out there who knew the real me, someone who cared for me once and maybe, on some level, still did. It wasn't about romance with Malcolm anymore, but it was about a connection, no matter how thin the thread had gotten. Who did Nicola have, except for me? All the others were gone. I had no idea where they went. She never talked about them, except for her sister, and even then she didn't say too much, muttering about legacy and loyalty and the Laurels, our home. But maybe Nicola didn't really care about me at all. Maybe she only cared about keeping me. My mind raced, like a movie playing backward, sped up and slowed down, retracing the course of our years together, pausing at moments I might have mistaken for friendship but might actually have been a show of control or manipulation or untruths to keep me close and afraid of the world around me, even though I knew we were both predators in our own right. But with Nicola, I'd always be younger, the baby, the progeny. She thought that I belonged to her. But I didn't want that anymore. Had I ever? I made a promise to myself right then and there. Excerpted from We Love the Nightlife by Rachel Koller Croft All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.
