by Ava Benton
It looked as though they’d considered everything.
As always, I had no choice but to comply.
“One question,” I said.
Serena gave me a warning look.
I ignored it. This was a matter of life or death. Mine. “Ra Protection?”
Ra Protection was a spell cast by the one we were assigned to. It protected us from the sun’s rays and allowed Nightwardens to be outside at any time of the day and not burst into flames.
Ra Protection mattered to me. Greatly.
“Ra Protection is in place,” Maeve affirmed.
I took one last look at the High Council, then at the anxious Isobel. “When do I get started, then?”
2
Janna
I took a step back from the sketch pad, tilting my head one way, then another. I couldn’t quite get it right. Something was missing. I needed a live subject instead of relying so much on my memory, but I wasn’t friends with any of the people I chose to put down for posterity. And they weren’t the sort of people I wanted to invite to my apartment, either.
I was nuts, but I wasn’t stupid.
It was a warm morning, about to turn into a hot day. I ran the back of my arm over my forehead before remembering the charcoal already smudged all over it. Well, now it would be on my face, too. Not like anybody was there with me. Not like I’d care if they were.
The box fan in the window was only making things worse—the air it circulated was hot and sticky. Trying to get any work done was pointless.
I did my best work at night, anyway, even if natural light was better to sketch in. It was cooler, there were fewer distractions from my neighbors, and the memories were sharper.
I peeled off my tank top and wondered why I had even bothered putting it on when it only ended up soaked in sweat and covered in black smudges. Hair stuck to the back of my neck, and I considered for the hundredth time this summer chopping the whole damn thing off. And maybe dying the stubble bright pink. Or electric blue.
But I wouldn’t keep up with it, just like my bitch of a mother always reminded me. I never kept up with anything. The dark brown would come back and grow out, and it would stretch halfway down my back again in no time. I never remembered to go for a trim, either.
A cold shower helped cool me off. One of the few things I had plenty of was cold water. Even in winter, but that was another story. I looked down at the water swirling around the drain. Black. Charcoal. I sometimes ended up with more on me than on the paper.
Instead of using a towel, I padded across the wide-planked wooden floor and stood in front of the box fan to dry off. One of the benefits of having a brick wall as a view: nobody could look in at me.
Warm breeze hit cold water and evaporated it. I turned around and shook out my hair, making droplets of water fly in all directions. Better than a blowout in the heat—and I wasn’t the girl who spent hours a week blowing my hair out, anyway. I never could understand girls who did. My arms would fall off by the time I finished getting my whole thick, long mop dry. Once it was partway there, I brushed it out and pulled it into a topknot. As fancy as things got for me.
It was after eleven, and I hadn’t slept yet, working all morning after getting home around four. I could try to get some rest, but one look at my bed made me rethink the idea. I was never any good at sleeping when it was hot. What I wouldn’t have given for air conditioning, even a cheap window unit. Anything.
But until my next series went up for sale at the gallery, I was living on cereal and instant coffee. And even that was running low. I had roughly ten dollars in my checking account, and my savings account only laughed at me when I checked the balance.
Only one thing to do. And I hated like hell to do it.
“Mom.” I paced the length of the single room which served as my home, my studio, my everything.
“What’s wrong now?”
I closed my eyes for a second. “Right to the point, huh?”
“Why would I waste time?” she asked with that heavy, isn’t-my-life-pitiful-but-I-struggle-on sigh of hers. “You know how busy I am.”
Busy? With fucking what?
I bit my lip until it stung. “All right, then. Have it your way. I need money.”
“Of course, you do.”
“Mom, please. There was a delay at the gallery, and my latest series isn’t going up for another two weeks. You can call them yourself and ask if you don’t believe me.”
“Like I have the time to do that.”
“Well, then. That’s the situation.” I could see her sitting there on one of her silk couches, with one of her snow-white, ankle-biting Shih Tzu dogs in her lap, probably already having a cocktail though it wasn’t even noon yet. “I’ve stretched my money as far as it will go, but all I have in the pantry is half a box of generic corn flakes and a quarter jar of instant coffee. I don’t even have milk for the cereal.”
“And yet, if you had just stuck with the job your brother pulled all those strings for you to get…”
Another bite on my lip. Another sharp sting. This time, I was fairly sure I tasted blood. “I told you. The bastard put his hand up my skirt.”
“Language, Janna.” Her voice was like a whip. “And maybe if you hadn’t been wearing such a short skirt…”
“You don’t even know what I was wearing!” I howled. “And even if half my ass was exposed, he had no right to touch. So I’m sorry if Jimmy worked so hard to get me a job with his scumbag boss, but it’s no wonder the scumbag goes through assistants the way he does. I’m sure I wasn’t the first. Some girl’s probably getting felt up as we speak.”
“Jimmy tells me Mr. Hackett cracked down harder than ever on him after you drove your knee into his crotch.”
“He deserved it.” And much worse, the sick fuck.
“He was your boss.”
