Cara's Choice
Part One
By Andrew Warwick

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This file is free to be distributed, but can not be changed, reproduced or sold in any form, and all content is Copyright © 2009 by Andrew Warwick.

This story is part of the Pure Escapism collection, further stories, as well as regular updates, of which can be found at 

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In which Cara, reduced to the depths of despair, meets the mysterious, elegant Thomas, unaware of what lies in store for her that night.

The rain was falling again, which, as always, reminded her of Pete.  What had it been he had said?  Tears in the rain.  That was it.  All those moments will be lost in time, like tears in the rain.  He had used to quote it all the time, while lying out in the garden in happier times, staring up at the clouds that drifted across the sky above.
It was a quote, Cara knew, from one of the many movies he had used to watch, though she could not remember which one.  He had watched far too many movies now she looked back.  It had been one of his cries for help that had gone unnoticed, and now Pete was gone too, like tears in the rain.
The fine, misty drizzle settled down on her hair and shoulders as she huddled in her coat upon the park bench, her face sunk into her hands.  Where the rain ended and the tears began none could tell.  The rain was neither heavy, nor cold, though the sky was darkening overhead, and the lights of the city were beginning to glow in the growing dusk.  Night was coming to the city, and with it the chill would set in.  It was not a night to be out, alone.
Yet that was precisely were she was going to find herself.  Out, alone.  No home, no job.  No hope.
Why Pete, why did you have to leave me?  It was not the first time the question had been cried out.
"Are you all right, miss?"  Cara felt an unexpected surge at the sound of the voice.  It was melodic, majestic and brought a thrill just to hear it.  She raised her head from her hands to look upon the speaker and the image matched the prospects intimated by the voice.  The man standing before her wore an immaculately tailored suit, over which he wore an overcoat to keep the rain off.
He was tall, dark and oh so handsome, like someone out of a magazine or a movie.  His smile was gentle and easy, while his dark eyes were filled with concern, deeply captivating eyes.  Cara stared up at him, lost for words, trying to compose her thoughts.
"I could not help but noticed that you appear to be in some distress, miss."
Cara nodded slowly, trying to seek a proper response.  "It has been a rough day."
The man sat down on the bench beside her, seemingly unconcerned by the damp upon it or the falling rain.  "They have an unfortunate tendency to do that from time to time," he noted.  "Thomas Harvey," he added in introduction.
"Cara.  Cara Bailey."
Thomas offered her his hand.  "It is a pleasure to meet you, Cara."  Cara took the proffered hand, noting the firmness, the confidence of the grip.  "So young Cara, what appears to be the matter today?"
There was something about his voice, Cara perceived, that spoke of a deep trust, and that urged her to spill forth her burdens.  He was handsome, articulate, polite and with the trapping of wealth, a seemingly perfect gentleman.  Yet at the back of her mind a tiny voice warned her that he was still a stranger and that this was no fairy tale, with a perfect gentleman to swoop to her rescue.
"A multitude of tragedies," she told him.
Thomas gave a soft smile.  "As serious as that?" he asked in a quiet voice.
"It would be unfair to burden myself upon you," Cara replied, even as part of her desired to do just that.
"At the very least let me buy you a drink somewhere warn out of the rain," he offered.  Cara smiled back at him, the first one that had crossed her lips in many a day.  The day, miserable as it had begun, had at least one spark of light to it, a spark that caused her spirits to lift as she accepted his gracious offer.

