To Love is to Kill

It was winter. London's blooming time as it was covered in small tight snowflakes from every side. There still were a small amount of brown leaves on the patched ground, a sliver of cold winds blowing around the waterfalls in the parks nearby. The burning coal in the fireplaces emerged out of the vent and then through the chimney, outside in the dark blue sky. The sky was seldom dark blue in London. If you ask the natives, in winters like these, it was often either jet black or dark grey. Maybe the smoke covered their eyes grey, none can say.

Chestnut trees, the most suspicious of trees, hurled the snow from their bare branches. Their synced slight movements with the cold winds haunted the passers-by because after all, it was a cold night in London. From afar, one could hear only the sound of a huge crowd near the ice-skating rink. Couples. Giggling and skating together on the frozen ice. Their chuckles though limited amidst the fat layers of clothing they were wearing. Pale faces, red cheeked and bright pink noses they had. Camouflaged deep in their own world.

At the corner of the street behind the same rink, stood a man who just came out of the wood. He looked pale. Not the shade which the fair skinned ones turned in winters, but the shade which anyone would turn out of fear. His hands were trembling. Not out of fear, but out of cold. His legs were shaking but he could not stop. He knew if he stops, he dies. A middle-aged man like him can be severely close to his demise if he exhausts his own joints. His vision caught a single house in the vicinity. He craved warmth. Much so, he needed a shelter. He had been running for a couple of hours. With a parched throat, semi-drenched clothes and tired knees, he approached the big house on the lonely alley.

A permanent slump formed on the shoulders of this man. He had a wide grin on his face. On a usual Monday morning, he would be what people might call him as, 'A thin mad drunkard'. Not just because of his face, but because of his sluggish walk and sweaty red self. He seemed to faint any minute then. If there might have been a human being around him, stealing his belongings would have been as easy as taking candy from a child. What one could not predict from a distance was his alertness. He was more alert than a lion waiting to prey. Alert, if they caught his scent. Alert, if they followed him. Alert, if they could hurt him.

While chills continuously went up and down his spine, he rang the doorbell of the house. Between the time he rang the bell and the door opened, the world stood still around him. He could feel his heartbeat thumping his ribcage, his breaths refusing to come out and mind trying to come out of his skull. He almost lost hope when he heard footsteps coming up. He had almost gulped when the door opened slightly.

The screech of the old door made the fragile man almost jump on his place. A long faced man peeped above the door chain to get a good view of the man who had approached his home at such a late hour. Both of them are trying to decide who shall start first. Nevertheless, the midnight visitor started first,

"Pardon me, my friend. But it's quite dark and the owls and bats have started troubling me. May I shelter in your lovely house for the night?"

There was a stark silence after the visitor uttered his request. The owner of the house thought for a moment. He didn't seem sure. He didn't want a stranger to come inside the house. There were headlines of a midnight murder on loose in the 'Daily Mail'. But his superego, his morals stood on the other side. He came from a tender-hearted family. His mother once told him, "Be generous to all kinds of men, my child. One doesn't have anything to lose if one's intentions are pure." Perhaps there were no exceptions for alcohol-smelling, wiggling, pale, middle-aged men.

He gave out an audible sigh and opened the door completely. The middle aged visitor saw the owner of the house completely now. He had a huge build with broad shoulders and a stern body. A small dark figure lingered just behind the man. The visitor could only see a faint smile dissolved with confusion and dizziness. It brought a vague smile on the visitor himself. The owner's eyes were half-closed and his mouth had a silent grin.

"You are welcome inside, my friend." He told the visitor and moved a little to the right. He slightly bent towards where the small figure was standing and whispered something in its ear of which the visitor realised was a small girl. Black haired, blue eyes, a beautiful little thing. She ran back to the stairs as soon as the man finished whispering in her ear.

The visitor took it as a cue to enter and stepped ahead of the threshold. As soon as he came in the vicinity of the warmth of the insides of the house, he flinched somewhat. The owner noticed it and continued,

"Your coat is wet. Let me take it for you." And he moved his hands to the shoulders of the man and pulled out the black coat which was drenched in cold snow and small branches. The visitor was given a pair of slippers, a huge robe and some warm tea. He was made to sit near the fireplace as his socks and gloves hung outside to dry.

