Angeles Vampire

by Michael Pierce

  It’s real… Last night was real…

  My hand shook as I gazed upon the number. It was physical evidence that the night before really happened—that it hadn’t been some crazy dream. At least something about it was real. Maybe I’d been injected with some kind of hallucinogen, transporting me into outer space and summoning the monsters in black robes. It was less farfetched than what appeared to be happening.

  I sat up again, and this time my head was more cooperative. The clock on my nightstand read 10:30, which was sleeping in super late for me. I was almost surprised Mom hadn’t come in to check on me. Well, maybe she had.

  I bent over the edge of the bed, first noticing my phone charging on the floor. I grabbed my purse and thanked God my wallet was still in there; it still contained my ID, cards, and money. Though, unfortunately, no one had slipped in any extra bills.

  Once I was convinced none of my things had been stolen, I turned my attention to my phone. Three missed calls and four messages. I was so relieved to discover Alexis and Candace had both tried to contact me that morning. Not only were they alive, but they seemed concerned for my well-being, which meant they were okay.

  I called Alexis first, and she picked up on the second ring like the phone was in her hand, desperately waiting for a call.

  “Fee, I thought you were dead in a ditch somewhere,” Alexis said, her voice panic-stricken. “You didn’t wake up in a ditch, did you?”

  “No,” I said. “I woke up in my bed. What the hell happened last night?” I needed to know what she recalled before offering any information of my own.

  “I was hoping you could enlighten me—us; I already talked to Candace,” Alexis said. “Neither of us remembers much of anything. The three of us are sitting around the fire talking, the next thing I know I’m waking up in my bed this morning. I have no memory of leaving the canyon, driving you home, driving myself at all… Nothing. How’re you? Do you remember anything?”

  “The ciders must have been harder than we thought,” I laughed, but immediately realized how insensitive that was.

  “It’s not funny,” Alexis snapped. “I don’t remember having more than one cider. I wasn’t even buzzed.”

  “How are you feeling this morning?” I asked.

  “Like death. I’ve already thrown up twice. Please tell me you remember something. I’ve already had to tell my parents I’ve got food poisoning because I can’t tell them I was drinking and driving.”

  “I dunno,” I said. “I don’t really have any new information to share. I haven’t thrown up, but my stomach’s pretty messed up too. I don’t remember you driving me home, but somehow made it, safe and sound. How’s Candace doing?”

  “What do you think? She’s freakin’ shaken up too. I don’t get it. I’ve been drunk before, but never had a total blackout.”

  I couldn’t believe it; their minds really had been wiped of the unexpected events of the prior night. It seemed they didn’t have any recollection of the attack and my absence for God knew how long. But it did seem to happen all in the span of one night, which made me that much more curious. I gazed at the mysterious card as Alexis freaked out about going to jail and ruining her life. At least they hadn’t damaged her car to make the drunk driving cover story more believable.

  “I assume no one saw you come in last night?” I asked.

  “If they had, no one’s mentioning anything. And it’s not like I can openly ask them a question like that,” Alexis scoffed.

  “Yeah; I haven’t even faced my mom yet,” I said. “But she may have had an early shift this morning. I can’t keep track of her ever-changing work schedule.”

  “You guys should put each other’s work schedules in your calendars.”

  “Give me a break; that would be too organized,” I said with a laugh. “Well, I’m just glad you’re okay—that we all are.”

  “I say we never speak of this again.”

  “Speak of what? What we can’t remember? Brilliant plan.”

  “It’s just freaking me out and I—I—I’m gonna be sick again!” Alexis choked out, then the line went dead.

  Candace didn’t pick up, so I texted to let her know I was still alive. I placed the phone and black card on the nightstand while listening carefully to see if I could hear Mom in the main living area of our apartment. At least for now, everything was quiet. I gazed around my room and my recently cleared walls. Per my promise to Rebecca, I hadn’t thrown all of Sean’s photos away, but stuck them in the bottom drawer of my desk. Mom hadn’t said anything to me about it yet, but I knew she’d have noticed.

