That Island Feeling

Chapter One: That Island Feeling

The sound is different to the eager pop of the Bollinger that had bubbled so hopefully in our glasses at Taylor and Mitch’s wedding reception eighteen months ago. This sound, although still somewhat hopeful, is hollowed, as though it’s already weary from the responsibility of punctuating Taylor’s new chapter.

"I'm so glad we made this trip happen," I say, squeezing my best friend around the waist. "You're absolutely glowing!" I add, admiring her shiny blonde hair and cute sundress—the super-short kind I can’t wear without my kindergarteners running their small hands up and down my prickly legs, their fingers like incy wincy spiders.

"Thanks, Andie." I catch a faint glimpse of a smile. Taylor is the yin to my yang, the Cher to my Dionne, the Carrie to my Miranda. I hate thinking about what that arsehole Mitch must have put her through this past year. With the divorce finalised just two weeks ago, she truly deserves this holiday.

I pour the honey-coloured fizz into our glasses. "Drinks are up!"

Grace and Lizzie answer the primal girls’ trip call, leaping off their sun lounges and bounding over to our patio table by the pool’s edge.

Lizzie reaches us first. Growing up as the youngest of four siblings has instilled in her a perpetual fear of "missing out," and parenting twins for the past three years has only intensified that feeling. Grace saunters behind her, her wrist still adorned with a fluorescent band from whatever last night’s escapades involved. To say that we’ve all been in different seasons of life is an understatement, which is why it feels like a minor miracle that we’re all here together now.

If we were to each have a season, Grace would undoubtedly be summer. It’s not just her sun-kissed skin; it’s the newly engaged aura she exudes, with life positively sparkling around her. Lizzie embodies winter, bunkered down, enduring the throes of early motherhood—but cosy and caring. Taylor is spring, poised for a magnificent rebirth, and I am autumn. Autumn is a perfectly pleasant season—Nora Ephron’s favourite, no less—if you’re simply passing through. But I remain stuck in life’s rut, surrounded by curled brown leaves, permanently shrivelled and on the brink of falling. It is moments like this, the rare glimpses of warmer notes of tangerine and saffron, that make it bearable.

Picking up my glass, I take in the scene with a satisfied sigh. Moorings, our home for the next week, is even better than it appeared in the photos online. Half an hour ago, when the riverboat docked at Pearl Island’s tiny wharf, we loaded our suitcases into wheelbarrows and bumped our way up the leafy hill, then down again to the other side of the island where the sprawling house winked in the sunlight. Stepping inside felt like walking into a brochure.

With panoramic views of the glittering river from every window, a gourmet kitchen, an expansive outdoor deck, an infinity pool, and a hot tub, the waterfront home really is something special. Sydney was all hurried bodies and honking cars. Our giggles and snort-laughing aside, the only soundtrack now is the soft lapping of water on the foreshore. We’re steps away from a white sandy beach, and a shiny barbecue and garden fire pit sit waiting to be assaulted by cliché city girls. I wonder if the fire pit knows its fate—that it’s about to become all fire-starters and scrunched newspapers in electric blue and emerald green from birds high up in the gum leaves. King parrots, maybe?

I smile to myself as I imagine becoming a professional birdwatcher by week’s end and disembarking the Pearl Island riverboat in full safari get-up, binoculars proudly strung around my neck, ready to identify the markings on bin chickens. Although it might be best if the parrots stay hidden, given they don’t match our cheerful yellow colour scheme.

Upon googling "divorce party decorations," a lemon-yellow aesthetic was the obvious pick. After all, we’re here to help Taylor turn lemons into lemonade—or, more accurately, lemons into champagne. In addition to the copious bottles of sparkling and the truckload of decorations I’ve purchased off Amazon, I’ve custom-ordered a lemon meringue divorce cake. Yellow snacks were harder to come by—especially gluten-free yellow snacks. Hummus is yellowish. Luckily the house is inoffensive with its fresh white decor, and we’re more than happy to have a view of that gorgeous blue, blue water.

