@declermont / plotted starter.

A nonstop flight between New Orleans and London is nearly nine hours. The Mayfair fortune means she can afford to fly first class, which grants her some measure of comfort, but all the comfort in the world couldn't soothe her restlessness. She chews the inside of her cheek until she tastes copper on her tongue. The metallic sweetness of her own blood makes her feel ill, but at least it's not as sickening as thinking about what she's running from, and why.

And then from London it's the train to Oxford, and then the cab to the university, nursing a bottle of tepid water and trying to ignore the gnawing hunger creeping up through her abdomen and into her chest, her throat, to sit at her tongue. And then from the university she has to walk to the lab, and then she has to stand there, duffel bag slung over her shoulder, the hand holding her water bottle shaking, while she argues with a very polite but firm woman who explains that no, she can't simply walk into the building without an appointment, all while trying to stay upright—

The scent of cinnamon and clove hits her without warning and she closes her eyes and takes in several shallow breaths; the world spins around her, the combination of travel and stress and her condition making her unsteady and uncomfortable in equal measure. When she opens her eyes it's to the sight of a man, tall and broad-shouldered, lovely in a way that makes her uneasy and reminds her, all too clearly, of Lasher.

That must make him Matthew Clairmont. And here she thought she was done with vampires.

"Dr. Clairmont." She clears her throat, takes a quick drink of her water, tries not to feel self-conscious for the way her hair hangs, limp and greasy, around her face (she hasn't showered yet, hasn't checked into a hotel, hasn't done anything but try to reach him) or the sweat glistening on her brow. There is very little of her mind that isn't consumed by anger and grief and fear and sorrow and the sickness of memory, but the corner that is free hates him on sight, as though her insecurity, her piteousness, were his fault.

"I'm Rowan Fielding." And then the rest of the name tumbles out of her; people do things for her that they wouldn't otherwise when they know that part of who she is. "Rowan Mayfair. I need your help. I really need your help."