  Before leaving my room, I quickly changed into some pajamas, threw up my hair into a bun, then opened the door like it was just another normal Saturday morning. I drifted through the living room and over to the kitchen. There was no sign of Mom, but a still warm half pot of coffee stood on the countertop. When would Mom ever learn I wouldn’t drink stale coffee? I got all the free coffee I wanted, so brewing some freshly wasn’t a waste.

  I got a new pot going, then wandered into her bedroom as the last place she’d be if she was still home. Her hair straightener was on the counter, the unplugged cord reaching the floor, but it was cold now. I decided she hadn’t just left.

  I guess I’m safe, I thought, ambling back into the kitchen. I didn’t even know how to start processing everything that had happened the night before, so I made a bowl of Cinnamon Toast Crunch, poured myself a coffee with white mocha creamer, and took a seat on the couch in front of the television. I ate and drank and watched a recorded reality show. Mom recorded a bunch of shows because of her erratic work schedule. There was always something to choose from.

  Once I was done with my cereal, I took out the bag of Oreos. I pulled one apart and set the naked side on the coffee table, then dunked the side with the frosting in my cinnamon-infused milk. I couldn’t just eat one, so I broke apart two more cookies and scarfed them down. At that point, I knew I’d had enough—sugar overload. I gazed down at the stack of three Oreo halves and smiled. With a sudden burst of energy, I threw my dirty dishes in the sink, stashed the bag of cookies in the pantry, then scooped up the Oreo halves. With Mom out of the apartment, it was the perfect time to speak with my dear sister.

  “Thanks, Fee,” Becca said shortly after I placed the stack of cookie halves on my desk. “They smell so good.”

  “I’m glad you’re around, Becks,” I said.

  “Who was that man who carried you in last night?”

  “You saw me come home?” I was anxious to get some of the blanks filled in.

  “He carried you through the window,” she said. “It was really late.”

  “We came in through the window? But my window was locked.”

  “Nope,” she simply said, but I knew it had been. I didn’t know how he’d opened it but was confident I was right.

  “What happened afterward?” I asked.

  “He tucked you in bed. You were sleeping.”

  “Did he, umm… touch me or anything while I was sleeping?”

  “He took off your shoes.”

  “And that’s all?”

  “He touched your cheek—the one with the scar.”

  That made me angry. That was twice now. I didn’t want anyone touching it, let alone some handsome guy I barely knew. I started to blush just thinking about how handsome he was, then scolded myself for it.

  “Fee, who was he?” Becca asked.

  “I—I don’t really know,” I answered honestly. “His name is Matthew—Matthew Mercer. Something super weird happened to me last night.” I gave her a quick version of my recollection of the events—how I was abducted, ended up on a space station with a bunch of creepy masked people, told it was some great honor to be admitted into the True North Society, then dumped off at home with a card to call them if I wanted to become a candidate.

  “I’ve heard of them before.”

  “Who from?”

  “You, I think.”

  “I’ve never mentioned th
em to you before,” I said. “They’ve barely ever been on my radar.”

  “Maybe Mom then.”

  “Why would she be talking to you about them?”

  “I dunno,” Becca said, sounding exasperated. “Maybe she was talking to someone else.”

  “You’re not helping.” I fell back on my bed, then glanced at my phone for messages. Candace had responded to my text, ranting that she was going to sue the cider manufacturer. “I don’t know what to do.” I draped my arm across my eyes. “They said each one of us was special. We were chosen.”

  “By whom?”

  “I don’t know. They wouldn’t tell us, saying we needed to call to find out. Everyone I know is normal—at least relatively so. I mean, Mallory was there too, so I don’t know exactly what that means. Could Dad have something to do with this? Maybe after all these years searching for him, he’s reaching out to me.”

