The Fell of Dark

by Caleb Roehrig

  When we were kids, there was an undead uprising in Fulton Heights, where a bunch of vampires came to town toting a mystical artifact called the Shield of Baeserta. According to some dubious prophecy, the shield—coupled with a bit of very dark and gross blood magic—would “free the Night’s Children from the Curse of Belenus.” This was interpreted as a reference to vampires’ fatal vulnerability to daylight, in part because Belenus was apparently some kind of sun god, and in part because literally all vampire prophecies are about reversing their fatal vulnerability to daylight.

  Seriously. They have this major hard-on for being able to walk around and kill people in the afternoon, and every ten or twenty years, some previously unheard-of relic is unearthed, promising them a chance. Most are fakes, because con artists will turn up anywhere there’s a way to make money, and the sale of fraudulent antiques and prophecies is a staggeringly lucrative business.

  In the end, after the uprising was quelled, art historians were never able to fully authenticate the shield itself. They determined that it was centuries old, but they couldn’t tell if it possessed any real magical capabilities, so whether we were all truly in danger of vampires with tans was anybody’s guess. Unfortunately, fake or not, the ritual associated with the shield demanded the blood of a dozen humans, so the whole episode was messy.

  “It’s all pretty normal for this town, trust me.” Adriana offers Hope an encouraging smile. “I know it seems really freaky, but the Vampire Shit meter always goes up when we get closer to spring—it’s got something to do with the Nexus.”

  Hope gives an understanding nod. Everybody knows about the Nexus. “My uncle did say its vibrations are heightened around the equinox.”

  “Yeah.” Adriana sighs. “It’s great if you practice magic, because it gives your natural abilities a huge boost when you’re casting—which is why my abuela moved here in the first place—but vampires get horny for it, too.”

  “Spring fever: catch it!” I make a rah-rah gesture.

  So the Nexus. Basically, the Earth is polka-dotted by mystical axis points where occult energies are heightened and supernatural activity is especially strong; when they’re close enough together, these points act like a chain of power plants, amplifying the signal and creating what are known as ley lines. Two such lines intersect at Fulton Heights, which is why our boring suburb gets a double scoop of otherworldly drama.

  Adriana waves her hand. “Honestly, vampires are a greater threat to livestock than they are to us. One cow can feed a whole pack of vamps.”

  “I guess that’s nice to hear?” Hope looks like she feels bad for local cows.

  Excusing myself, I head to the counter to place her order and ogle my favorite barista some more. Gunnar is talking to a coworker, his attention diverted, so I don’t even have to be sly about it. He lifts his shirt to scratch his stomach, exposing a few extra inches of bare skin, and I try not to drool.

  “Hey!” Gunnar’s eyes light up when he finally notices me. “You’re back! You need another marshmallow?” Then, before I can answer, “Wait, I didn’t screw up the chocolate, did I? I pumped it twice, like you said, but if it’s not enough I can pump it some more.”

  The thought of Gunnar “pumping it” makes me dizzy, and I have to hold on to the counter for a moment to keep from swooning.

  “Haha,” I say—like, actually say, because I am the most awkward human on the planet. “No, the chocolate is perfect! I, um, need to get a thing for my friend.”

  “Sure—your wish is my command,” Gunnar says, and if only that were true. He looks at me expectantly, and his eyes are so pretty, for a moment I honestly can’t even remember how to utter words. While I’m giving my brain an urgent pep talk, I hear the bell over the front door jingle again—and a curious sensation brushes its way up my spine. It’s like déjà vu from that night in my front yard; as I break out in goose bumps, I turn around.

  A man has entered Sugar Mama’s. His hair wild, he kicks the door shut behind him, muttering under his breath. He’s probably homeless, looking for a place to warm up … but something about him snags and holds my focus. Shuffling along the front of the café, he twitches a little, mumbling louder, and people look politely away. The feeling that crept up my spine is under my skin now, getting stronger, and I watch the man bump against the table of the mother with her three kids. Glaring up at him, the woman snaps, “Excuse me, do you mind?”