They found themselves in a small, warm shop, the air suffused with the rich aroma of coffee, sipping from drinks that Thomas had insisted on buying, and talking.  At least Cara talked, while Thomas listened, attentive and considerate.  For reasons that Cara could not fathom, she found herself opening up to the man as his gentle, probing questions lead her to reveal more and more of herself.  It was something in the eyes, in the voice, something about them that had an almost hypnotic quality to them that compelled her to talk.
So she talked, talked like she had to no one for a whole year, and her story had come out.  How a year ago to the day her tortured, tormented soul of a boyfriend had passed away.  Late one night he had fallen from a bridge and had drowned in the cold, dark waters of the river.  The official report was that it had most likely been an accident, but it had been left open as there was no way to be certain as to wether it had been accidental or deliberate.  She knew though, oh she knew.  Pete, her beloved soul mate, had been on a wild ride, flipping from manic energy to a deep and melancholy depression almost at the snap of the fingers.  The signs had been there, and only afterwards had she seen how obvious they were, yet she had missed them.  She, who had claimed to care deeply for him, had missed them all and so Pete had died.
Thomas brought her a second drink as she composed herself again.  This was something she had told no one before, and the pain was still raw, pain that she had buried away and tried to forget.  Yet this stranger was gently bringing it all bubbling back up to the surface and helping her release it.
She had struggled on in the following year, struggled to cope, but it had all slowly, slowly spiralled out of control, moment by moment.  Her work had suffered, finding it hard to concentrate or even remain punctual.  In the end they had had little choice but to let her go.
From then on she had remained in their flat, day in, day out, venturing out for only the bare necessities.  The days had blended together one after the other into a monotonous haze.  Her friends had tried so hard to help her, to get her to seek aid for the depression that had settled upon her, but it had been to no avail.  In the end all that it had accomplished was to get her to withdraw even further into herself.
And then, on today of all days, the anniversary of Pete's death, her money run out, she had found herself on the streets, with nowhere to go and no one to turn to for help.
Thomas leant over to rest a hand on hers, giving it a gentle squeeze.  "I am so sorry," he said softly.  "So terribly sorry."  Cara felt her eyes moisten.  The whole experience felt so surreal, this Good Samaritan.  Such things did not happen anymore, nor perhaps had ever in reality.
"We can not have you sleeping on the street, not tonight," Thomas decided.  For a moment Cara had tensed at the suggestion.  Perhaps his motives were not quite as innocent as she had hoped or imagined.  Thomas laughed kindly upon seeing her reaction, holding up his hands.  "Not at my place, no.  That would be inappropriate.  No, I have a sister that lives near here.  I am sure you will like her."
"Are you certain?" Cara enquired tentatively.
"But of course."  He rose smoothly from his seat and gave an extravagant bow to her.  "Consider myself your knight in shining armour."  Cara laughed in spite of herself, the first time she could remember doing so for quite some time.  He had cut such an incongruous figure though.
Thomas offered her his arm.  "Shall we off?"
Cara slipped her arm into his, smiling happily.  "Certainly, kind sir."

