Becomings

  BECOMINGS

  Winter Fade Stories – Volume 1

  By Matthew Lee Adams

  Copyright © 2011 Matthew Lee Adams

  All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced without the written consent of the author.

  www.matthewleeadams.com

  This is a work of fiction. All characters, character names, events and locations are either a product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously and should not be construed as real. Any resemblance to any actual person or persons, living or dead, events, locales, or organizations is purely coincidental.

  Cover Photograph by Carolyn Adams

  Cover Design and Artwork by Matthew and Carolyn Adams

  Photoshop brushes commercially licensed from www.obsidiandawn.com

  These stories are dedicated to Anna Wyland, Liz May, and Tom Lowsley, who read them first.

  Table of Contents

  Introduction

  Isabel

  Darya

  Katharine

  About The Author

  Introduction

  These stories tell the origins of four of the vampires from the Winter Fade series.

  They’re set during the Flapper Era of the Roaring Twenties, the harsh winter struggles of the Battle of Stalingrad and beyond, and in a prisoner of war camp in Chicago during the relentless slog of the Civil War.

  The word vampire is never used in these stories – although it is used often throughout the three Winter Fade books. Partly this is because a story finds its focus on the characters – who they are and not so much what they are.

  I hope that you, the Reader, will find them enjoyable. Perhaps one of them may draw you in, speaking to you in a personal way that feels comfortable and close. I can’t make promises; but I’ve brought them to life in the way that I can.

  There are differences between the stories, reflecting their eras and where they occur, as well as the temperaments of their characters. Yet all share a central theme of choice and what it means for any person, along with all its consequences – both foreseen and unknowable.

  These stories are a companion to the Winter Fade series and have only the barest overlap. If you find you wish to follow the characters into the other books, they can be found at:

  Urban Fantasy – Winter Fade Series

  Winter Fade (Book One)

  Firefly Kiss (Book Two)

  Snowflake Promise (Book Three)

  Becomings (Winter Fade Stories)

  Paranormal Romance

  Glowstar

  Isabel

  Sometimes a simple glance can cross the space of a room the way a butterfly traverses a field of wildflowers, alighting only briefly to sample each one as it passes – before settling with a sense of certainty upon one chosen above all the others. It may happen because this one called to the other in some unknown way, making a single presence stand out among all the rest. It may be choice, or destiny.

  The raven-haired girl’s eyes were drawn to the quiet stillness of his form as surely as another person’s gaze might be attracted to movement. Across the room, the young man appeared unaware of her attentiveness, drawn instead into the book he was reading.

  Her lips parted unconsciously, as though to whisper a secret for another’s ears. She seemed no longer to even notice the bustle of others in the space between, as if these were only clouds whose shapes could only mask but never hide the greater expanse of sky that lay beyond. Neither the din of conversations about her nor the jazz band riffing its melodies seemed able to divert her attention from the one who now held it.

  There seemed a hint of something hidden within her placid expression, like a stirring sense of familiarity beginning to form. Still in her late teens, she carried a poise and self-assurance beyond her years. An understated black shift dress flattered her petite form, allowing her to meld into the background of the more expensively dressed patrons of the speakeasy. Her long hair had been curled and done up in deceptive imitation of the shorter cuts favored by the other women surrounding her. It was held by a wide silver ribbon adorned with fresh flowers and a handful of rhinestones that glinted in the dim and smoky light.

  She watched him, contemplating the ease with which he found his separation from the crowd, yet somehow still retained a sense of belonging. Dancers brushed him periodically, following the music with scarcely a thought, each fleeting touch intimate in its very brevity. He turned another page and smiled, a slight curve of the lips, as if discovering anew something he had once set aside, and finding comfort even within a crowded room in his private moment.

  Like her own hair, his seemed to capture the night in all its depth. His features were soft and studious, the face of an artist perhaps, contemplating works his mind envisioned that would find their eventual shape through the slender fingers of his hands. He appeared unassuming, yet there was a sense that if he were to beckon to one of the women dancing just beyond his reach, he could claim her attention as surely as he now claimed the one who watched him from across the room.

  He drew a finger down the page as though to gather in all that remained, and then closed the small volume. Slipping it into an inner pocket of his coat, he rose in the same movement that she unfurled herself from the table she had been languidly leaning upon. He walked to the exit, and the people seemed to unconsciously part before him.

  She began threading her own way through the crowd, her movements graceful in their purpose. When she reached the street, she drew in a quick breath as she scanned left and right. Her brow furrowed, as she recognized a shape already drawing into the darkness up the street, further away than his unhurried movements would imply.

  She slipped off her shoes and gathered them in one hand, then proceeded down the sidewalk at a fast pace, her bare feet almost soundless on the pavement. A few cars rattled past, their spoked wheels sending ripples through puddles left behind by the late March rains, stirring the impression of the moon held in their embrace. Her heart thumped lightly, and she pressed a hand to her chest, fingers barely closing over the simple cameo pendant swinging from her neck.

