We arrived in the center of London in the very early hours of the morning. Everyone had gotten at least some level of rest while on the train, and we had a few hours more to spare before we needed to head to the archives.
We hailed a taxi, and Michael, Antun, and Syla all sat on the wide bench seat in the back. Being the smallest, it made the most sense for me to take the fold-down jump seat across from them. There was quite a bit of floor space for our luggage, which we luckily didn’t have a lot of – Syla and I had shared a small suitcase, and the men opted to do individual duffle bags for their things.
The ride was short from the station to the hotel, the cabbie taking back streets and shortcuts like he had a GPS of London’s streets in his head. Still travel weary even though we’d rested on the train, we didn’t say much, letting the cabbie chat. He went on about common touristy spots, then told us of a few less common known treasures in London, like his favorite pub.
“None of them other pubs can hold a light up to Nalley’s. Best pub in London, especially if you’re needing somewhere calmer than the typical place. I love going there after a long day of driving and just relaxing at the bar. The music isn’t too loud, the drinks are never late – what more could a man want, eh?”
We pulled up to the hotel in Bloomsbury and Antun settled the balance before joining us inside. We got to our rooms, dropping off the luggage and changing clothes before congregating in mine and Syla’s room to figure out our next steps.
“The archives don’t open for another few hours. It’s up to you all what you’d like to do,” Antun said. “We’re away from home, traveling to places some of us have never been to. We ought to have a little bit of fun while we’re here.”
Syla smiled. “I’m a bit curious as to what if anything has survived from the time I used to live here.”
“Was there someplace in particular you were wanting to check out?” Michael asked.
She shrugged. “Can we perhaps check Covent Garden? It used to be a market of sorts where you could find all kinds of things, and there were performers… honestly, thinking about it reminds me a little bit of what that Ren Faire was like, with booths everywhere and hawkers yelling. I’m curious what it’s like now. Maybe a theater or some other building has survived.”
“Covent Garden it is then,” Antun said enthusiastically. “Let me just check the best way to get there from here…” he murmured under his breath as he pulled out his phone. “Its been too long since I’ve been here, I don’t remember where anything is.”
His eyes lit up. “It’s only a short walk from here, shouldn’t take more than ten minutes or so to get there.” He looked from the phone. “Breakfast and then walk?”
We went down to the lobby where there was a continental breakfast all ready to go. Part of me was grateful that there were familiar foods. I saw the black pudding, it looked like a fried hockey puck to me. “That’s just blood sausage, dear,” Syla said as she put some of it onto her plate. “You ought to at least try it, you might find you like it. You might even like it more now than you would have before.” She winked, leaving off the talking about us being vampires in public.
I didn’t try it. I don’t know why it grossed me out, especially now that I relied on living blood to survive. Why should blood sausage give me the ick? Nevertheless, Syla teased me for it as the four of us left the hotel and started walking.
We stepped onto a wide pavement bordered by terraces of pale stone and brick. Iron railings edged private garden squares we couldn’t enter but see through. Trees arched overhead, their leaves yellowing at the edges but not yet fully turned. Sparse leaves crunched underfoot, and the air felt cool and clean – perfect walking weather.
As we headed south, the streets felt orderly and spacious, almost academic. University buildings, libraries, and quiet cafes appeared at intervals. A pair of cyclists glided past; no one seemed hurried. Light filtered gently, bouncing off pale facades rather than glaring in our eyes.
As the pavements started to narrow, the buildings also felt closer together. The street layout became less predictable and more intimate. The shopfronts multiplied: bookshops, vintage clothes, bakeries. The trees gave way to lamp posts, hanging signs, and window displays. The low murmur of hushed conversation increased, and music played from somewhere unseen, overlapping the voices.
I held onto Michael’s hand tighter, not wanting to be accidentally pulled away on the busier street. He looked down at me with a look that asked, Are you okay, and squeezed my hand back.
I nodded at him, my lips curling into a smile despite feeling a little crowded. He was always ready with just the right thing to do or say, it seemed like.
The streets began to funnel the foot traffic forward, and I caught glimpses of open space ahead. Thank god, there’s some open space ahead. Stone pavement replaced the smoother sidewalks underfoot. Jackets were only half buttoned, scarves were worn loose. The slight chill in the air confirmed that fall was well on its way here. The smell of espresso and warm food blended with the scent of rain on stone.
The Piazza opened suddenly, almost like a reveal on a stage. Arcades and columns framed the space. Cobblestones grounded the place. A few trees with fluttering yellowing leaves stood at the edges as street performers drew small crowds. Laughter, applause, coins clinking – the energy was lively without feeling too chaotic, inviting rather than overwhelming.
Syla looked around, but her eyes were mostly focused on the stones beneath our feet. “Everything is… so different, yet somehow its so much the same. The booths from before are long gone of course, but these stones, I wonder…”
“I’d be willing to bet that most of these are fairly original. You’ve likely stepped on this exact pavement before, Syla.” Antun held up his phone. “At least according to Mr. Google.”