The rain was falling still, yet Cara cared not.  She felt a warmth inside, unusually happy as she and Thomas wandered down the street, arm in arm.  Cara rested her head against Thomas' arm, a content smile playing across her face.
They walked in silence, their path a rambling one through back streets where overhead street-lights glinted off puddles of water than gathered on the road.
"Is it far to go?" Cara asked sleepily, the emotions of the day finally catching up with her.
"We are almost there," Thomas told her, gently squeezing her arm.  He turned off the street they were following, down into a darkened alleyway.  Cara raised her head from his arm, looking puzzled.
"Short cut," he explained.  "At least I think so."  He paused, looking around thoughtfully.
"Perhaps we should go back," Cara suggested.  Somewhere, in the back of her mind, a seed of concern had risen from within the languorousness that enveloped her.
Thomas laughed, a laugh that sent a chill through Cara.  It was unlike any laugh he had exhibited before.  It had a hard edge to it, a mocking edge.  "Turn back?  Why would I wish to do that?"
Cara tried to pull free, her heart beginning to pound as the situation she found herself in began to dawn on her, but Thomas' hand was like a vice, squeezing her arm tight.  She could not break free.  He seemed to loom over her and for a moment seemed to be different than how she recalled him.  A trick of the light, it had to be, Cara tried to reason, but terror had begun to take hold.  It had seemed that Thomas' features had taken on a feral, feline cast, eyes narrowed and gleaming, teeth glinting, but above all their was a hunger to him.
Please no, please no!  The thoughts hammered at the inside of her mind.  She wanted to scream, to call out the words, but her throat was tight and nothing came forth.  She struggled again, desperate to break free, to get away from Thomas.  Thomas simply enclosed her wrists with one hand, grinding them tightly together.  She lashed out with a foot, kicking him hard with all her strength in his shin.  His laughter was simply amused in response.
"So full of fight.  So pretty."  He ran a finger of his free hand along her cheek and down her jaw.  "So very pretty.  My sister will enjoy you once I am done."  His head tilted back, eyes slowly closing and breathed deeply, savouring the scent of her.
"Can you not smell it little human?  That piquant aroma?  Dragged from the depths of misery to the glorious heights of hope, only to crash back again, lending a succulent flavour.  Oh, you are a fine meal indeed."
"Who are you?" Cara managed to stammer out.
 "He is a monster."  The voice came from further in the alley, from the depths of darkness that lurked there.  A fearsome shove from Thomas slammed Cara back against the alley wall, her head cracking hard against it.  She slumped down, vision spinning from the blow.
"Begone, dog," Thomas hissed, spinning to face towards the speaker.  A man stepped from the gloom, a man with shaggy blond hair and a worn coat.  He glanced to where Cara sat, then towards Thomas.
"Desperate, Thomas, to have brought her here."  Cara gingerly raised a hand to the back of her head.  It came away stained with blood.
"She is strong," Thomas laughed, "But oh so sweet.  I shall enjoy feasting upon her for a long time once you are dead, dog."
"We have avoided this dance for far too long, Thomas.  Tonight it ends."
As the two men rushed at each other, Cara felt darkness descend upon her and she knew no more.

In which Cara meets Max, and comes to understand the true nature of Thomas.