The visitor looked around. He saw a modern white artistic chandelier, a dim light behind it, a wooden wall stretching from the left end of the ceiling, to all the other directions, one of them having a ductless air conditioning vent. There was a glass window which showed it was snowing outside. The window was huge. It made him feel vulnerable. Glass, a breakable object. And outside, the chestnut trees, the most suspicious of trees. Chills ran down his spine multiple times. His breath became heavy and between the pounding of his heart and the cold winds running outside, he couldn't hear what his host was saying,

"..name?"

The visitor shook himself and looked at his host. Hurriedly, he asked, "Sorry?"

"Your name."

The visitor realised that he hadn't had the opportunity to greet his host properly at all. He stood up straight and shook his hand while he introduced himself.

"Rupert Lamington, Sir. It's a pleasure."

The host smiled. He had glassy eyes. Rupert concluded that he might be sleepy, or drunk. He pushed the thought away when the host replied back to him.

"Charles Anderson. The pleasure is truly mine." And both men sat opposite to each other. Neither tried to look at the other. There was a human tendency of creating awkwardness which spread far and wide in the room. They resolved to look outside the glass window, which, to fuel the fears of Rupert, didn't have bars.

"Would you like to have a smoke?" Charles suddenly asked him. Rupert was taken aback but nevertheless, he composed himself. At such times, he was conditioned to say no. But it seemed that cigarette was what he indeed needed for the sake of his mental piece and that of his host. He simply nodded and watched Charles getting his box out from his night robe. He pulled out a lighter from another pocket, handed Rupert a cigarette and lit it for him. His hands were shaking, Rupert noticed. He knew Charles still considered him a burglar or a much threatening person. He decided to lay a middle ground of friendship. At least for the night. But before he could approach him, his host started again,

"Would you mind me asking why you were wandering at such a late hour, my friend?"

Rupert gulped. He knew he would have to answer this question, he just didn't expect it to be that sudden. He still didn't lose his composure and said,

"London's awake at this hour the most, dear sir. People in thirst for answers or adventures lurk at this hour itself."

"So, which was it for you?" His host inhaled the smoke and crossed his legs. "Answers or adventures?"

Rupert smiled. This one was good. Sly, intelligent, and difficult to fool. He took a snuff of his own and replied blatantly,

"Answers. Which might have led to some adventures."

Both men looked at each other. A sly smile on both their faces. "In the woods?" Charles interrogated again.

Rupert gulped again. The lump in his throat enlarged and sweat poured down his brow. He underestimated the man. He was a good observer. He had a subtle expression. Not too suspicious, not too varied.

"Half of England is 'the woods'."

"Well, you don't see people knocking your door at midnight with their coats full of wild ferns and mosses. I would say you just came out of the Fox Forest."

"You guessed it right." Rupert said as he shifted his glance towards the window indicating his withering interest in the conversation. It was rude, he knew. But he knew where the conversation was leading and was fearful of what he might ask next. Charles took the cue and decided to change the topic. He was an outspoken person, often when it's not his turn. Conceivably, Charles was a person whom one could confide in and then regret later. After a moment of silence, this time Rupert decided to keep a conversation going.

"I am a Professor at Cambridge. I teach Anthropology, History and Ancient Myths." He decided not to tell everything.

"What are you doing in London, then?"

His grey-green eyes met the fiery ones of Charles. He could knit up a story, he knew that. But he decided against it. He knew his life was at stake here. He almost started but was unsure of himself. He stood at a crossroads. It wasn't Charles' demeanor which sold the poor man out, it was his eyes. They were dark but full of fire. It was as if the flames reached Rupert's own eyes and seeped into it. This man showed hope and a firebrand in himself. He knew he couldn't rely on anyone else for this information. He had doubts that the man sitting in front of him was drunk as a skunk and thus, hoped and feared at the same time that by the time dawn hits, he would have already left the place and that this man would forget whatever Rupert was going to tell him. Urgency led him to do what he was going to do. He shrugged his shoulders as he said.

