Vigil

by V. J. Chambers

  Of course, if it didn’t take Airenne three centuries to get ready for work every day, then I wouldn’t have any problems.

  I supposed that I could have tried to talk to her about it, but I hated confrontation.

  Anyway, I didn’t know how she could adjust, so I didn’t know what to ask her for. She already got up at six in the morning. She took a shower, blow-dried her hair, used various curling irons (although her hair didn’t look curly afterward), applied stuff to her face from at least thirty tubes and containers (although she didn’t look like she was wearing much makeup), and did god knows what else in there. At any rate, she didn’t leave the bathroom until about fifteen minutes before I had to leave for work.

  I could take fast showers. But not quite that fast.

  What could I ask her to do? Cut short her beauty routine for me?

  Get up even earlier?

  I guessed I could get up before her. But I wasn’t going to do that.

  I cared about how crappy my hair looked, but not that much.

  I put on my red silk kimono robe with tiny white orchids on it and left the bathroom after my shower. I was going to comb and braid my hair in my bedroom.

  I swung open the door and bent over to towel dry my hair. I rubbed my scalp furiously and then hung the towel up on the hook on my door.

  I peered into my mirror and began to run a comb through my hair.

  The curtains on my window fluttered over my single bed, which I’d shoved in the corner.

  Airenne and I had a pretty tiny apartment. They didn’t make them that big in Aurora. Not unless you wanted to pay a small fortune for them, that was. I could have technically afforded a bigger apartment. My grandparents had left me a nice chunk of money when they passed away. However, I was trying to save my money. I didn’t know when I might need it. I was already stretched thin, considering I’d kept my apartment back in Madison, where I went to school, and I was renting another here in the city. The intern salary I was getting was a joke. No one could live off something so small. I was only managing because of my inheritance.

  I furrowed my brow. Had I left that window open all day? I didn’t remember doing that.

  Why would I do that?

  The apartment had central air.

  “Vigil, huh?” said a deep voice.

  He was in the corner, standing next my closet. He looked even larger in my tiny bedroom than he had in the street. He was still clad in tight black spandex, and the mask obscured his face.

  My masked man.

  I let out a tiny noise—too pathetic to really be called a scream.

  He glided across the room. He held up the newspaper. “I made the front page, I see.”

  I was holding my comb. I brandished it like a weapon, pointing it at him. “How did you know where I live?”

  “I heard the address when you called the taxi last night,” he said.

  Oh. Yeah. I guessed that was obvious, wasn’t it? “So, you climbed in my window? You could have knocked on the front door.”

  He shrugged, his massive shoulders lifting carelessly. “Sorry.”

  He didn’t seem the least bit sorry.

  Jesus, he was huge. His shoulders were broad and his chest was V-shaped. He was sculpted and muscular. He was really attractive. I flashed on the way it had felt to have his body wrapped around mine on that motorcycle.

  I felt warm all over.

  He moved closer to me. “You didn’t tell me you were planning to write a news story about me.”

  I held out my comb, even though I knew it couldn’t keep him back. “I wasn’t planning on it. My editor happened to see the pictures I took, and she insisted I do it. She was right. You’re news, and people have the right to know what’s happening.”

  He stepped right up to the comb, letting it push into his taut stomach. “I didn’t think interns got the front page.”

  I gulped. This was stupid. I should put the comb down. “Well, not usually, I guess. But the most important stories go on the front page, regardless of who wrote them.”

  “And I’m an important story?”

  I nodded.

  He reached down and wrapped his fingers around the comb. “I was amazed at how accurately you remembered the things I said. Were you recording me?”

  I bit my lip. “Maybe.”

  He pried the comb out of my hand. “Were you following me? Did you plan out our little encounter?”

  I shook my head. “I flipped the recorder on because I was afraid. I swear. I had no idea you even existed before last night.”

  He reached around me and set the comb on my dresser. For a moment, I was engulfed by his presence. His body was stretched out in front of me. He was all I could see. My breath caught in my throat.

  He pulled back. He folded his arms over his chest. His gaze flitted over me. “What are you wearing?”

  “I…” I took a step backwards, pulling my kimono tight against my chest. Did he really want me to answer that?

  He looked away, sucking in breath through his nose. “You are very distracting, Cecily Kane.”

  I was distracting? He was a big, burly man in black spandex. But my heart skipped a beat as I realized that I affected him.

  “You left things out of the article.” He was staring at my carpet.

  “I hardly thought it was… appropriate to write about…”

  He looked up at me.

  “Kissing,” I said.

  He shook his head. “I meant Barclay.”

  Oh. Of course he did.

  “But I’m sorry about what I did,” he said. “I promised that I wasn’t going to hurt you, and then I—”

  “Oh, no, it was fine that you—I wasn’t upset, or—” Damn it. What was I saying. It was fine?! Who described kissing as fine? I felt my cheeks flush.

  He touched me. His gloved hand came up out of nowhere and caressed my cheek. I was so startled that I took another step backwards. I collided with my mirror, and it thudded softly against the wall.

  “Sorry,” he said.

  Was he nervous?

  He couldn’t be. He was so virile and large and brave and strong and… Jesus, was he really still that close?