  “You should call,” Becca said. “I wish I could go with you.”

  “But the whole thing was so crazy, Becks. You have no idea. Well, maybe you do because you’re dead. I dunno.”

  “Yeah; it stinks sometimes,” she said, forcing a smile onto my lips. “What if it is Dad?”

  “Then I can slap him like I’ve always dreamt of doing.”

  “Slap him for me too.”

  “You got it, Becks.” I grabbed the black card and looked it over, transfixed on the sequence of numbers. “I’m scared of what I’m getting myself into.”

  “Don’t be scared. I’m with you.”

  “I know… but you can’t come with me. At least I have someone to talk to about it.” I took a deep breath, then reached for my phone. “Here goes nothing,” I said and dialed the number.

  9

  Matthew

  “My name is Matthew, and I’m an alcoholic,” I said, and paused as applause rang out in the church activity room. I looked out at the hard and weathered faces of twenty other addiction-stricken individuals, all sizing me up to determine if my problem was worse than theirs. If they only knew what true addiction was. “I’ve been sober for thirty-two days, and on not one of them did I not think about taking a drink. I know for some of you, it gets easier as the days go by, even though it never really leaves for good—the need. But for me, that need never seems to lessen. It’s always there just as powerful, just as seductive. So, every day I must remind myself that today is not the day I will be seduced into taking another sip. I’ll tell myself the same thing tomorrow, and repeat it again and again throughout the day. Today is not the day I will be seduced into taking another sip.

  “I’ve struggled with this for many years and have fallen off the wagon a number of times. I don’t know if this will be the time it finally takes or if I’ll be doomed to continue repeating the same process, but I will keep trying. That’s all I can do, right? That’s all any of us can really do.

  “I know I’m new here, but I appreciate you having me. I appreciate your support and allowing me this moment to speak—because it won’t be often.” I smiled, and a few people around the room laughed, including my sponsor, Jezebel. “That’s all I really have to say, so thank you. I guess I’ll try some of your fine gourmet coffee in the back. Hopefully, it will help satiate the thirst a wee bit.”

  I left the front of the room to the sound of more sporadic chuckles and shook a few hands on my way to the refreshments table on the far side of the room.

  This was only my second AA meeting with this group, though I had attended many before, jumping around to numerous different groups—never staying in one more than a few years. I’d also been through as many sponsors since I could never comfortably get into the true nature of my addiction.

  I grabbed a paper cup and filled it from the carafe labeled House Blend. I never added creamer or sugar; it simply didn’t matter. It all tasted the same.

  Jezebel got up from her seat and joined me in the back, her replacement drug of choice being a chocolate glazed doughnut instead of coffee. She was a middle-aged woman with curly blonde hair and forty extra pounds. She had deep lines around her eyes, a testament to the struggles she’d endured in her life. I could relate to struggles. We’d partnered up the week before—a natural fit.

  “I didn’t know you fancied yourself as a public speaker,” she said before ripping off a bite of her doughnut.

  “I don’t, but it’s not something that scares me.”

  “There are a lot of people who think public speaking is worse than death.”

  “It’s not; trust me,” I said with an amused grin.

  “I know it sucks to always feel like you’re starting over, but each threshold you reach does get a little easier. You just can’t see it yet. I never thought I could make it to my first year, and here I am before you today, nearly five years sober.” When she smiled, I could still see chocolate on her teeth. “It’s good you’re getting control of this while you’re still so young. It gets so much harder as you get older—take my word for it. I commend you for your bravery. I would have thought this was court mandated, from a DUI or something.”

  “I’ve got a lot to learn from you,” I said with a smile as I finished my coffee, then crushed the paper cup and tossed it in the trash.

  “Stick with me, kid. I’ll get you to the other side.”

  “I have no doubt,” I said, and we walked back to our chairs together and listened to others share for the remainder of the session. Then I received my thirty-day chip along with two other attendees.

