Contrary to what they think, it is not impossible for us to enter churches. My Eamon can, because he was Jewish – which he says makes for amusing surprises if someone tries to ward him off with a cross. I can, to an extent, because in my humanity I was not Christian. Our tiny pocket of Yorkshire adhered to a far more ancient faith. Although crosses can still singe my flesh, which I find fascinating. It is a mystery. I don’t mind. I like mysteries. And the flesh heals quickly.

In my way, I love the churches. So much beauty in their construction. So much faith. The great cathedral in York was begun by men whose great-grandsons would be old before it was completed. How deeply the men had to believe in the necessity of the work, in the sureness that the world – or at least York – would still be whole in the years to come, so that the church would someday know the sound of singing voices inside, the shift in the air as the heads bowed to pray to a god they never saw, but knew with no question was there to hear them.

As lovely as the great churches are, I have always been more fond of the smaller ones. They have a quiet sort of honesty I respect. Places of simple beauty, built for those in the parish to come and offer their simple prayers. Of course, they are not so simple. How could they be?

I know not all of them really believe. They never have. I cast no aspersions nor make judgements – simply state facts. I believed in my Yorkshire gods, but I believed in the healing power of plants more. I saw them at work.

I know the humans’ prayers don’t inoculate them against seduction from us. Mors used to find many of his meals after Vespers, or confession. That pocket of time for many when they felt clean before seeking out new trouble. Especially so when they were prostitutes, which was most often the case. For me, it’s never been quite that easy.

It is a funny thing, some of the men who go to church, who wear or carry a cross as part of their attire and yet have no real religion in their person. There was a man in the parish of All Saints, in London, who was rather ostentatious in his church-going but infamous as a procurer. For some years, he was a decided entertainment, given as he was to fits of temper that could be heard for miles. And nearly always after church. Eamon and I and occasionally some others would tail him, watching. Sometimes teasing.

But when he finally beat a young girl to death for not bringing him enough money, I became bored of his antics. There must be a limit. I lurked near the church door before the midnight mass celebrating the birth of Christ. I like the smell of holly. This was a test – would he enter and worship, or would his desire for me and the business I could bring him be a larger draw? And on this holy night, he chose me.

I let him guide me away from the church, the opening hymns accompanying our stroll, making it a sort of dance. Which of course it was, only he was not the leader.

“What a remarkably beautiful girl you are,” he informed me. I smiled.

“Thank you, sir,” I responded – and I’m afraid I simpered. But he appreciated it.

“I have not seen you before, are you recently arrived to this parish?”

“No sir, I have been here quite a while,” (about thirty years at that point)

“Then I have been looking in the wrong spots, but I have you in my sights now. And believe me, I will not let you go,” he grinned at me in a manner meant to both excite and terrify. This was his method of seduction, and quite effective for an impressionable girl, particularly as he coupled it with admirably skilful strokes to the cheek and back. What untouched girl would remember herself and pull away from such attention, and from one of her betters? I pretended to swoon against him.

“I shan’t let you go either,” I promised. And it was quite true. I had extended talons that pierced his fur-trimmed cloak. He saw my red eyes and knew what was to become of him. He cried out, “Vampire! Vampire!” but the congregation had reached a crescendo and no one heard him. I suffered him to fumble for his crucifix and thrust it against my flesh. It did hurt, but I refused to flinch. Indeed, I winked. That rather unhinged him.

The hymn finished, and so did I.

There was a collection box by the church door. I left the cloak inside it. The holes could certainly be mended.

But despite the food shortage during the plague, we often had a good time. Humans aren’t just for eating, after all. They provide endless entertainment. That wedding, for example…

Of course, we vampires do not need weddings to be bound to each other, although we do enjoy ceremony. As well as any excuse to dress up. But for us, the love union is a private, wordless thing that can take place over a period of years. We have time.

Humans don’t have as much cause for nightly celebration as we do, benighted things, so they like to make a fuss over a wedding and good for them. Even when the couple isn’t in love. They can’t have everything.

This particular wedding was in 1351, just after the Black Death, and people wanted to marry their children quickly and get to work repopulating the country. Which we were all in favor of, as most of our usual menu was now out of season.

Whatever Edward and Margery thought of each other was immaterial, of course – she was only thirteen and not presumed to have any brains worth mentioning. Not that he looked to be much of an Alcuin either, mind. Just an observation. Pretty gown, though. Good silk.

Their families had never liked each other. Not quite in a Montague/Capulet sort of way, but firm words were often spoken. However, they only had one surviving child each and a lot of adjacent land to defend, so…

…they married. It was a sunny day, so we missed the ceremony and jugglers, but the party was still going strong in the evening, and they said all were invited, so Eamon and I took them up on it. We had a wonderful story ready, but no one asked who we were. Being the best-dressed couple there helped – they assumed we were noble and didn’t dare intimate they didn’t know us. Besides, they were already drunk.

Humans and their drink! Eamon and I paid the minstrels sixpence to play our favourite songs and were dancing in the middle of the room. But then someone shouted that the eel-and-almond-milk pie was actually cod bits and things went downhill from there. Goblets were thrown, crockery shattered, cheese-stuffed eggs soared everywhere and stained the tapestry. At first, we joined in, now on one side, now the other, just to keep the confusion high and fun. But Eamon wanted to liven things up further, so he took up juggling the tossed eggs and assorted dinner daggers that had entered the melee.

When a few men started to duel in earnest, I signalled to Eamon that it was time to offer perspective. We put on our vampire faces – Eamon on one table, me on the other.

‘Silence!’ we roared.

‘Careful lest you wake the dead!’

Which got some good screams and real pandemonium. Once Eamon stopped laughing, he leapt across to me and we both went out the window – long gone before they could organise a chase. Marvelous night.

But a week or so later, we left them two pounds for the stained glass. It was from Stephen’s time. Rather a shame, that.

I can’t linger here much longer. I look like a woman alone. And a woman alone in a hotel bar, dressed for a party – of some sort or another – raises questions. I can’t risk being observed. Observation leads to memorisation, which leads to recognition down the line, which leads to trouble.

And I need to avoid all trouble, save for that which I cause. I don’t have time to hunt down and safely dispose of anyone who gets to know my face.

Damn, some horrid little man is leering at me, taking out a pack of cigarettes. I can smell the sauerkraut on his breath from here. Yes, here he is, waddling over. He’s got dandruff in his eyebrows and hair growing from his ears. Is this meant to be a member of a “master race”?

Others are watching him, wanting to know what my price is – even if it is not my profession, there must still be a price. And for someone like me, a stunning young blonde, it must be high.

Which indeed it is. Tamper with me, and the price is your life.

What a delicious thing it would be to tell them that my beloved, when he was human, was Jewish. And that he could destroy them all with the sort of strength and mercilessness they can only dream of possessing. Oh yes, even they! I do wish Eamon were here…but no, I can’t think about him. Not right now. Not when I have this work to do.

My targets aren’t here, they aren’t coming. There’s no choice. I’ll have to move on. But I won’t give this nasty man a second look – he does not deserve even that. The men in here can find something else to stare at. Hopefully, soon enough, it will be their death warrants.