  I moved away from the wall, which meant that I was practically pressed up against him. “It’s okay. You can…” I swallowed.

  His eyes searched mine. They were so blue.

  I moistened my lips.

  His face inched closer to mine.

  I slammed my eyes closed.

  And I felt the brush of his lips against my own.

  The moment was shattered by a knocking on my door. Airenne’s voice, “Cecily? Is there someone in your room?”

  I opened my eyes.

  He was dashing away from me.

  “Wait,” I said.

  He vaulted through the window and disappeared.

  What? Had he just jumped?

  I hurried to the window. Leaning out, I saw that he was swinging across to the building next to mine. He was suspended from a rope, like some kind of rock climber.

  I watched as he landed on the roof next door. He looked down at me.

  “Cecily?” said Airenne from outside the door.

  He turned away. He strode across the roof and the darkness swallowed him.

  “Hello?” said Airenne.

  “No, Airenne,” I said, still staring out the window. “I’m alone.”

  * * *

  I had barely set my coffee down at a desk when Lauren was out of her office and coming for me. “Oh, good. You’re finally here.”

  I looked around for the clock. “Am I late?” No, I was right on time. Anyway, people tended to wander in and out of the office whenever they wanted. It was more important that a reporter get her copy done than that she show up at a specific time.

  “Henry wants to see us,” she said, taking me by the arm and ushering me towards the elevator.

  “Henry? Why?”

  Henry Kingston was the editor-in-chief of The Aurora Sun-Times. I’d only seen h
im twice, in the weekly meetings that the staff attended. He really seemed like a throw-back to the newspaper editors from the 1940s. He was balding. He had a paunch that protruded over his gut. And he barked a lot. Even though I romanticized that era of newspaper writing, I was a little afraid of Henry. I’d never seen him look… happy, exactly.

  The elevator doors closed on Lauren and me. She pressed the button for Henry’s floor.

  “What do you think he wants?” I said.

  “I don’t know,” said Lauren. “But it’s probably got something to do with Vigil, because we broke that story together. And there was stuff on television about him this morning.”

  “There was?” I didn’t watch news TV. I liked my news in black and white. Words. It was so much harder to screw with the written word. It was blunt, honest, and clear. TV distorted things. It plastered up images and smiling pretty ladies in suits telling you about murders, and before long, it was impossible to tell what had actually happened.

  Lauren nodded. “Vigil rescued a girl last night. And she went to every major network immediately afterward.”

  “He rescued…?” After he’d left me or before? “What do you mean rescued?”

  The elevator door opened.

  We emerged in a subdued hallway, muted mint green paint on the walls. The carpet matched.

  Lauren turned to her right and started walking. Her heels clicked on the floor.

  I struggled to keep up. I didn’t wear heels, but my flats were just as noisy. “Rescued from whom?”

  She smiled at me over her shoulder. “Ooh, nice use of the correct form of ‘who.’ Still, I imagine that’ll go out of the language soon. I see it incorrect in print all the time, don’t you?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “It drives me batty.”

  She shrugged. “Language changes. Keep up.”

  A door at the end of the hallway opened, and there was Henry. “Finally,” he barked. “Get in here. Both of you.”

  * * *

  Henry’s office was large, but not as large as I would imagine for an editor-in-chief. He had a massive desk, covered in photos of smiling children. I guessed they were all related to him. There sure were a lot of them. But then, he was probably old enough to have grandchildren. His wall dotted with various plaques and a few framed news stories.

  There was a big television screen mounted to the wall in front of his desk.

  It was blaring.

  “Sit down,” he said, gesturing to two seats. “Watch this.”

  We did as we were told.

  On screen, a thin woman with obviously-dyed red hair and numerous tattoos was blubbering at the camera. “I thought I was dead. There was a man with a knife. He was wearing one of those theater masks. He looked like the Phantom of the Opera. He was crazy. But Vigil saved me. He sailed in on this rope and scooped me up, and took me away from the crazy man.”

  Henry switched the TV off. “We named him, dammit. Us. For the first time this century, a newspaper scooped the networks.”

  Lauren and I swiveled in our chairs to face Henry.

  “Henry,” said Lauren. “The girl was rescued last night. We couldn’t have beat them to this story. The paper was already at the presses while this was going on.”

  “I know that.” Henry waved her away. “I don’t care about this girl. I don’t care about the guy she claims was trying to kill her, the one they’re calling The Phantom. For all we know, she made the whole damned thing up. None of that matters. But it does rankle having them sail in and try to take over our story.” He turned to me. “Your story.”

  They both looked at me.

  I didn’t know what to say.

  “It was your story, wasn’t it?” said Henry, turning annoyed eyes on Lauren. “You haven’t confused the interns again this year, have you?”

  “I never confused the interns!” She was indignant.

  “It’s my story,” I said.

  “Good,” said Henry, looking me up and down. “Listen, girlie, anyone can get lucky with a hot story one time. You’re just a kid from school, and you lucked onto the front page. It takes a real reporter to stay there, to find her way back week after week.”

  I took a deep breath. “Well, I want to be a real reporter, sir.”

