by Naomi Clark
When I’d been hunting, living on the road and saving every penny zealously, food had been functional. I had to eat so I didn’t starve, so I did it without much care or thought. I hadn’t really broken the habit yet.
By the time I’d restored order, the pizza had arrived and dusk had turned the sky a soft, bruise-violet. I took my triple cheese feast through to the front room and slumped on the sofa, putting on a documentary about the Salem witch trials. I loved history. It had always been my favorite subject at school. Any part of it, from the fall of the Roman Republic to the break-up of Yugoslavia, from medieval churches to the space race, it all fascinated me. When I need to distract myself from the present, I turned to the past.
Elijah joined me, sitting on the back of the sofa and watching the pizza intently. As always, his presence was a comfort and a heartache. As darkness gathered closer and I grew more jittery, my stomach turned and the pizza sat heavy and unwelcome. I shoved the box aside, letting Elijah dive on it gleefully.
My nerves sang, adrenaline pumping uselessly through my system. I was so geared up, ready for a fight, ready for something to happen that I began to regret staying in. If I’d gone out, I could have found a vampire. I could have cornered one of the little leeches and pounded the shit out of him until...
I blinked away the sudden whirl of rage. Until what? Until I actually did kill one of Mr. Cold’s clan and give them a justification for coming after me?
I squeezed my hands into fists, and slowly uncurled them, over and over. My jaw ached, my fangs threatening to descend. The thought of hurting something had been too good. Too easy to get lost in. I forced myself to focus on the TV, on the grizzled old man solemnly explaining how witchcraft hysteria spread beyond Salem.
There was no need for me to be reckless or stupid. If vampires wanted to come after me, let them come. I’d never won a fight by losing my temper.
I repeated that mantra to myself until my blood cooled, and the flash of rage was well and truly gone. I managed to wrestle the last slice of pizza away from Elijah, and lost myself in the documentary. My jaw stopped aching, and the evening ticked on. By the time the show ended, I half-believed I’d worked myself up over nothing.
Nobody was coming. I had been paranoid, after all.
And that was when I heard the kitchen window smash.
Chapter Six
Adrenaline surging, I bolted through to the kitchen, Elijah at my back. A rock the size of my fist had shattered the window, scattering jagged glass fragments across the sideboards and floor. There was nobody in sight though, and for a second I thought maybe one of the neighbor’s kids had thrown it.
Then something else arced through the broken window, landing with a soft thump on the kitchen table. I had a heartbeat to be confused before the smoke bomb exploded, flooding the room with lurid pink smoke.
Eyes stinging, lungs aching, I lunged forward and grabbed one of the stakes from the table before running from the room. I headed straight for the front door, that rage building again. The smoke chased me through the house, tasting acrid. I covered my mouth and nose with my arm, and all but kicked the front door open. Sultry night air billowed in, filling the smoky hallway, and between that and the broken window, I knew the smoke would disperse quickly.
That didn’t stop me being furious.
I knew too, that the point of the attack was to drive me out of the house.
That didn’t stop me going outside.
I could barely see, my eyes were streaming so badly. I was coughing so hard, I thought I might be sick. I was pissed about my window. It was all just fuel for the fury. Scrubbing my eyes with my sleeve, I checked Elijah was out of the house. He was dancing around on the garden fence, chattering angrily.
“Right,” I said, whether to myself or him, I didn’t know.
I gripped the stake tightly and stalked round the back garden. If the attacker was still there, I was going to gut them. If they weren’t, I was going to rip Ridderport apart until I found them.
Anger made my fangs descend. I welcomed the pain. It meant I was ready to fight.
There was a stony path leading around the house to the small back garden. I had wild roses growing all along the back wall, under the windows on that side of the house, since it would be stupid just to protect the front door. Honestly, I’d assumed when the vampires came for me, they’d just burn the roses first.
But they were still there, a pastel pink wall of protection. So maybe this wasn’t a serious attack after all.