  Another car approached. She unconsciously sidestepped to avoid the splash of spray that accompanied its passage. Her gaze momentarily strayed from the one she was following. And when she looked again, he was gone.

  She stopped, her hand falling to her side, the slight rise and fall of her chest her only movement as she suddenly became very still. Her wide eyes searched the street ahead for movement, but found none. She took a few hesitant steps forward. His voice spoke from close beside her, hidden within the shadows of a side alley.

  “Do you often follow people you don’t know?”

  She didn’t respond, but turned her head just a little. He leaned casually against a wall, arms folded across his chest. A hint of light glimmered in his eyes where the stray beam of a streetlamp fell across them.

  “What were you reading?” she asked.

  Without a word, he lifted the volume from his pocket and extended it to her. She hesitated, and then closed her fingers about it. She glanced down at the cover, and back at him.

  “You don’t read French.” He said it as a statement, as he accepted the book again.

  She straightened her shoulders and lifted her chin. “I don’t know how to read.”

  “And what do you know how to do . . .” He inclined his head, in invitation.

  “Isabel,” she said.

  “Isabel,” he repeated, his voice soft as it rolled over the syllables. “Just Isabel?”

  “It’s who I am.” She fingered the pendant at her neck, the chain whispering with the movement. “I’m a seamstress.” She brushed her other hand alongside her dress, her shoes still dangling between her fingers. “I made this.”

  He unfurled
himself from his position and stepped close, his movements graceful like a dancer’s. She saw his eyes go luminescent as they passed directly under the light. She lowered her gaze as he stood before her.

  “Look at me,” he said.

  She gave a brief shake of her head. She let the pendant fall lightly to her chest as her hand lowered to her side. “I’ve been lost before,” she said softly.

  She sensed him watching her. And then she felt the faintest touch that caused her lips to part and drew her breath out in a long sigh, though he never stirred from where he stood before her. Her hand rose again of its own accord, fingers spread against her chest to find the fast beating of her heart. She lifted her head and looked into his eyes.

  For a moment, her vision seemed to swim, and she blinked against the sensation it gave, a feeling as if she were being swept away before some unseen force. Then it passed, leaving her small form swaying like a buoy left in its wake.

  He was studying her, a curious expression on his face. “What do you see, Isabel?”

  “You have the most beautiful eyes.” Her own eyes had dimmed as if a veil had fallen across them, her gaze gone distant, as though looking through him. “They have been everywhere, and nowhere.”

  His brow furrowed, curiosity turned to contemplation. “What do you mean by nowhere?”

  “They have never seen another, the way I can see you,” she said slowly. Her vision cleared and her eyes widened further. She lifted them up toward the stars that shone from the dark vista of the night sky overhead, like diamonds encircling the haloed moon. Her fingers caressed the pendant, tracing the raised profile on its surface.

  “Is that your mother?” He indicated the cameo.

  “Mary,” she whispered. She let it rest in her palm and inclined it toward him, the image of the Virgin Mary captured in the pure moonlight. “My mother didn’t want me.”

  “You’re alone?”

  “Not by choice.” Her words were wistful, drawn across the still night by a haunting strain of the wind.

  He glanced up to the night sky, and his expression changed once more, his features softening to the remembered glimpse she had seen as she watched him reading to himself, alone among a crowd. “Arthur Rimbaud,” he said, as though to himself. He looked at her, lifting the small book. “Do you like poetry?”

  “I don’t know.”

  A light breeze rippled across her bare shoulders, its lingering coolness a reminder that winter was reluctantly yielding to spring.

  “Poems are like being given an invitation to take you to places you’ve never been.” He paused. “I’m Jeremy. Would you like me to walk you home?”

  She nodded.

  He held out his hand to her. She hesitated, and then wrapped her small fingers around his.

  “It’s warm.” She raised their clasped hands until the back of his hand rested against her cheek. She closed her eyes. “I can feel your life through it.”

  Her eyes opened as she lowered their hands once more. She glanced around, her face showing wonder, as if seeing where she was for the first time.

  “Do you live close by?” he asked.

  “Not far.”

  They began walking, his footsteps as light as the sound her own bare feet made on the sidewalk. Her shoes dangled from her other hand, swaying by her side with the gentle motion of their movement.

  “I noticed you,” he said. He was looking ahead, his gaze drawing across the scenery unfolding before them. His awareness of the night seemed as natural as the way a person moves their own body. “You were different than the others. I could no more not notice you than I could the moon in a sky full of stars.”

  “Do you live here?” She let her toes caress the cool pavement as they walked, finding their focus from the warmth of his hand in hers. His fingers were twined comfortably around her own, in a light but steady grip.

  “I’ve been traveling, and I thought I’d stay in Los Angeles,” he said. “For a while, at least.”

  She nodded. She inclined her head to a squat, two story structure, the pattern of its brickwork faded and forgotten. “This is where I live.”