That was so cool. Almost not structures in the United States were that old, and the few things that were even close were excavated and put into museums. But over here, the history was everywhere, even under foot.
We walked around the Piazza and watched the various performers: musicians, magicians, acrobats before wandering toward the buildings. The historic structures (though not as old as Syla) were now filled with shops. Handmade crafts and jewelry, beauty products, British brands and souvenirs, and more filled the shop.
Passing a store selling leather goods reminded me of the gift Michael had given me. I’d left the nicer bag back at Antun’s, not wanting to damage it on the trip on accident. I opted to bring the bag that Antun had gifted me, seeing as it was nearly as roomy as a backpack anyway. I couldn’t help but buy a small leather keychain with a Union Jack on it while Michael was looking at something else. Maybe I could surprise him with it later.
After a couple of hours there, we strolled back to the hotel to drop off our few purchases. Following the map we got from a lobby brochure, we headed to London Waterloo.
We got our tickets for a South Western Railway train to Kew Gardens, the closest station to the National Archives. We only needed to wait for a few minutes before the Tube arrived and we got on. There was no assigned seating, just sit wherever there was room. Syla and I grabbed a pair of seats, and Antun held onto the pole next to our seat while Michael held onto a looped strap hanging from the ceiling.
Passengers were quiet but not unfriendly. Some read, some scrolled on their phones, others stared thoughtfully into space. It was calm and purposeful instead of chatty, which I appreciated. It was a nice breath of air after the bustle of the morning, walking to Covent Garden and back.
Our stop was announced early enough for us to move toward the doors. Antun and Syla held onto the poles next to the doors. Michael, still choosing a loop overhead, wrapped an arm around my shoulders. I put my hands on his arm, leaning my head toward his elbow in an awkward semblance of a hug. But I didn’t care how awkward I looked right then; I was in Michael’s arms, and where and why didn’t matter for those few minutes we stood together like that.
We got off at Earl’s Court. Following the signs that said “District Line – Richmond,” we walked through a short tunnel and headed down to another platform. This station was not nearly as hectic as London Waterloo, but like the other station, it didn’t take long for the next train to arrive.
Heading westward, the stops on this leg of the trip were further apart, and we even saw daylight through the windows at some of the stops. The city loosened its grip, and the ride felt smoother, almost suburban with how quiet it was.
We heard the stop called one by one until we heard the stop for Kew Gardens. Doing the same thing as before, we congregated near the door to get off quickly. We went up the stairs and were surrounded by fresh air. This station was small, brick, and calm – almost village-like when compared to Waterloo.
From the station, it was only a ten-minute walk to the Archives. There were more trees here, the leaves a mix of yellow-tinged and darkening orange amongst the green. The buildings were low instead of skyscraper-height. Overall, there were fewer cars and people.
The road was quiet, and as we approached the Archives, we skirted around the edge of the pond in front of the building. A flock of ducks swam in the water, the occasional quack coming from them. I was surprised to see Canadian geese still this far north, but there they were, completely unbothered by the people around the archives.
As we approached the building, the overall feeling became more subdued, almost reverent. We went in, and I immediately noticed the spaciousness and light. The high, glass ceiling acted like a giant skylight, brightening the space naturally as it reflected off the pale stone of the rest of the building.
There was a low-key security check – bags through a scanner, coats off and pockets empty. The staff were calm, polite, and unhurried. Nothing about this place felt rushed or even suspicious. It felt more like care than control.
Just beyond security, the building opened up. There was a central information desk and clear signage. There was no room for disorientation. At the same time, the noise level dropped even further. People spoke in near-whispers, and every movement seemed more deliberate. It was as if there was a shared, unspoken awareness that what was kept in the Archives mattered – not in a dramatic way, but in a weight-of-history way.
And they had no idea that they had a 500-year-old immortal vampire in their midst. We went up to the information desk, and the lady at the desk smiled kindly. “How can I help you today?” she asked.
Antun smiled back, turning up the charm. I wondered if that was on purpose or if it was unintentional, but either way, the woman sat up and her cheeks flushed a little. “We have an appointment to see Sava Stojanov. Would you be able to help point us to his office by chance?” Antun asked back.
“Certainly.” She stood, saying, “He’s on a staff-only floor, so I’ll need to escort you. Please follow me to the elevators.”
We waited for the elevator to come back to the ground floor, and she stepped inside, using a badge to access the upper floors of the building where visitors were usually not allowed to enter. The ride was a little awkward, the lady trying not to steal glances at Antun. Couldn’t say I blamed her; he was extremely charming.
We all got off on the proper floor and we followed the woman. She led us to a nondescript door that had the name Sava Stojanov – Archivist labeled on the wall next to the door. Knocking, we all waited patiently. The door opened, and a man with a trimmed, full beard and thin rectangular glasses that helped hide his face answered.