Some of my righteous anger faltered. There was nobody in the garden, and for a second I wondered if my first instinct had been right, and some kid was playing a stupid prank on me.
The last puffs of pink smoke were disappearing into the night as I searched the garden, and once they’d cleared enough for me to inhale without choking, I approached the kitchen window. I found footprints in the trampled grass, and there was a strong smell of spicy body spray in the air. It was masking another scent; one I’d never forget no matter how long I was retired for.
All vampires have it. A base skin-perfume of wet soil and cool, snake-like musk. I doubt any human would ever notice it. Elijah always claimed he couldn’t. To me it was unmistakable, especially when it was this fresh. I growled, half-anger, half-satisfaction. I could track the bastard.
“Georgia! Everything okay?”
I jumped at the cheery voice, and spun round, hiding the stake behind my back. My left-side neighbor, Mr. Holland, was peering at me over the fence. An old man with a shock of silvery hair and a weather-beaten face, he always looked to me as if he was freshly home from hunting a white whale. But he was always kind and polite, and as much as I wanted to growl again and leap away into the shadows, I forced myself to smile and answer.
“Kids messing around, Mr. Holland.” I gestured needlessly at my window. “Good thing it’s summer, huh?”
“Well, don’t wait around to get it fixed,” he advised me. “You know how rough early September gets.”
“I sure do.” I waved, hoping to indicate I had it all under control and he could go back inside. That scent would fade fast.
Mr. Holland regarded me passively, jaw working as he chewed his tobacco. “You find whoever did it, you make sure you file a police report on ‘em. Don’t let ‘em off the hook just because they’re kids.”
“I sure will,” I said, starting to fidget. “Night, Mr. Holland!”
He took the hint and disappeared into his house, leaving me to sniff the air frantically, like a dog after a rabbit. The intruder had come in over the back fence, that much I knew immediately. I let out a low, long whistle and waited for Elijah to swoop down onto my shoulder. He began affectionately preening my hair.
“Go scout around,” I told him. “See if you can see anyone acting suspiciously.”
He muttered and took off, claws sinking briefly into my shoulder. Honestly, I don’t know if he understood. Some days I thought I was just making myself crazy, acting like he did, talking to him like he was still a man. But I had to tell myself he did understand. If he was just a bird, with a bird’s brain and a bird’s understanding of the world, then why would he still stay with me, after all these years?
If he was just a bird, then I had truly lost him, and I wasn’t sure I could handle that.
Once he’d flown out of sight, I hopped over the fence and crouched down, seeking out the scent again. My house backed onto a narrow lane, opposite another row of similar houses. If you went right, you could walk to the beach in about twenty minutes. Left took you toward Ridderport’s center. It was a fairly safe bet that my intruder had gone right. The ocean was never a sanctuary for vampires.
I picked up the scent again quickly, although it was already fading, and sure enough, they’d gone right. Vampires could move quickly, and the city was a warren. Even as I set off at a steady jog, I already knew I wasting my time. The scent would be long gone before I caught up to the vampire, and I didn’t know Ridderport’s undead territory. I’d pro
bably never find them.
But doing nothing wasn’t an option either. I had to try, even if it came to nothing. The alternative was sitting at home, gritting my teeth, and wondering when the next attack would come. And the next one would be an escalation, I had no doubt about that. So as long as I had the scent, I’d hunt.
I soon left the residential area behind me and was at the edge of the center in a neighborhood called Eerie Point, where laundromats and seedy bars jostled for space with cheap apartment blocks. I realized too late how weird I was going to look, wandering the streets with a stake in hand, but I’d left the house without a jacket or a bag, so I had no choice but to carry it. Most of the people I passed were busy with their thoughts, anyway, headphones in, eyes down, shutting out the world.
This wasn’t a nice part of town. Cracked paving stones, ugly graffiti, and homeless people bundled up against the walls, reeking of cheap bourbon and sadness. Nobody wanted to make eye-contact here. Nobody wanted to know what anyone else was doing. If I was going to prowl the streets like a knock-off horror movie Final Girl, this was the neighborhood to do it in.
