by Tanith Frost
There’s a light in his eyes as he speaks. Not the zealous glint of an evangelist, but something more like wonder.
“That is something,” I agree. I don’t add that I’d rather explore the depths with him than alone. “Why have you never told me this before?”
“Would you have understood before this past week?”
“No, I suppose not. And I guess Trixie already gets it, doesn’t she?”
“I’m not sure.”
I smile shyly at him. Daniel understands me on a deeper level than I ever realized. “You’re not a bad teacher, you know. Even if you hate doing it.”
“Good. Shall we get back to what I do enjoy, then?” His words are gentle and teasing, not harsh and selfish like he’s supposed to be.
“I could probably be convinced.”
He bares his teeth, then presses his lips to my sternum, my stomach. Trailing downward.
This is good. It isn’t the existence I imagined at one time, but I can find meaning here. I know I can. The choice before me isn’t light or darkness. It’s darkness or nothing. And I don’t want to be empty anymore.
Daniel’s tongue ends my distraction, and I draw a sharp breath.
His phone rings.
“Shit.” My voice, not his. He’s already rolled off the bed to retrieve the phone from his pocket.
“Yes?” His vocal mask is back on. All business. “Of course. Right away.” He closes the phone and gathers his clothes. “We’ll resume this later, Aviva.” Not a question. It’s not like I would have declined, anyway.
“What’s happening?”
“More bodies. Katya and Trixie are heading over there now.” He hesitates. “It’s up to you whether you want to come.”
“What? Of course I want to.”
“Very good.”
“Why wouldn’t I?”
He sits on the edge of the bed. “You’ll need to watch yourself today,” he says slowly, as though choosing his words carefully. “With Katya at the scene, you mustn’t let on what you’re thinking about the victims.”
“Did I not hide it well last night?”
He reaches up to rub the back of his neck, and the moonlight picks out the faint lines on the front of his shoulder where I bit him last night. They’re already healing. It’s sort of a shame. They looked good on him.
“Everything I just said about how a vampire forming the wrong kinds of relationships can find herself in a difficult position goes double when an elder is around. Katya ranks just under Miranda. If she sees weakness, she will not hesitate to end it. That’s good for someone like Trixie, whose natural inclinations make her easy to shape to our ideal.”
“But I’m the runt of the litter, so I’d better prove myself before our mistress decides to drown me?”
His eyebrows rise in surprise. He seems pleased, and my good student side can’t help feeling glad about that in spite of the threat he’s describing. “Precisely. I wasn’t concerned about Wallace the other night. Most younger and less-ambitious vampires will leave you be as long as you don’t threaten them. They don’t want to make enemies any more than you or I do. But Katya has been around long enough that her position is secure, and she doesn’t have much compassion for anyone who threatens us. It’s what makes her a great hunter.” He huffs out a little laugh. “I thought I might pass out when she showed up at the suicide and I couldn’t warn you. I was relieved when you handled things so well.”
My stomach drops. What if I hadn’t? What if, in opening myself to the shadows of the person who had died, I had betrayed my connection to that life? Surely she’d have listened to Daniel if he said I was making progress.
Or maybe he’d have been in trouble for allowing my weakness to continue in the interest of allowing me to explore my strength.
Pain flashes through my temples. I’m clenching my jaw hard enough that I might have cracked softer teeth. I force myself to relax.
“I appreciate the warning. I can handle this.” I stride past him to my dresser, searching for something that looks at least half as professional as Katya looked last night. “I won’t try to open myself to the shadows this time,” I assure him, making the decision as I speak. “They’re interesting, but they haven’t showed me anything that helps with the investigation.” I slip into a sweater and dark pants, then swipe at the dark mascara that’s smudged under my eyes. Smoky. Not bad. “I think you were right. All I needed was to let go of my struggle. I’ll move forward now. See what the void brings me.”