  My goose bumps spread in a flash, something tugging at the pit of my stomach, and somehow I know. A heartbeat before the disheveled man’s eyes blaze to life, flaring a brilliant gold—before he grabs the woman and hauls her out of her seat, his jaws swinging wide—I gasp, “Vampire!”

  The place erupts into chaos as he sinks his fangs into her neck, her children screaming while patrons scramble for the door. There’s an emergency kit mounted on the wall—crucifixes, stakes, and holy water, all mandated by local safety codes—and Gunnar starts for it, leaping from behind the counter. He isn’t halfway there when the vampire flings his victim across the room, easy as a rag doll, bowling her into my favorite barista. They both crash to the floor in a sprawling, bloody tangle, and the undead monster turns his terrifying golden eyes on me.

  Alarm crashes through me, and my heart speeds as the creature flings the table aside, his fingertips stretching into claws. And then he’s right in front of me, having crossed the room in the instant it took me to blink, his hands gripping the front of my sweater. My back against the counter, I want to scream … but I can’t seem to.

  “It is beginning.” The man’s expression is wild and strangely ecstatic, those golden eyes probing mine, boring into me and melting my resistance. “The Dark Star rises!”

  And then he whirls, letting me go, just like that. Taking off at a sprint, he leaps straight through the broad front window, the thick glass exploding out of its frame; his claws rake the sky as he sails up into the night, rising impossibly, effortlessly.

  My veins burn as I watch him finally reach the apex of his jump, backlit by the moon, and begin to arc down again. The buzz under my skin subsides, my heart thumping so hard my ears ring. Adriana says something, but I can’t hear her—pressure is building in my head, shadows squeezing my vision into a pinhole as the vampire disappears from sight behind the buildings across the street.

  I take a step, and then the pinhole closes, darkness washing over me as I crash to the floor.

  4

  When Emergency Medical Services arrives at Sugar Mama’s, I’m awake again, dazed and suffering a splitting headache. Gunnar insists he’s fine, but the woman who got bitten is going into shock—either from a loss of blood, or … you know, shock—so it takes a minute before the paramedics get to me. As they check my pulse and vital statistics, they subject me to a battery of questions, like When’s the last time you ate? Were you bitten? Have you consumed any vampire blood? I do my best to answer, but I’m rattled by the way they have their crucifixes out the whole time, just in case—even though they know I’m not Turning.

  The thing is, Turning involves a whole exchange of fluids; a vampire sucks its victim nearly dry, then feeds them back some undead blood before delivering a killing blow. The body is then interred in the earth, where the immortal blood inside it lives on—replicating, reawakening the lifeless tissue, generating new and horrifying attributes. When the brain is reactivated, the creature rises again, crawling from the grave with its memories and personality completely intact. Only now it lives forever and hungers for blood.

  If the organic tissues are too compromised before the victim is buried, the change won’t take place—because, as powerful as it is, even vampire blood can’t undo a cremation or reattach a severed head. But even a small amount of it can still heal burns and flesh wounds; it can knit bones and close brain lesions; and it can temporarily imbue an otherwise normal human with heightened sensory perception and increased strength.

  Unsurprisingly, this is one of the reasons humans hunt vampires as much or more often than
vice versa.

  I’m given a clean bill of health only moments before my parents arrive, shaken and frantic, and they hug me so hard I’m tempted to ask the EMTs for painkillers. All the way home, I endure a new round of questions—Are you okay? Are you hurt? Are you okay?—but I’m not sure how to answer, because now I’m starting to wonder … what if I really am the Chosen One?

  Hear me out: I know it sounds ridiculous, but why not? For as long as there have been supernatural beasties crawling the Earth, there have been legends about humans called to fight them and protect mankind. The oldest records have been purged of almost everyone but the straight white guys—Beowulf, St. George, King Arthur—while the modern accounts tell of warrior girls and goddesses, gifted with otherworldly powers and fated to play a key role in humanity’s battle against the undead.

  But why can’t it be me this time? Why can’t it finally be a gay kid with terrible math scores but a good skin-care regimen? After countless folktales about swaggering jocks and brave, beautiful girls, why shouldn’t it be my turn?

