Page 3 of Those That Defy the Realm

Shit, how old is this female? I probably should’ve thought to check this first. Clicking on her name at the top of the chat, I bring up her profile. Indeed, she graduated university this year. Unless she took a gap year or two that makes her twenty-two or twenty-three at most.

I’m at least four decades older than her. That kind of age gap isn’t really an issue amongst the supernatural, but her profile lists her as a human. Being a vampire, I can expect to live closer to two millennia. And despite the passing of forty years, I look just a little older than when I’d been turned at the age of twenty-eight.

Thankfully, the supernatural beings of this realm all have similar life expectancies, so I don’t have to worry about being discovered on that front. I simply masquerade as a demi-Fae and avoid all questions about my lack of aging.

It makes dating rather complicated, though. A Fae that claims a human mate can share some of their magic, extending the humans lifespan to that of their own. Vampires don’t have that ability. We can turn a man but alas, female vampires cannot be made.

Before the war, it didn’t seem to be a problem; the male and female population who had fangs was healthy, plenty of vampires born were female. However, the Fae were ruthless in targeting them during the war, and despite the best efforts of the vampires to protect them, it was the female gender which nearly did go extinct. Less than a handful survived.

And as far as I knew, no girls had been born since. Although, I wouldn’t blame the parents for keeping that secret until the child reached adulthood.

Another message draws me back to the conversation thread.

CLARA: I’ve scared you off already, haven’t I? I really didn’t mean to get heavy within a few messages. Honestly, the name of that book brought up some darker stuff for me, and I’m only just getting out of it.

And now I’m offloading to a complete stranger just because their opening message wasn’t a dick picture. I’ll leave you alone now.

The new message dissipates my thoughts over our age difference, and the fact that this cannot go anywhere.

HENRY: No, not scared at all. Although, maybe a little with the mention of dick pictures. Sorry if it’s a disappointment, but I won’t be doing that. Do guys really send those straight away?

CLARA: It’s a good thing, a great thing that you haven’t! It’s refreshing, honestly. I take it you’ve not tried many dating apps, have you?

HENRY: No, I haven’t. Dating app virgin right here.

CLARA: [laughing emoji] I’ll go gently with you then.

Her response has a chuckle breaking out of my lips. I quickly smother it with my palm in case Antares is still awake and listening in. These walls are somewhat soundproof, even to our supernatural ears, but it's an older building and the insulation could do with being upgraded.

I cannot have Antares discovering that I have kept the dating app on my phone, let alone am talking to someone through it.

HENRY: On a serious note, I am a good listener. I’ve been through my own share of tough shit, sometimes it’s easier to offload onto strangers than to the people closest to you.

CLARA: Thanks, you are setting a very good first impression, Henry.

We exchange a few more messages before tiredness creeps in. I fall asleep with my phone on my chest, pretty much mid-conversation.

And it doesn’t end there. All through the next day, and the following week Clara and I keep up a steady flow of abstract thoughts, in-depth discussions over the best beverages and something that might be considered in the realm of flirting.

Sadly, I also discover she lives on Froan Island, a good eight-hour ferry ride from my home in West Scotia.

It became apparent when she invited me for a coffee at one of her local cafes. I’d looked up where it was and had been shocked to see I’d need to cross the ocean to reach it. I’d cursed Antares yet again when I realised he’d set my location net much wider than just the city in which we reside.

He’s left once more, flitting off like he usually does after a few days hiding out in my apartment. So, I can’t yell at him for the fact that he failed to set up the stupid account properly.

Not that I could get angry at him again, because that would be admitting that I am still using the app. Even if I am blocking every single other match that comes through before even looking at their profiles.

I can’t stop the growing disappointment of not being able to easily meet up with Clara, though. Her messages are quickly becoming a source of fun and added joy to my day. She’s clever, quick witted, and pretty. I may have stared at her profile picture more and more as the days have gone by.

It's not a photo that reveals that much. It’s a casual shot. She’s sitting at a table or something, although you can’t see it. She’s leaning on a surface and has her head propped in one hand, her chin on the upturned palm. She’s smiling at the camera, and there’s a lightness to her eyes, which are framed by her glasses, that draws me in, especially as I know she’s been through the tragedy of losing her best friend.

Her hair billows about her face in slightly unkempt waves, like she runs her hands through it often. The ends, which just about brush her shoulders, are lighter than the roots, giving a sun kissed look to her light brown locks.

As the weeks pass, our messages drop a little but become a solid fixture in my life. A welcome addition to the daily struggle I’m having with my writing. After the failed meet up, I think we’ve firmly landed in the friend zone. Even if some messages seem to be a little more, it's all in jest. We talk about our days, jump through every random topic you can think of, and never run out of things to say to one another.

She’s stuck in a job she hates but hopes will gain her the experience she needs to apply for the interior designer she really wants to work for—yes, she’s a designer. I've seen her stuff online and have even gotten a few tips on how to add more character to my place.

I tell her about my research and finally confess to being the author of the book that is the reason she messaged me in the first place. Of course I blame it all on Antares, which is no lie, and she laughs until she cries. At least, that’s what she types. I wish I could hear it in real time but I’ve been too scared to ask to step up our relationship from purely typed words, to actual conversation.