I still don’t want to lose myself. Not yet. But maybe I can step a little deeper. A little further away from my attachments.
I glance at Daniel in the mirror. He nods, but he doesn’t look nearly as confident as I’m trying to feel.
It’s just past sunset when we leave the house. It’s been raining all day, and the remaining sunlight is all but invisible behind thick cloud cover. We head for Mount Pearl and cut a loop back into St. John’s, into a newer neighbourhood of pretty, multi-coloured houses that celebrate the local image of homes by the shore without the cost and weather conditions of actual waterfront property. Large family houses—they probably cost a nice sum when the housing boom was at its peak. They’re nice, but very neighbourhoody, with new trucks in the driveways standing over toppled bicycles like watchful parents and cute Easter decorations still clinging to some of the windows. The whole area is terribly modern Leave It To Beaver with its cozy, winding streets and wide, welcoming porches.
Just a few years ago I’d have swooned over the idea of something like this in my future. Now all I can imagine is how I’d stick out as the local weirdo if I moved in around here. Our lair might not be fancy, but it does have the advantage of neighbours who mind their own business as long as we mind ours.
Daniel pulls up not far from the freshly paved driveway of a big house at the end of a cul-de-sac. The biggest house on the street, in fact. A flagship home for the new subdivision. White columns on the porch support a sloped, slate-grey roof that peeks out from under massive second-storey windows. Double garage. Generous yard.
Rich folks.
Trixie is waiting at the door, and she bounces down the steps to greet us. They haven’t turned the porch lights on. “Hurry up!”
You’d think she was dragging us into a birthday party rather than a crime scene.
“What’s the matter, Trixie?” Daniel asks. “Scared they’re going to wake up before we get there?”
She gives him an appraising look. “That was almost a joke. Better watch yourself.”
We hang back as she leads the way up to the elegant yet homey wooden door. “Better watch that, indeed,” I say in a low voice, quiet enough that even Trixie won’t overhear. “You’re in a good mood, and Katya’s a hell of a lot more observant than Trixie is.”
Daniel rolls his shoulders back. “We didn’t do anything wrong. Katya would think it strange if nothing had happened. But you’re right. I’ll try to keep my joie de Viva under wraps.”
I cringe. “No. No jokes, no puns, and definitely no dad jokes. You’re out of practice. Give it time.”
The quick grin he flashes me makes me wish I’d just ignored him. I need to learn not to give anyone weapons to use against me.
“I mean, if turning me off is your intention,” I continue, but don’t have time to finish. We step into the silence of a foyer the size of a small conference room. Wasted space, really, but I suppose the people who lived here could afford to waste it. The floors are tiled in white marble, and the wide staircase to our left is a study in casual elegance. It sweeps up the curved wall, its shining wooden bannister completely ignored by Trixie as she leads the way up.
White carpet on the stairs. No children, then.
“Interesting scene this time,” Trixie says as she waits for us to catch up. “Doesn’t look like we’re going to strike it lucky here, though.”
I shouldn’t feel disappointed by that. I don’t know these rogues, but I know enough to expect them not to screw up in any obviou
s fashion.
“How was your day?” I ask Trixie.
“Oh, fine. Katya couldn’t be there to meet me at the hotel, so I just got settled in and slept. You look tired.”
I don’t answer that.
Everything is light and airy until we approach the master bedroom at the end of the hall. Even if I had walked in here blind, I would have known what had happened. The air is thick and heavy. I open myself to it, testing my perceptions. No shadows, but I sense pain. Terror. It’s objective, though. Distant. Not something I feel in myself.
Katya steps out of the room. She’s dressed in a suit again, charcoal grey this time. She’s pulled her striking hair back into an elegant bun at the back of her neck, and it makes her look as severe as Daniel’s warning about her. I stand up straighter and promise myself again that I won’t do anything stupid.
“It’s the same crew as the others, if I’ve interpreted the reports correctly,” she says with a sigh, pulling clear latex gloves off her long fingers.