“I literally can’t believe you’re defending him.” I rubbed my forehead against an impending migraine. I could feel it coming on as sure as I felt my heart racing and my palms sweating. Sometimes, if I concentrated hard enough on concentrating on nothing, it went away before things got really bad. But that would mean getting off the phone. “Mom, please. My head’s really starting to hurt. Can you help me or not?”
“A migraine?”
“Maybe. And I don’t even have aspirin in the medicine cabinet.”
“I can hear it in your voice.” The one way I was ever able to get her attention, to garner sympathy. A migraine. “All right. I’ll transfer money into your account.”
“Thank you, Mom. I swear, I’ll pay you back.”
“As you always say,” she sighed. Then, in a softer voice, “Get some rest. Find a way to get out of the heat. I’m sure it isn’t helping.” One of the most motherly things she’d said to me in ages.
I thanked her before ending the call as fast as possible and tossing the phone onto the bed.
The pain started at the base of my skull and radiated through my head. Mom was right about something for once—the heat wasn’t helping. I pulled the fan from the window and placed it on the little table which served as a nightstand, then soaked a wash cloth in cold water and barely wrung it out before crawling into bed and draping it over my forehead.
Sleep was the only thing that would help, and letting my mind wander freely while I did everything I could to relax was the only way I would get to sleep.
I couldn’t help but think about Jimmy, and Mom. The way she had defended him since we were kids, no matter what he did. The way slights against me meant nothing compared to slights against him. He pulled the head off my favorite doll? Boys will be boys. I kicked him in the shin for it? I was a hellion, incorrigible, and grounded for a week.
It didn’t matter that his filthy, slimy, fat pig of a boss pinned me up against his desk and stuck his hand up my skirt. That his breath was hot and rank with the smell of whatever nasty shit he’d eaten for lunch that day. That I’d scrubbed my skin raw when I got home later, after kneeing him in the balls, before sitting with my knee
s drawn up to my chin in the shower until there was no hot water left. Even then, I had stayed there with the icy water pelting down on me, shivering, weeping.
Because it was more than the memory of that heart-stopping terror when I’d realized what he wanted from me. When I had asked myself what I was supposed to do to keep him from doing worse. It wasn’t even the way my skin had crawled when he’d breathed a heavy, hot sigh and pressed his pathetic excuse for a cock against my thigh.
It was knowing I had lost an otherwise great job. Security for the first time since leaving Mom’s house. When my brother had first found the job for me, I’d been beside myself. Sure, it meant working in an office with a bunch of soulless drones—or so I’d told myself—but it also meant being able to pay my bills without worry. Being able to get takeout whenever I wanted instead of eating another packet of Ramen. Going to the doctor whenever I needed to since I’d have health insurance through the company. Buying a window air conditioner, and a space heater when the apartment froze in winter.
Maybe even moving to a better apartment, or renting studio space to work in whenever I had the time.
All those dreams had dissolved that day. And all my mother wanted to harp about was how much harder Jimmy’s life was as a result. Nothing about what it did to me, being groped like that, losing a great-paying job with benefits. Getting knocked down, just like I always did.
Thinking about that wasn’t doing anything to help my head.
I turned my thoughts to the club, where I’d be again that night. There was just way too much interesting material there to keep away. Too many people to take mental pictures of, to run home and sketch out in pencil before I forgot the details. I already had enough of those quick sketches to turn into my next series. Children of the Night, maybe.
And they were children of the night, for sure. Their skin was so pale, almost translucent, that it looked like they never stepped foot outside during the day. There was so much beauty about them, but it was a savage beauty. Like beautiful, vicious animals.
How could I not want to draw them, capture them for the rest of the world to see?
Not everybody had the balls to hang out in their clubs.
Not that they were for real, not even close. A bunch of posers, people who pretended to be who they weren’t because they didn’t like who they were. They felt powerless, so they had to invent power. I couldn’t blame them for it. How many times had I wanted to do the same thing? But I wouldn’t pretend to be a blood drinker. I wouldn’t call myself a witch and worship the moon, or a bunch of goddesses people made up back when there was no such thing as science to explain normal, natural phenomenon.
We were all outcasts. That might have been what called me to them, what made them so interesting.
Anybody in their right mind would steer clear.
Mom would have a cow if she knew where I was getting inspiration for my work. A great, big, full-grown cow.
The thought made me smile in spite of the pain.
Pain that was diminishing the longer I let myself relax. Knowing there would be money in my account the next time I checked helped me relax, for sure. She could be a real bitch, but she generally came through when I needed her. Even though I had to reach dire straits first.
Then again, I didn’t like asking for help unless I was on the verge of disaster. Who would willingly put herself through feeling two inches tall unless it was absolutely necessary? Why would I call and be reminded of how I screwed up that job with Jimmy’s boss unless I was down to half a box of dry cereal?
Someday, my work would be famous.
And I would be rich.
And men like Mr. Fat Ass Wannabe Rapist Hackett would pay for what they did to girls like me.
I slid into sleep with a smile on my face, with my head finally full of the sort of thoughts that made the pain go away.