Hopefully, I can steal a few moments at some stage to launch myself off the pontoon that’s anchored at the beach in front of the house. I noticed it as soon as we arrived; it’s made from floating timber boards like those old-timey rafts in American summer camp movies.

"Just a sec," I interrupt. "I’ve prepared a quick toast!"

I catch the unsubtle eye roll in Taylor’s direction.

Shit. How have I messed up already? I thought I’d planned everything to perfection.

"Well, girls!" I hold my glass aloft, ignoring their exasperated expressions and my sloshing stomach. Public speaking used to be my forte, but that feels like a lifetime ago now. It might have posed a challenge if I’d stuck with a career in the arts, but it turns out it’s not an issue as a kindergarten teacher. Thankfully, five-year-olds don’t seem to intimidate me in the same way adults do—even on rainy days when they’re cooped up inside, acting particularly feral.

I clear my throat. "Thanks for making the effort to be here this week. For arranging the time off work—especially you, Liz, with your kid-wrangling. I know it’s not easy, but Taylor—we—truly appreciate it!"

"I might say a couple of words too!" Lizzie announces suddenly, stepping up onto one of the chairs.

I stifle a relieved sigh. Girls’ trip back on track.

"To divorcees and fiancées going wild!" Grace cries back. I laugh nervously.

We’ve paid two thousand dollars in bond and plan on getting every cent of it back. I remind myself that Lizzie’s definition of "wild" is washing her whites with colours.

Grace has always been a looser cannon, but in recent months, Maeve and the new rock on her fourth finger have done a good job of keeping her better tethered.

"We’re going to have so much fun!" I exclaim. "An entire week of vision-boarding, chick flicks, swimming, oysters, and wine. And we get to enjoy it with this as our backyard!" I gesture to the stunning surrounds.

I can hardly wait for the endless sunshine, moonlit evenings, and the infinite D&Ms of the week to come.

The spectacular summer day soon transforms into a spectacular summer night. The moonlight shines down on the river, turning the water golden champagne colour. Fitting, given the number of bottles we’ve consumed.

Unsurprisingly, our carefully packed suitcases remain untouched, and we end up in the pool. The last of our inhibitions vanish along with our swimsuits. It feels like I’m finally shedding my grief cloak and slipping into something more comfortable—an older model of me.

A loud knock at the door.

I freeze, hoping whoever is there will disappear when they knock again. It’s only 8 pm, so surely it’s not a noise complaint.

Moving cautiously, I approach the door and open it a crack.

"Oh, hey," I breathe, my shoulders relaxing.

I recognise the set of sea-green eyes staring back at me and swing the door all the way open.

"Hey." The captain’s voice is rough and gravelly and rolls over me like a tractor on ploughed field, causing my stomach to do this weird seesawing thing.

Chapter Two: That Island Hunger

The captain stands in the doorway, his sea-green eyes gleaming under the dim villa lights. His forearms flex subtly as he shifts the tackle box, the veins along his hands looking almost sculpted, too pronounced, as if his skin were stretched too tightly over something more ancient beneath.

"You left this on board," he states, his voice thick and unhurried, like molasses poured over gravel.

I swallow. My throat is suddenly dry.

"Whoops," I say, stepping forward. One hand tightens my towel around my body, the other reaching for the box. I move deliberately, trying to maintain my composure, but my stomach twists. Something feels wrong.

That’s when I notice them.

Behind him, lingering just beyond the reach of the porch light, three figures stand too still, too quiet. One, a man with slick, shoulder-length black hair and a silk shirt unbuttoned too far, steps forward. His lips curl into a grin so pristine and symmetrical it looks almost inhuman. He raises a hand—

And waves.

A chill coils down my spine.

"Who’s your entourage?" I joke weakly, though my instinct is screaming don’t let them in.

The captain’s smirk flickers, sharp and knowing.

"Holidaying," he says simply. "Same as you."

Inside, the villa feels too quiet. The breeze off the water has stopped entirely. The usual background hum—the ice in our glasses, the faint splashes from the pool—has vanished.