  As soon as I left the church activity center, an adjacent building to St. Paul’s Cathedral, thoughts of Fiona flooded back. Walking across the parking lot in the relentlessly warm sun, I reached my hand into my pants pocket and held the chip like it would give me the strength I needed to continue with what needed to be done. I’d never thought this would be so hard. The need was welling up inside me—the thirst that never went away—only amplified as I pictured Fiona. She was important, and I had to rise above my primal urges.

  My phone buzzed in my opposite pants pocket. “Do you have an update?” I asked, getting right to the point.

  “Not on the cause of the accident,” Jack said, my trusted associate at Sisters of Mercy. I had him looking into the mysterious coyote sighting that caused Fiona’s boyfriend to crash. I was confident this was no mere accident—but a deliberate attempt on her life. I could guess who was behind it, but wanted definitive proof before retaliating.

  “Okay; then what’s up?”

  “Fiona made the call,” Jack said.

  I couldn’t suppress a smile. I knew she would, but hadn’t expected her to do it so soon. I knew I shouldn’t be so happy about this, but couldn’t help myself. “Thank you for the call. It’s shaping up to be a beautiful day.”

  10

  Fiona

  “We're sorry; you have reached a number that has been disconnected or is no longer in service. If you feel you have reached this recording in error, please check the number and try your call again,” an automated voice said over the phone.

  I called the number at least ten more times that morning to make sure I had dialed it correctly, but every time I received the same aggravating message.

  I was furious, but mostly at myself for starting to get my hopes up. I’d repeatedly told myself not to have expectations in searching for my father. I thought I had been doing a good job with that, but Sean obviously hadn’t felt the same way. So, we’d agreed to disagree, but that wasn’t going to salvage our relationship. I didn’t know if this current phone issue was some kind of accident or now an official renege of my invitation. I felt so stupid.

  It wasn’t until after a full day of scolding myself that I remembered Matthew’s business card. He had been there in the glass room and may have even been involved with my abduction—and he had given me a business card with another phone number. After my Sunday afternoon shift at Hot Coffee, I told Candace I couldn’t hang out with her for break and rushed home to grab the card from my nightstand. But halfway through dialing, I realized
the numbers looked familiar, causing me to stop and compare the two cards.

  The stupid phone numbers are the same! I groaned and finished dialing, only to be tormented by the same message.

  “We're sorry; you have reached a number that has been disconnected or is no longer in service…”

  I threw both cards into the nightstand drawer and collapsed onto my bed with a sigh. I wanted to yell at Rebecca for convincing me to call, but knew that wouldn’t do any good. It wasn’t her fault; I would’ve come to the same conclusion on my own. I was just so upset I’d started to believe that my search actually was over. Maybe this was all some elaborate prank anyway and never would have led anywhere. The more I lay in despair, cursing my luck, the more I began to consider talking to Mallory Fiennes—something I absolutely dreaded doing.

  Of course, I could never find her alone at school. Mallory was always surrounded by her fans and admirers, desperate people craving a little bit of her popularity to rub off on them. She was pretty, wealthy, and bitchy—seemingly the perfect concoction of important characteristics to become a popular girl in high school. Clichés were clichés for a reason. And the mean girl cliché didn’t stop Mallory Fiennes from being arguably the most popular person. But who was counting?

  I finally got so desperate that I followed her into the bathroom after leaving a class we shared. We wouldn’t be alone, but at least the two friends she was walking with continued to their next classes while Mallory stopped off.

  I waited a good thirty seconds before entering, so it didn’t look like I was following her. I also didn’t know if she really had to go or was just fixing her makeup. When I got inside, I scanned the other girls at the row of sinks. Mallory was not among them.

  I guess she had to go.

  All the stalls were already taken and there was now a line of two girls waiting, so I headed over to a free sink, set my backpack on the edge, and fished out my compact to dull the irritating sheen forming on my brow.