“Feeding for fun?” Daniel asks.
Katya nods toward the double doors to the master bedroom, only one of which stands open. “See for yourself. Looks like these victims did a better job of fighting back.”
Daniel leads again, stepping slowly into the room, and I follow close behind.
At least they don’t seem to have wasted as much blood this time.
More bungee cords. The man is naked, tied to a faux-antique chair that I assume was only supposed to be for decoration. It hardly looks like a comfortable place to relax. Or to die. He’s slumped forward as far as the bonds will allow, jaw slack, eyes wide and staring down at his feet. The paired wounds on his neck stand out against his drained-pale skin, which still holds the echo of a deep tan. He’s handsome, or would have been, once. His fresh, traditional haircut, as well as the dark suit hanging on a waist-high rack in the corner behind him, give him away as a professional of some sort.
Katya said it looked like they fought back. The man’s face is beaten, his knuckles cracked where he hit someone or something. I bet the rogues enjoyed that.
I force myself to ignore the anguish in his staring eyes and turn to take in the rest of the scene.
A bed occupies the other half of the spacious room, a king-sized affair in dark wood piled with white blankets that spill onto the floor in a heap. I can’t see much with Daniel standing in the way. I move to look around him, and he places a hand on my arm.
Not holding me back. Warning me. He leans in, and his broad chest fills my vision. “Remember.”
“I’ll be fine.”
He squeezes my upper arm and lets go.
I won’t be fine.
I close my eyes, just for a moment. I have to be okay with this.
When I open them, Katya is watching. So is the technician who I so impressed at the first crime scene. Waiting.
My stomach turns and my heart seems to drop down into it, but I force my expression to remain hard and neutral as I take in the scene.
More bungee cords, this time tying a young woman to the bedposts, spread out in an x-shape. Naked as her husband. Her neck bears the marks of feeding, as well, but whoever took her didn’t get all of her blood. They kept it off the white carpet and the walls, but a horrifying amount has soaked into the sheets and the mattress beneath her, with the rest of it smeared over her hips, her thighs, and her belly. She’s been slashed with a knife like the last one, and elongated burn marks spot her arms, chest, and the few places on her legs I can see through the blood. A curling iron rests on the bedside table.
Cordless. How convenient for them.
Bile rises in my throat, and I force it back. At least we didn’t have a chance to stop for coffee this time.
The victim’s face looks incongruously peaceful. I suppose death was a mercy for her.
“When did this happen?” I ask Katya. My voice is steady. Good. But the cold tone of it shocks me.
This is who I’m supposed to be. How horrible.
“Early this morning,” Wallace answers for her. I hadn’t noticed him in the corner, examining the brushes on the bottom of a fancy vacuum cleaner. Katya’s bodyguard Christopher stands next to him, arms crossed, scowling.
I look back at the woman on the bed and can’t help comparing her morning with mine.
I force myself to look away. I didn’t do this. If I’m going to feel guilty about enjoying myself in my bed while she died in hers, it can happen later.
I look back to the man. I don’t want to imagine what he saw as he died. Can’t let myself go there.
I’d like to open a window to let the fresh air blow away some of the heaviness in here, but they’ll want to keep the scene closed. I can look out, though. I hope it will look like I’m considering angles of approach. Even if it doesn’t, it has to look better than me puking in the full ensuite or racing headlong down the stairs and out the front door.
Filthy snow in hard, melted drifts dots the dark lawns of neighbours who have no idea what’s happened here. It’s Friday. Surely he missed work today, and I assume she did, too. A planned long weekend, maybe. Taking some time off together. Whatever the reason, no one seems to think it’s odd that these two have disappeared.
The houses on the street are all nice, but not one is as impressive as this one. I wonder if the neighbours envied these people and rolled their eyes at the Escalade in the driveway. Or maybe the victims were the kind of people you sort of hate for their perfect life, but they chat with you over the back fence and give out full-size chocolate bars at Halloween, offer cuttings from their best garden plants and always remember to bring over a little something to welcome the new family on the street, so you can’t really hate them.