  I felt that vampire enter Sugar Mama’s. That strange prickling sensation that pebbled my flesh with goose bumps—the same one I experienced the night I walked Daphne to her car, just before we realized there was something on the neighbor’s roof—it was a warning.

  Plenty of legends describe Chosen Ones developing special abilities to aid in their mission: strength and agility, accelerated healing, extrasensory perception … and with the Nexus in play, nothing is too weird or wild to consider. The vivid dreams, these histories I don’t recognize could be the result of some burgeoning power connecting to a mystical record of those who once shared the same calling. We’re linked across centuries, across lifetimes, and now the torch has been passed to me. No wonder Jude did the whole sexy, come-with-me-if-you-want-to-live act; he must know what I am, what I’m soon going to be, and he intends to stop it from happening.

  And maybe he’s not the only one. It is beginning. The wild-haired vampire looked at me like he was searching for something, and once he’d found it, he smashed clear through a window to escape. What I can’t understand is why he didn’t just kill me when he clearly had the chance—Jude, too, for that matter. But I’m not exactly planning to look this gift horse in the mouth, either.

  I’m also not planning to tell my parents about any of this. Not only will they think I’ve lost my mind, but if I’ve truly been chosen by the powers that be, then I need to keep my identity secret. The same myths that tell of swashbuckling jocks and warrior girls also tell of vengeful monsters and heaping piles of dead loved ones.

  * * *

  If I have dreams that night, I don’t remember them when I wake up the next morning, my mind still spinning with questions. In the harsh light of day, the thought of being chosen no longer sounds cool. A life of battling monsters is generally a short one—and as far as supernatural gifts go, getting the creeps when vampires are nearby is … kind of disappointing.

  School is little more than background noise to my mounting anxiety. Adriana can’t stop talking about last night, asking how I am and if I’m still coming over for dinner, until I want to jump out of my skin. She means well, but my nerves are utterly frayed. All I can think about is getting to the end of the day so I can go back to the art room.

  The afternoon I lost time, I didn’t just black out; I went into a trance, or something, and sketched a detailed scene that felt familiar, even if I couldn’t explain why. It was some kind of psychic phenomenon, my dreams taking over, and I need to know what else is hiding in my subconscious and looking for a way out. I want to draw something else to see if it will happen again.

  The art room is empty when I arrive, the lights off, and Hope’s dookie sculpture sits abandoned and draped in cloth—and, let’s be honest, it’s never looked better. Fresh watercolors dry on a clothesline strung beneath the ceiling, landscapes and still lifes in cheery colors; and in a corner, facing the wall, stands the easel I was using last Wednesday.

  I move toward it, and my heart flutters. If I see that sketch again, the angry crowd and the women in black, will it return my lost memories? Do I want it to? Because there’s always a chance that this little plan will unlock something even worse than a two-hour blackout; that I might end up losing an entire day, or somehow conjuring forth whatever apocalyptic nonsense Jude the Vampire was talking about.

  Changing my mind, I turn to leave—and smash directly into Mr. Strauss, who was standing right behind me. My heart jumps so high it tickles my sinus cavity, and I let out a little yelp. “Sorry! Sorry, I thought I was alone.”

  “You were, until I got here.” Mr. Strauss grins at his own joke. Under his nerdy sweater-vest and shapeless jeans, he must be built like a brick wall, because I swear I have a bruise from running into him just now. “Sorry if I surprised you.”

  “I … I wanted to keep working with the charcoals today,” I manage to spit out as he steps past me, marching straight to the easel in the corner. “I thought, um—”

  “You should.” Casually, Mr. Strauss swings the easel around. It’s empty—of course it is; it’s been almost a week since I did that sketch, and who knows how many times that easel has been used since. Earnestly, my teacher adds, “You have a remarkable talent, Auggie, and you should absolutely keep developing it. Have you ever considered applying to a program like SAIC?”