And then I see it.

The air is unnervingly still. The captain’s crisp white shirt has no creases, like it hasn’t moved with him. The black-haired man steps further into the light, and his reflection in the glass doors—

Lags.

A half-second behind.

A wine glass on the counter trembles. I didn’t touch it.

Grace and Lizzie don’t notice. Taylor is still swaying, humming to herself, oblivious.

And then—

The lights flicker.

Only for a second.

When they return, the captain is inside. The others glide in behind him, too fast, too fluid, like shadows peeling off the walls.

The door clicks shut.

The smell changes. There’s something metallic, something rich and cloying—

Like pennies on the tongue. Like rust in the air.

My stomach clenches.

The shift happens too fast. One moment, we’re basking in our own laughter and wine, the next—

Glass shatters on tile. A scream slashes through the air—

Grace.

Chaos erupts.

The black-haired man moves first. He grabs Taylor mid-spin, clamping a hand over her mouth, yanking her into his chest. She thrashes, limbs flailing, but he is unnaturally strong—inhumanly so. The veins in his arms bulge, pulsing as though they are alive beneath his skin.

Lizzie lunges for a bottle, but the pale woman beside her—

Catches her wrist. Twists.

A crack.

Lizzie screams.

I don’t move. Can’t move.

The captain watches with mild amusement, hands in his pockets, his expression one of mild curiosity. Like a spectator at an art gallery.

"Now," he says, slow and measured. "I understand this is... unexpected." He glances around at the carnage, the tremors running through Grace’s body, Taylor hyperventilating, Lizzie gasping for breath.

"But," he continues, "this is our vacation, too."

He strolls to the table, tapping a long, slender finger against an empty glass.

"You know, people always assume we’d kill right away," he muses, adjusting the bottle of Belvedere Vodka in the ice bucket. "That’s the human ego for you. Thinking we’d drain you dry, leave a mess. No, no." He tuts. "We savour."

The black-haired man grins. "It’s all about the balance. A little blood, a little vodka. The key is just enough." He lifts a tumbler. "Can’t ruin the flavour profile."

"Exactly," the captain agrees, finally turning his full attention to me. His pupils are too large now, swallowing the green. "Drink too much from one, and it’s all coppery, too much iron. But take just enough—" He reaches for my arm. "—and it’s... divine."

We are rounded up, corralled into the villa’s grand dining room. The table has been stripped bare, save for an ice bucket filled with Belvedere Vodka.

The porcelain-skinned woman methodically arranges crystal tumblers in a neat row.

The black-haired man flips a knife open, the steel catching the chandelier light.

"Ever had a Blood Baby?" he asks casually, rolling up Taylor’s sleeve.

No one answers.

He sighs. Slices open her wrist.

A dark crimson ribbon blooms against her skin, cascading down in slow, velvet streams. The cut is surgical, controlled.

Taylor whimpers, trying to pull away, but the man holds her firm, tilting her wrist over a glass. The blood drips, curling into the vodka, swirling like a grotesque marbling effect.

The captain raises his glass. "To fine dining."

They drink.

We don’t die.

That’s the worst part.

The vampires? They’re polite about it. They chat, they clink glasses. They laugh, drinking our blood like we’re part of a Michelin-starred tasting menu.

And when the first traces of dawn paint the sky—

They simply wipe their mouths. Gather their bags. Leave.

They don’t kill us. No. That would be too easy.

They tie us up. Neatly. Precisely.

They arrange us in a perfect circle on the suite floor, wrists bound behind our backs, pillowcases over our heads like some kind of ritualistic nightmare slumber party.

Before the last one leaves, he crouches beside me. His breath is cold against my ear.

"Same time next year?" he whispers.

The door clicks shut.

And then—

The sun rises.

The villa is silent once more.

We are left there, waiting. Bound. Helpless.

For room service.

This was supposed to be a girls' trip. A week of drinking.

Guess we just didn’t think we’d be the ones on the menu.