3
Vale
No amount of research on the long drive to the city could’ve helped prepare me for what I found when I stepped out of the car and looked around Times Square.
I was alone in an impossibly dense sea of people. Their voices overlapped to the point of becoming unintelligible, and my sharpened sense of sound turned it into a head-splitting roar.
I pulled the slip of paper from my pack and looked down at the list of locations. There were three places at which the Council’s spies had spotted Janna Reed, all of which existed within Manhattan.
Two of them were clubs for vampire worshippers who didn’t know there were actual blood-sucking vampires among them, dancing alongside them. Taking those who caught their eye to back rooms, where feeding would take place.
Humans were so insufferably stupid—walking into dangerous situations, refusing to see what which was right in front of them.
Didn’t they have instincts? Didn’t they want to preserve their safety? Their lives, even, seeing as how it wouldn’t take much for one of their thirsty hosts to take too much?
No, they thought it was fun and sexy. Anything to get away from the pain of real life. Or the drudgery.
The third was a popular spot for witches and those who fancied themselves to be witches. Occultists, wishful thinkers. Again, they had no idea the reality of the witches they drank alongside. Humans only saw what they wanted to see.
Regardless of who chose to frequent the clubs, I couldn’t enter any of them and expect to leave alive. Nightwardens were the elite of the vampire world, to the point where we sat outside the rest of them.
They would know who I was and sense I wasn’t like them.
Witches, on the other hand? There was no love lost between our species in general.
They, too, would spot me and kill me just for being on the premises.
I had stared at Janna’s photo for so long, I had it memorized. One of the Council’s spies had captured her photo as she was leaving a vampire club one night.
Long, almost black hair. Like her mother’s. Heart-shaped face. High cheekbones, a delicate nose, heavy eyebrows which framed eyes that were also Isobel’s.
The first thing I had noticed about her on waking up. A full, pouty mouth which she had coated in deep red lipstick. Blood red.
I would know that face anywhere. I could point it out in the middle of Times Square if I saw it, even with thousands of other faces swarming around it. Only she wasn’t there. I didn’t sense any magical blood around me.
It was too early for her to be in the city. I could always go to her home. I had the address. I could wait for her to leave and follow her to whichever club she chose to visit. It seemed smarter to follow her before approaching her, to get a feel for who she was. It didn’t matter how much information the Council had compiled. I wanted to know how she thought, what she valued, whether she walked with a long, graceful stride or a short, quick one.
I had always found it easiest to guard my charges when I knew them intimately—not as a friend, but as a specimen. We were never friends. We weren’t supposed to be.
There was already a fully mapped-out plan for me to navigate the city boroughs via the rail system, so I followed it. It wasn’t difficult, and I managed to blend in. I found humans were willing to ignore that which didn’t differ from the norm, and a pair of tinted glasses hid the telltale red ring around my irises.
However, judging from some of what I saw in my travels, strange eyes would be the least strange thing of all. I looked downright normal compared to some of the trains’ more colorful characters.
Janna’s neighborhood was run down, to say the least. I could imagine a time when the sprawling homes were sharp with new paint and fresh, green lawns. In a different world. Immediately, I knew she didn’t have much money. An artist, they said. A starving one, from the looks of it.
The day was hot, steamy, and I could just imagine how hot it would be on the top floor with the sun beating down on the roof. Was she up there? Or was she smart enough to hide out somewhere cooler?
Would anybody living in the neighborhood believe the girl livi
ng on the top floor was a thrill seeker who rubbed elbows with supernatural creatures?
People sat out on front stoops up and down the street, fanning themselves, smoking, drinking out of paper bags. I decided to do the same—I didn’t believe anyone would challenge my right to be there. I very much got the impression that neighbors minded their business around there.
Funny, but the neighborhood seemed nicer only a block or two away. Perhaps this was the poor section. It hardly fit in with the image of a witch’s daughter, but I couldn’t think of her that way when she didn’t think of herself in those terms.
The first rule of working as a Nightwarden, for me at least, was understanding my charge as she understood herself. Getting inside her head, as it were.
When I had the luxury of imprinting, that was easy. Nothing about this particular assignment would be that easy, however.
I wouldn’t be able to sense her emotions because I wasn’t able to imprint on her. Only on her mother, whose blood waited for me in sealed containers in the bag between my feet. Not just there, either. In my mind. Always in my mind. Taunting me, reminding me of its presence. All I had to do was drink until there was no more, until I finally got enough…
But it wouldn’t be enough. There was no such thing as “enough.” It was as I imagined the way an alcoholic would feel.
Instead of giving into the never-lessening lust which threatened to consume me like wildfire, I kept my job in mind.
I focused on her, imagining her face in front of me, reminding myself of the danger she was in. Only I could help her. That thought, plus the spells cast on me to prevent the blood lust from overwhelming my sense, helped me hold on to my senses.
Hours passed.
The sun sank.
Lights flicked on above-head, in some of the windows up and down the street.
When I was reasonably certain no one was paying attention, I rose and craned my neck to get a glimpse of her window. The lights were on there, too.