  Light gleamed dully around loose curtains from a single grimy window in one room on the first level. He opened the door for her, their bodies brushing as she passed to lead him up the narrow staircase. Her hand trailed behind, fingers still clasped in his. The sound of other residents moving around in the other rooms rustled like dry leaves behind the thin walls.

  She removed a key from the small beaded handbag hanging at her side, and unlocked the door. She glanced back at him over her shoulder, as if to be certain he was still there, although she could still feel the press of his hand in hers. She opened the door and led him inside, closing the door behind them.

  “It’s very small,” she said, setting her shoes down beside a single pair of low-heeled and sturdy, daily-wear oxfords.

  The room was unfinished, but decorated with personal touches. A shaft of moonlight from the single window fell across the narrow, neatly made bed. A vase of flowers was centered on a vanity, their colors warmed in the muted light by the low mirror behind them.

  Isabel walked to the vanity and carefully undid the ribbon in her hair. She let it unwind from her finger, trailing it across the smooth and worn surface of the vanity before releasing it. She reached up and removed the pins holding up her tresses, her nimble fingers moving adeptly, her eyes staring above the mirror to a small fan of feathers that adorned the wall. She let her hair fall. It cascaded around her shoulders like a raven’s wings settling after flight.

  She unclipped her earrings and set them before the mirror. The tiny freshwater pearls seemed to gather and hold the pool of moonlight in which they lay, releasing it again like a breath transformed into a sheen of iridescence.

  She sensed him watching her, although she couldn’t discern even the low sound of his breath within the stillness of the room. She slipped out of her dress and laid it across the chair, the fabric flowing like liquid over the dark-stained wood. She stepped out of her undergarments and stood, her head bowed in thought. Her pale skin shone like alabaster in the moonlight, contrasted by the onyx flow of hair across her shoulders.

  She felt a caress now, although she knew he hadn’t crossed the room. It was only a light touch that was barely sensed, but its warmth seemed to dispel some of the chill remaining on her skin from the cool night air, leaving behind a glow that spread outward and inward. She turned to look at him. Her pendant swung slowly between her small breasts.

  He was standing there, regarding her.

  “Would you read for me, Jeremy?”

  He smiled, a gentle movement that transformed his face in a subtle way, softening the reserve. “I’d be glad to.”

  She walked to the bed and lay down, turning on her side toward the window. Her face reflected back in the glass, bathed within a rapture of moonlight. She breathed deeply, listening as he began to recite softly.

  His voice drew out a shifting mosaic of notes from another time, and another tongue, as though he were only borrowing them for a little while, yet still holding them close in a cherished way while they remained. She closed her eyes, lulled by the timbre of music captured within the spoken word. The weathered wood of her small room gave pattern and shape to the sound of his voice, rippling across them in the slow and whispering way that water rolls over smooth stones.

  A long while later, she heard the final soft closing of his lips over the last word, like a kiss sealing away a promise.

  “Will you be here in the morning?” she murmured.

  “I’m afraid I can’t remain that long, Isabel.”

  She nodded her understanding, her eyes still closed. She sensed his movement in the room now, an artful passage across the warped boards of the floor that scarcely made a sound. The bed settled behind her like a sigh, and she felt his warmth against her back, barely touching. His breath stirred her hair in ebbs and flows, moving the fine strands across her skin in a slow dance.

&n
bsp; She wrapped her hand over his, bringing it up to press between her breasts, just over her heart. Her lips parted, and her lashes relaxed like feathers against the delicate skin of her cheeks. Her breathing deepened as she settled into sleep.

  * * * *

  WHEN SHE AWAKENED, she didn’t move at first, aware only that he was no longer in bed beside her, nor in the room. She turned over, and her hand settled on the book he had been reading. Her fingers caressed the cover, its surface worn almost smooth from many handlings over a long period of time.

  A flower from her vase had been pressed between the pages of the thin volume. She opened it carefully, to look where it lay. Her lips moved in silent remembrance, testing the shape of the words she had heard him speak, unfamiliar sounds whose secrets lay hidden within the patterns on these pages.

  She rose and padded to the door, discovering it locked. Her key still lay with its leather strand trailing across her beaded purse from the night before. She tilted her head, thinking for a moment, her face still. She breathed in, her eyes half-lidded, following a scent whose subtlety lay just beneath the muted fragrance of the flowers, like the memory of a dream that lingers just beyond awakening.

  She walked back to her bed. Her fingers traced the outline where he had lain close to her, the covers barely moved out of place. She bent near, breathing in, tasting and testing these faintest of scents. She straightened up again.

  She began to dress, in clothes whose very ordinary nature seemed to fall away from the visions she saw within her mind and that her fingers brought to life each day. She slipped on her oxfords and laced them, lifted the small book from the bed, and left to go to work.

  Her feet made a soft and uneven clopping sound on the sidewalk, the worn soles and heels creaking in their individual rhythms. The early sun fell across her, offering to dispel dreams made and promises held by its counterpart who watched over the night. She was vaguely aware of the passage of cars nearby, their rattling and low, rumbling purrs like a cat awakening for its breakfast and shaking the stiffness from its limbs.