It occurred to me as I walked, that it was also the perfect neighborhood for a vampire to hide in for just those reasons too. Drunk homeless people made easy prey, for one thing. Instinct told me my intruder was holed up around Eerie Point somewhere, and I’d learned to trust my instincts over the years.
But after an hour of searching, long after I’d lost both the scent of vampire and body spray, I had to admit defeat. Without a scent to track, I was just aimlessly wandering. Instinct can only carry you so far.
I slumped against the wall of the nearest building, raking my hand through my hair. True night had swept over Ridderport, bringing no relief from the humidity. Even in just a tank top, I was sticky with sweat, and felt just as grimy as I had this morning in the wetland. The sensible thing to do would be to go home and board up the kitchen window. But I was too keyed up, full of frustration and adrenaline, and the thought of giving up just made me more frustrated.
A young couple passed by me, entering the building. A bell jangled as they pushed the door open, and an enticing blend of aromas flooded out. Coffee, cocoa, hazelnut, and vanilla. I had a crumpled ten dollar bill in my pocket. I pushed myself upright, wondering if an overpriced coffee would help or make things worse.
Deciding there was only one way to find out, I followed the couple inside. Warmth and music enveloped me, and the quiet hum of people living normal lives. This late at night, the place was almost empty, and there was an atmosphere of calm that started to soothe me almost immediately. I joined the queue, trying to read the hand-written chalk board menu. I still hadn’t puzzled it out by the time I got to the counter, and the exhausted-looking blonde girl didn’t look in the mood to run through it for me.
“Just give me something iced to go, no milk,” I said. “Whatever you recommend.”
“I recommend hitting the Starbucks down the block,” she said, deadpan.
Small talk with strangers is top of my hate-list. I can’t do it, it makes me uncomfortable, and it shouldn’t be necessary. I smiled awkwardly and paid. Five minutes later, I had my coffee and realized she was right about going to Starbucks. This was seriously bad coffee. It was probably a sign that I really should call it a night.
At least I had a mundane reason to be frustrated now. I headed back out onto the street, looking for somewhere to bin the iced coffee. I spied a dumpster as I walked past an alleyway entrance and veered down it.
The second I did, the smell of puke and cider hit me. I was just going to toss the drink from a distance and quickly move on, when I noticed the human-shaped bundle of rags at the far end of the alley. My heart wrenched. I hated seeing people out on the streets. Whatever reasons had brought them there, nobody deserved that kind of bleak existence. If I had change on me, I always gave it. Who cared what they were going to spend it on? If it made their lives more bearable, even for just a few hours, who was I to argue?
Instead of tossing the coffee, I walked over and knelt, giving the guy’s shoulder a shake. “Hey –”
It took me half a second to realize this body was just that – a body. Cold and stiff, the corpse rolled over onto its back at my touch, exposing a frozen expression of pain and a shredded throat. The wound was a gaping mess, Blood and gore soaked the threadbare jacket and holey sweater.
“Shit,” I breathed, both saddened and alarmed. He’d been dead long enough for rigor mortis to set in, but not pass, so more than four hours. The lighting in the alley was poor, but I didn’t think there were maggots or flies, so probably less than twelve hours. The initial scents of spilled blood and death were gone, but on a hot August night, with an open dumpster so close to the corpse, I doubted I would have smelt them anyway without getting this close.
Gritting my teeth, I scooted as close to the corpse as I could. I wasn’t squeamish, but I had my limits, and sticking my face in a dead man’s torn throat was a red line. He was middle-aged and must have looked cadaverous even before death, his skin stretched tight and thin across his skull. A man who hadn’t been having a good time even before a vampire decided to feast on him. Anger uncurled in my gut, a good, clean rage, unclouded by the emotions I’d felt earlier. This was the simple anger of the hunt.
I closed my eyes and inhaled deeply, searching for any kind of vampire scent. It was probably too late already, but I had to try.