"I was...researching a species of humankind, a myth to many."

"Which kind, dear sir? I have heard of many species of humankind but they died before evolution even took place." Charles replied, pretty much showing off his knowledge. Rupert smiled slyly. In men's tongue, it was challenging the other person for a duel of wisdom. One could not win from a Professor at Cambridge, they said. If only one could witness the series of events which took place in the Anderson household on a December evening.

"You are referring to historical factual species. These are mythical ones."

"If they are mythical, then why research them in London's forests?" The conversation was getting intimate. He seemed a little too curious about Rupert's business, which confused the other person. He slightly moved at his place and titled his head to the right.

"Have you ever heard about 'The Inmits'?" Rupert asked him.

"The humans which never die. Of course. It used to be a bedtime story for me when I was a child. I still narrate it to my daughter." The name of his daughter brought a small smile on Charles face. Rupert smiled. He never had a child of his own but he had a boy who almost was like one. Remembering him overwhelmed him but he resorted to focus on Charles' words.

"Yes. The immortal humans. Not a mutation but a simple carelessness of nature. An abnormality, some say."

"But mythical, aren't they? You said it yourself." A dark expression consumed Charles. It seemed he was aware of the movies when a guest enters at midnight and turns out to be a deadly creature. Rupert smiled in the most friendly way he could.

"I would have had a different opinion some years ago. But lately, I have been researching them and it turns out, there are some Inmits, indeed."

As soon as Charles heard it, he started laughing hysterically. His laughs echoed around the room as he flailed his arms around and snickered loudly. His laugh was contagious. It uplifted Rupert's frown into a faint smile. He was not talking in humour, of course. But Charles didn't seem to believe him at all. It made him feel relieved and hopeless at the same time.

"I followed one to the forest." Rupert continued. "They walk fast, those men. I almost got outrun from them when they reached their camp and started talking."

"Might be vampires, now, eh?" Charles interrupted him.

"Believe me, my friend. They are real. I have no proof of their immortality yet but I will have it soon." Rupert tried to convince his host for the last time.

"So, if you think they are that dangerous and mysterious the way written in the stories…" Charles started with a grim expression. He moved his head down and continued, "...then why were you risking your life ? I mean they could be on your trail, right now." He cautiously looked at the window, almost expecting to see a white monster with dracula teeth, looking back at him with red eyes, thirsty for the blood of both the men present in the room. But he saw nothing. It was lonely out there. It just seemed like snow and a handful of people working in the neighbourhood on a construction site. Nevertheless, Rupert answered him,

"I was searching for the weakest part of an Inmit. Their weakness. Which might not be able to kill them but be enough to hurt them…"

"Why would you want to hurt them?" Charles interrupted but got ignored this time.

"I looked through a thousand books, websites, blogs, social media accounts. Some pages were torn, other websites and blogs were blocked or deactivated. Those Inmits DO NOT want to leak their secrets. So I spied. I tried to get the answers on my own, even risked my life over this secret. And I finally got the answer."

Charles' eyes widened and his mouth automatically mouthed, "What is it?" He looked like a child at the beginning of a climas. Rupert didn't waste any time.

"The death of the most beloved one from the hands of a third person."

They stared at each other for a couple of seconds. Charles, in fascination and Rupert, in determination. Both of them had different expressions the whole time. After a few brief seconds later, Charles started yet again,

"What if the loved one was an immortal being?"

Rupert snickered. "It's the tendency of the Inmits. They fall for the weakest of the mortals."

While their merry conversation continued, a shadow passed by the glass window for a flicker of a second. Charles caught it. He glanced at Rupert as he took in the message and Rupert understood. He got up and looked around the window. The shadow was visible clearly. Only the face didn't. When the hooded figure put his hood down, a chill ran down Rupert's spine. He almost lost his balance and fell. He tried to shut the curtains off.

The cold black eyes were stuck on him. He had started sweating from everywhere. Charles came to hold him but he grabbed the shoulders of the bigger man and shook him. He said with a stammered and shaking hands,

"Warn your family, brother. An Inmit has followed me out of the woods."