  Just like that, I forget nearly everything that happened before his last sentence. The School of the Art Institute of Chicago is a really big deal. “Do you think…”

  I can’t finish, but he doesn’t need me to. “I know you’ve got another year left, and maybe you’re not ready to decide what you want to do when you graduate, but you should give some thought to a four-year art and design school. You’ve got a gift, and an academic environment would provide an opportunity to grow your skills and explore other media.”

  I take my glasses off and put them on again. “You think I could get in at SAIC?”

  “I think you’ve definitely got a chance.” He shrugs, likes it’s obvious. “And you’ve got time to work on assembling a solid portfolio. Is that something you think you’d be interested in?”

  “Yes. I—Yes!” Honestly, I’d been hoping to get as far away from Fulton Heights as possible after graduation, but SAIC is SAIC. “Thank you so much!”

  “Don’t thank me, you’re the one who has to do the work.” He grins again, stationing the easel to face the light. “Let me get the paper and the charcoals, and then you can blow my mind again.”

  As he trots off to the supply cabinet, my head spins some more. Four years at a prestigious school where I can study art and never look at another imaginary number again sounds too good to be true. Now I’m twice as hopeful that I’ll have another episode like last week’s; ten or eleven more, and I’ll have that portfolio in no time.

  “Hey.” Hope’s voice interrupts my daydream, and I look over to see her setting her bag down on the table nearest to me. Her voice is soft, edged with nervous humor as she asks, “So … last night, huh?”

  “You could say that, yeah.” I laugh in spite of myself. “For whatever it’s worth, Fulton Heights is garbage, but that kind of thing still doesn’t usually happen.”

  “Well, I’m really glad you’re okay.” Her fingers are so tight around her bag that her knuckles are white. “I was sure he was going to eat you, and—” She stops short, squeezing her eyes shut. “Okay, that’s not helping. To be honest, I’m still completely freaked out.”

  “To be honest? Me too.”

  She nods, but her mouth twists a little bit. “Auggie…” She stops. Then, “When he spoke to you, did you understand what he meant?”

  It is beginning. Numbly, I shake my head. “I think he was just babbling.”

  “Are you sure?” she says carefully, scrutinizing my face. “You really don’t know what he was talking about?”

  “No.” Something in her tone brings my goose bumps back. “Should I?”

  Hope’s mouth twists
some more until it’s nearly sideways. “I don’t know. Forget it.” She looks down at her bag. “Maybe it just … sounded familiar. It’s probably—”

  “Okay—paper and charcoal sticks, including a few extras, just in case!” Mr. Strauss interrupts us, delivering the announced materials with a cheerful flourish. Turning to Hope, he plops a few things onto her table as well. “For our resident sculptor, here’s the epoxy and wire you’ve been using. Let me know if you need anything else.”

  He takes a seat within earshot, and Hope turns away, signaling that our conversation is over—which is okay with me. I’m not even sure I want to talk about this, and for now I have an experiment to conduct. Starting my playlist, I pick up a stick of charcoal, rolling it in my grip until it feels right. Breathing in, I center myself, wondering what I’ll do with it.

  The charcoal snaps between my fingers, and I blink as it drops to the floor, a fierce cramp knotting my hand. Gasping, I stretch the muscles, yanking off my headphones, my heart thumping so hard it hurts. Hope is staring at me, her face ashen, and over the ringing in my ears I hear Mr. Strauss ask me a question; but I can’t process any of it.

  It happened again.

  The light slanting through the high windows has turned golden, and the blank page in front of me has filled itself in the blink of an eye. Nausea twists my stomach into a dangerous shape, and for just a moment, I’m sure I’m about to barf. Hope steps closer, her eyes wide and worried. “Auggie? Are you okay?”

  “I’m … I’m fine.” The statement couldn’t be less convincing if I’d delivered it into a video camera while holding up a copy of today’s paper, but I can’t possibly tell the truth. My skin is hot, my lungs ache, and terror squeezes my throat nearly shut. I don’t even know what I’m afraid of, only that I don’t want to look at what I’ve just spent two more missing hours creating.

  “You were a demon over here, Auggie!” Mr. Strauss fails to read my mood, stepping up beside me to evaluate my work. “The way you were going through those sticks I was afraid I’d have to bring more. Did you finish your piece?”