Shadows swirl behind me, felt more than seen, as I close my eyes and rest my forehead against the cool glass. Vague shapes that won’t tell me anything I don’t know. They might make this worse for me, though. I’m not interested.
I look to Daniel. He’s watching me, understanding that I’m struggling. It’s written in his eyes and the mask-still expression that threatens to give me away even if I don’t do it myself. I give him a little smile.
I’m fine, really.
Daniel turns back to the technician, who’s telling him something about a small stain on the carpet. A footprint, if we’re lucky, but I’m guessing we won’t be.
I close the curtains tight as Katya turns on a bedside lamp. The dim light illuminates a new aspect to the scene, something darker, more like it might have looked less than twenty-four hours ago when these people died. Nothing helpful jumps out, though.
Same rogues, same craving for terror and pain, same careful clean-up.
Katya prowls around the room. Gracefully, like a dancer. I let my eyes follow her without really thinking about it, trying instead to focus on a creeping sense that something is wrong. I can’t place why, though. It’s not the shadows. More like a sense of familiarity.
Katya steps nimbly around the man in the chair, and a sense of déjà vu sweeps over me. I close my eyes, and the shadows swirl. A faint female voice begs for mercy.
I need to look at something else. Something to clear my head. I was wrong. I obviously can’t handle this. I try telling myself that the shadows are something like the afterglow that used to hide behind my eyelids if I looked at the sun, but it doesn’t help.
I don’t know how everyone else is ignoring the choking heaviness in the air.
Maybe Daniel was right to want to leave me behind. He’ll never admit he was wrong about me, but there’s a chance I’m not cut out for this work. Maybe I am destined to be powerful, but none of the skills I’m developing now are helping here.
Human relations, maybe, if I can separate myself from my compassion and prove myself trustworthy. Something where my connection to them can help without turning my stomach.
The feeling comes again. Voices. Shadows.
Fuck it. There’s something here, begging me to see it. I take a deep breath, slowly and quietly so no one wi
ll notice and think me odd. I hold it, ordering my mind to calm itself. The shadows continue to swirl, sensed rather than seen now that my eyes are open.
Fine. I can do this. I can investigate in my own way without freaking out. If I give into it for a minute, let myself think about them and the tragedy of their deaths, I’ll see the shadows more clearly. I’ll prove to myself that there’s nothing more I can do for these people, and maybe I can get rid of that horrible creeping sense that something is descending on all of us.
A framed photo catches my eye. Two people, barely recognizable as the tormented bodies we’re all slowly becoming well acquainted with. She in a long strapless wedding dress, him looking very tall, dark, and handsome in his black tux. They had their photos done by the ocean, and her veil blows in the wind. No rigidly posed portrait here. They’re laughing, and he’s going in for a kiss as she wrinkles her nose and swats at him with her bright pink bouquet. Maybe she didn’t want to smudge her perfect lipstick. Maybe they were just playful like that.
I bet they were happy. I bet they expected to grow old together.
The feeling of terrible wrongness comes again as the idea of their lost future tugs hard at my heart. It’s like a ghost in the room, watching me. I spin around, but nothing has changed. Katya stands over the woman’s body, explaining something to Trixie, who’s eating up every syllable that falls from the elder’s lips.
Trixie turns away, and Katya’s expression changes, just for an instant. She looks at the body almost affectionately, and a smile twitches at one corner of her mouth.
Not like an investigator or a hunter, but like an artist looking over her work.
No.
I squeeze my eyes closed and turn slowly away, not caring whether anyone notices. The shadows encroach again, clearer and sharper than they were when I tried to fight them away. And there it is. The graceful glide of a slim shadow, trailing long hair behind it. No details, but the silhouette is—