The blond haired man was kneeling over Cara as her eyes flickered slowly open.  Between the darkness of the alley and the blurred vision that was a result of the blow, she could not make out much of his features beyond a strong, broad face.  There was a persistent throbbing that hammered at the inside of her skull.
She tried to sit up, but, as she did, waves of nausea rose in her.  Leaning over she was helpless to prevent herself retching.
"Easy there, lass," the man was saying.  "You took quite a knock there.  You'd have concussion, I shouldn’t wonder, though I am surprised it isn't worse than that.  You hit that wall quite hard."
She raised her head weakly, brushing back stands of hair, trying to fight back the nausea.  "Who?" she managed to start, then leaned over again as another wave of pain slammed through her head.
"Mike.  Mike McManus," the man told her.  "Friends call me Max.  We need to get you to somewhere safe and have you checked over, just in case."
Memories of early came flooding back to her, and she looked over to the middle of the alleyway where a suited figure lay face down, right arm outstretched.
"Thomas."
"Don't you be worrying about him no more, lass.  He is taken care of and can't hurt you."  She tried to rise to her feet, but the dizziness threatened to send her crumbling.  Only the steadying hand of Max prevented it.  "Careful there.  You've had quite an ordeal."
"Are you a cop?" she asked.
"Once, a long time ago now, lass.  I'm more of a freelancer now."
More memories began to emerge from the haze, memories that made little sense now she could think them over.  "What was he on about?  The things he said, they were crazy.  And for a moment I thought I saw, well, I am not too sure what I saw."
"Try not to think too much of it."
She started over towards the body, Max helping her.  "Is he dead?"
"For now."
The answer puzzled her, but then few things were making much sense that night.  "For now?"
"You have had enough shocks already tonight," Max replied.  "Plus we'd best be moving on.  Others will be coming.  They will have felt his death.  His kind is a lot like cats, aloof, cunning and fastidious, yet they will avenge their own.  It would best not to be here when they arrive."
"Show me him," she ordered firmly, though the command triggered further waves of pain.
Max hesitated for a moment.  "Very well," he finally agreed, flipping the body over with a boot.
Even in the dull light, Cara could see that Thomas was no longer as she had remembered him.  He was tall as he ever was, yet now appeared more scrawny, face oddly proportioned and gaunt, oh so gaunt.  His lips were twisted in a feral snarl.  She felt her legs go weak at the sight, almost falling again.
"What is he?" she asked, looking at Max, face pale.
"A monster, lass, a monster who preys on the weak, the lost, the despairing," Max told her.  "Those whose souls are broken."  He reached into a pocket, removing something and dropping it on the ground, sounding like a falling coin.  He shoved it under the body with a foot.  "We should really be going now."
"Only if you tell me what is going on."
"I promise," he replied, "Just it is best not here."  He pulled out a mobile phone with his free hand, flipping it open and dialling a number.  "Nomad?  Max," he spoke into it.  "We need transport, fast.  Yes.  Yes.  Corner of Vandeleur and Macquarie.  Concussion and shock I would hazard.  Right, see you there."
He closed the phone and returned it to his pocket before starting to help Cara out of the alleyway, her steps unsteady.  Halfway down there was the suddenness of a dull thump and a bright flare of flames.  She looked back to see Thomas' body aflame.
"What?  Why?"
"Don't want him coming back," Max explained, turning her from the sight of the burning body.  "They are about as hard to kill as cockroaches."
"What are they exactly, Mister McManus," she demanded.
Max didn't respond immediately, instead guiding her from the alleyway and out into the dim light of street lamps.
Finally he answered.  "There are some who call them vampires, lass."  Cara wanted to laugh, but Max looked and sounded deadly serious.  "You do not believe me?  I guess few do, but did he really look human?"
"No," she admitted reluctantly.  "For the sake of argument, I will assume that what you say is true for now.  If so, why did he appear so human when I first met him?"
"More than human, perfect to behold.  It is their Glamour.  It makes people see them as they want to be seen, but on death it fades and only then is their true self revealed."
"Who are you?"  The shocks of the night were sending her head spinning, and it was not just from the blow she had received.
Max smiled in the faint streetlight, a smile that Cara found oddly wry.  "Just a guard dog, lass, here to keep humanity safe from the monsters."

In which Cara comes to know more of herself, and of the arrival of Nomad.