As I crouched there, back exposed to the alleyway, mind full of blood and darkness, I was oblivious to the rest of the world. A stupid, amateur mistake I should have been long past making, but I didn’t realize that until cold metal touched the back of my neck. And by then, of course, it was too late.
“Hey there, half-breed,” an unfamiliar male voice said. “Whatcha got there?”
Chapter Seven
I stayed frozen, considering my options. He wasn’t a vampire, but he did have a blade at my neck. A human with a knife could do a lot of damage to me before I overpowered them. But I was just about pissed off and fed up enough to take that damage.
In a fluid movement, I pivoted round on one heel, sweeping my other leg out as I did. I hit him in the ankles, taking him off-balance. I dropped my stake as I moved, but had no time to worry about it. There was a brief flare of pain at my throat as the knife clipped me, then I was up on my feet while my assailant staggered, trying to catch himself.
As he flailed, I straightened up and kicked out, aiming for his right hand, his knife hand. My boot connected with his wrist and he yelped in pain, cringing away from me. He didn’t drop the knife, though, so I pressed forward, kicking again. The scent of my own blood fired me up, unleashing the old instincts and hungers, and I found myself laughing as he slashed helplessly at me, trying to fend me off.
I ducked under a blow that would have taken my eye out if it had hit, and came up to grab his wrist. One quick squeeze and a twist, and it was over. He dropped the knife with a curse and tugged hard at my grip, trying to free himself. There was no real strength in it, though. This was not a man used to fighting.
I was almost disappointed. I was so ready for a fight now.
I yanked him close enough to get a proper look at him under the flickering streetlight at the alley entrance. Fear dilated his eyes and had his breath coming in quick, ragged gasps. I wondered why he’d tried to attack me at all when he was so clearly not cut out for violence.
He looked about my age. Asian, with unkempt hair and a leather jacket that was a size or two too big for his light frame. His wrist felt fragile in my grasp, and I had a mild urge to ask him if he was eating properly. Instead, I gave his wrist another squeeze. His knees buckled and he bit his lip, suppressing another whimper of pain.
“Who sent you after me?” I demanded.
It was a stab in the dark, but not a completely illogical one. He’d called me half-breed. He knew what I was.
“I wasn’t going to hurt you,” he said quickly, trying once more to free himself.
“I wasn’t remotely worried you would.” I touched the cut on my neck with my free hand. It stung, but it wasn’t deep. The blood was already drying up. “But obviously someone pointed you in my direction, right? So now you’ve got my attention, you better do something impressive with it.”
Doubt flickered through his dark eyes. “Mr. Cold put the word out that he wanted to see you. Making Mr. Cold happy can be very profitable.” He shrugged casually, but wet his lips nervously.
“Mr. Fucking Cold needs to do his own dirty work.” I released him, fuming.
He hurriedly put some safe distance between us, massaging his wrist, but didn’t attempt to run away. He didn’t go for the knife either, so maybe he wasn’t as stupid as I thought.
“Let me give you a piece of advice, half-breed. If the boss wants to see you, go. Don’t make him come after you.”
“What’s in it for you?” I asked.
It wasn’t abnormal for humans to work with vampires. There were benefits for vampires in having someone to run errands in daylight, be a mortal face for them in society. The rewards for the humans varied – sometimes it was monetary, sometimes the promise of immortality, sometimes it was more complicated than that. But it happened, and as much as I understood it intellectually, I’d never come to terms with it emotionally.
Vampires fed on humans. They had no choice, and that was another debate, but they did. And they often killed their food. A human working for a vampire was facilitating that, every day. Facilitating murder. Facilitating lives destroyed, every single day.
It made me very inclined to hate that human.
He shrugged again. “Life is better when Mr. Cold is happy.”
I scowled and scooped the knife up, examining it. It was a decent one, a butterfly knife with a black handle and vivid red blade. I retrieved my stake next, feeling much happier myself with a weapon in each hand.