  “Sir.” He laughed. “She calls me sir.”

  “She does impressive work,” said Lauren. “She’s polite too.”

  Henry was still laughing. “All right, then. You want to be a real reporter, get me more on this guy. These news stations, all they’ve got is some wide-eyed trashy girl talking about Vigil. We had quotes from Vigil. Can you talk to him again?”

  My mouth went dry. I knew what the proper answer here was. I was supposed to say yes, and then I was supposed to do everything in my power to find the masked man again. The masked man who’d climbed in my window last night and kissed me. “I can try.”

  Henry arched an eyebrow. “Try?”

  “It’s only that I don’t know anything more about him than what I reported. He found me. I didn’t find him.”

  “How’d he find you?”

  “I was on the docks, and he told me to leave because it wasn’t safe,” I said.

  “So, you go back to the docks,” said Henry. “And wear something trashy. That should attract some scumbags. Hopefully, Vigil will come in and save you.”

  Right. And if he didn’t?

  Henry opened the door to his office. “By tomorrow morning, girlie.”

  I gulped.

  Lauren left the office, and I followed her.

  Henry slammed the door after us.

  “Is he for real?” I said.

  She started walking. “Anything about him seem fake to you?”

  “He told me to wear something trashy. That’s like sexual harassment in the workplace, isn’t it?”

  She snorted. “You’re going to go to the docks, aren’t you?”

  CHAPTER THREE

  “You going clubbing?” Airenne asked me.

  I was in the bathroom, applying eyeshadow. I knew two ways to wear makeup. One was mascara and lipstick, and it was my general mode of operation. The other was Cabaret-style. Full-on makeup. The works. Too much makeup for normal interaction. Makeup for the stage.

  That was what I was doing right now.

  I looked up from the mirror. “No, this is for a story.”

  She lounged in the doorway to the bathroom. “You going undercover as a hooker or something?”

  I considered. “Kind of.” The truth was that the girls who’d been killed had all been hookers or strippers. I’d spent a good portion of the day going over all the news reports about Vigil, and the reigning consensus was that the man that they were calling The Phantom was the serial killer.

  I wasn’t sure what I thought about that.

  I thought the killer was Hayden Barclay, but maybe I was wrong. Maybe it was this other guy. The Phantom.

  Or maybe Henry was right, and the girl had made the man up. After all, it did seem strange to think that two masked men had suddenly appeared in Aurora.

  And there was a third possibility, one I didn’t want to consider. Maybe I’d been right in the first place. Maybe Vigil was the killer. Maybe he’d climbed into my window to finish the job, but Airenne had scared him off. That might explain his sexual advances towards me. The fact that the killer kept parts of the women’s bodies suggested a sexual motivation.

  “Seriously?” said Airenne.

  “I’m going to try to find Vigil again. Last night, he rescued some trashy girl from the docks. So I’m going to be a trashy girl on the docks and hope he finds me.”

  She made a concerned face. “What if he doesn’t? What if something bad happens to you? That neighborhood isn’t safe, you know. Especially not dressed like that.”

  I looked down at my tight jeans and halter top. I thought I looked pretty hot. But I was showing a little bit more skin than I usually did. And the shirt required that I not wear a bra, which was kind of pushing it for my 36Cs. I had bandaid
s over my nipples, and that was it. I was kind of… floppy, I guessed. But the bandaids seemed to be keeping me from having cone-boob. “I’ll be fine.”

  “I don’t know. If you’re not back by midnight, I’m going to start worrying,” she said.

  “Two o’clock,” I said.

  “One,” she countered. “If you’re not back by two, I’m calling the police.”

  I laughed. “Thanks.” Airenne wasn’t bad. I didn’t have anything in common with her, but she was a decent person, and I appreciated that about her.

  “Seriously, check in with me,” she said. “If something happened to you, I could not handle the rent alone.”

  I laughed again.

  “For real,” she said, but she was grinning too.

  I dug around in my makeup bag for my eye pencil. “What are you getting into tonight?”

  “I’m doing a piece on Veronica Waite,” she told me. “It’s kind of a tribute thing. There’s going to be a big benefit that will raise money for her trust. Anyway, I’m just doing research on her youth and stuff, because no one talks about that.”

  “Veronica Waite. I know I’ve heard that name before,” I said.

  “She was a Broadway star,” said Airenne. “They called her Veronica Legs, because she had long, long legs, and she always wore short skirts.”

  “Oh, right,” I said. “She was Christine in The Phantom of the Opera. For like years and years, right?” I probably only remembered that because this mysterious Phantom guy meant that I had Phantom of the Opera on the brain.

  “That’s her.” She grinned. “She was also Callum Rutherford’s mother.”

  I groaned. “That’s why you’re so into this.”

  “I’m going to meet him,” she said. “Maybe even at the benefit. He’ll want to give me a quote for a story about his mother, don’t you think?”

  I shrugged. “I guess.” Honestly, I wasn’t sure if he’d want to talk about his mother at all. The woman had been killed violently, and they’d never caught her killer. Callum’s father had been killed at the same time, if I remembered correctly. Of course, he’d been so young at the time that he probably didn’t even remember them.