Ahead of them a dark van came around the corner, spraying up water from puddles as it drove.  It slowed and came to a halt at the curb before them.  Max slid open the side door.
"Hop in."
Cara unsteadily clambered into the back, catching a glimpse of the driver.  He was a burly rough-faced man, his head shaven bald all over and with a thick bushy beard.  Cara could easily visualise him decked out in leathers and on the back of a big motorcycle.
Max climbed in behind her and slid the door shut.
"Our chauffer for the evening is Nomad," Max introduced as he took a seat.  "Nomad , this is…"  He paused.  "I'm sorry, I didn't get your name earlier lass."
"Cara."
"Nomad, Cara.  Cara, Nomad."
"Pleasure," Nomad replied by way of greeting, releasing the handbrake and easing down on the accelerator.  The van glided on down the street.
"Likewise," Cara responded shakily.  "Nomad.  An unusual name."
"Not my real name.  It was a nickname from my army days," Nomad told her.  "I was noted for my wanderlust.  Couldn't settle down anywhere, at least not until I reached the city.  Was if I'd been searching for it."
"Where he promptly took over Wanderers," Max put in.
"The café bookshop?" Cara exclaimed, her surprise evident.  Nomad certainly didn't look the type to run that establishment.
Max laughed at her response, the sound setting off a fresh round of stabbing pains in her head.  She winced, Max catching sight of her doing so.
"Sorry, lass.  Anyway, don't let Nomad's looks fool you.  He has one of the largest personal libraries in the city and has a degree or some such in literature.  He has read books I've never heard of."
"What you read can hardly be described as books," Nomad noted dryly.  "Not all is as it seems, not in this city at least.  Where to Max?  Edward?"
"That would be for the best.  Cara is going to need medical attention at any rate, even if all she has suffered is concussion.  Plus there are others matters that will be of interest to him."
"Who is Edward?" Cara asked.  From the way the two men spoke of him, she gathered that he was of some importance.
"The man for whom I at times work.  Mister Cavanaugh."
Cara had thought, hoped, that her shocks for the night were done with, but this was one more, and by no means the least of them.  "Edward Cavanaugh?  The richest man in the country?"  Not just the richest man in the country, but much more.  He controlled a vast media and business empire founded by his family in generations past, but beyond that he was a noted recluse, barely seen more than a couple of times a year outside of his inner circle.
"Indeed.  The one and the same."
"You work for him?  You have met him?"
"I have, yes."
Cara shut her eyes, leaning her head wearily back against the seat.  "This can't be happening."
"I am afraid it is."
Nomad chimed in from the front where he was driving.  "What exactly happened out there Max?"
"Our old friend Thomas took a bit of a fancy to young Miss Cara here, but events did not pan out how he had planned."
"You dealt with him?"
"Burned him."
"Good."  Nomad sounded quite satisfied by that.
"That is not the half of it though."
"Oh?"
"You told me you would explain more," Cara interjected.  "I want to know exactly what happened."
"Very well," Max responded.  "I told you before that Thomas was what people would call vampires, though not perhaps as you have been lead to believe by the entertainment industry of late.  Whether you believe in them or not is for you too decide."
"After the events of this night, I am willing to concede the possibility," Cara told him.
"Vampires hide their true form by means of their Glamour.  It twists the mind of those who view them into forms more pleasing to the eye, eliciting favourable responses.  As such you find many of them as models, actors and the like.  And lawyers.  You remain unaware that this has even happened, unless you know exactly what to look for.  That is only half their power though, for then there is their Charm."
"Right nasty trick, that," Nomad tossed in.  "Leaves the poor victims little more than mindless zombies."
"I think I understand what you mean.  I felt like I could trust him totally," said Cara.  "But nothing like as extreme as that."
"Yes," Max replied, looking thoughtful.  "Thomas said you had a strong mind.  He couldn't bend you entirely to his will.  Those who have been subjected to the Charm of a vampire are left little more than enthralled puppets, easily lead and blind to all danger.  You, however," he went on, "Were not affected that way.  Most interesting."
"Why did he choose me then?"
"He would not have known, at least until it was too late, and by then the hunt was already on, his blood already up.  As to why you exactly, they choose for their victims those they believe will not be missed, the alone, the dispossessed, those in deep emotional turmoil."
"That is me," Cara replied with a bitter laugh.  "An appetising target."
"The more emotionally distraught the victim starts, the better they feel it is.  They like to play with their chosen victims emotions," Max went on explaining to her.  "Using their Charm they draw you out to heights of hope before they unmask themselves, reducing you once more to the depths of absolute terror."
"Thomas said something similar.  But why do they do it?"
"They believe all that emotion makes for a richer meal, a fine smorgasbord of enhanced taste.  Personally, I believe they simply enjoy it."
"I guess I am lucky to be alive then."
"It is not over yet, I am afraid," Max told her in all seriousness.
Cara opened her eyes.  "But you killed him!"
"Thomas, yes, but there will be others.  Thomas will have left his Mark upon you, and the others will be drawn to it, to complete what he started."
"What can we do?"  There was a hint of panic creeping into her voice, reflecting a new fear beginning to grip her.  She had thought it all over, but now it appeared not to be, even as it appeared there was no end to her ordeal.
"We are taking you to see Mister Cavanaugh.  He is the only one that can help you now."

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