by RJ Blain
Scott’s blood was warm. After what felt like an eternity—but couldn’t have been any more than a few minutes—his blood still hadn’t dried or cooled. Drop by drop, it fell from the ceiling onto me, the cashiers’ counters, the tabletops, and the floor.
I couldn’t force myself to move, fearing it would shatter the quiet that had taken hold of the store. Maybe, if I stood there long enough, everything would prove to be a nightmare instead of reality.
I wanted to close my eyes, but I didn’t dare. What I might imagine terrified me more than the reality of Scott’s mangled body lying at my feet. His sightless eyes were fixed on me, accusing me of not having done something to save him. I shifted my stare to something—anything—other than him, picking one of the shelves filled with books I’d probably never get a chance to read.
Then my thoughts wandered to the last thing I wanted to think about. Could I have saved him? People like me—wizards, practitioners of the darkest arts—were hunted down because there were those who believed we could do anything, and that made us dangerous.
Scott had died right in front of me, and I hadn’t been able to do anything to prevent it. If wizards were so powerful, I should have been able to stop his death.
I survived each day by running and hiding from those who believed people like me needed to be destroyed. Maybe they were right. Maybe, somehow, I had caused Scott’s death. Had I lost control and used the powers I tried to so hard to hide? I wasn’t sure. I didn’t have any answers.
Someone must have had the presence of mind to call for help, though I didn’t know how they had managed to. When the police arrived, the stunned silence broke into a chaotic cacophony of everyone talking at once. Some screamed. Some cried. Others crumbled under the horror of a death too gruesome to be real.
The presence of the cops turned the nightmare into something none of us could deny.
I kept still, staring at the uniformed men as they burst into the bookstore. They stopped and stared at the cash registers, their mouths hanging open as they took in the kind of carnage that belonged in a zombie movie. One of them fainted, collapsing in a boneless heap. I drew several quick breaths, but managed to quell the surge of panic coursing through me. Fainting would’ve been smart; I wouldn’t have to see anything at all. I wouldn’t have to face the nagging doubt that I was somehow responsible for Scott’s death.
At the light touch of a hand on my elbow, I sucked in a breath, flinching away. My heart tried to escape out of my chest via my throat, strangling my shriek.
“Nicole?” It was the woman I’d spoken to before. Her dead cell phone was clutched in her pale fingers. “I’m sorry, I didn’t…”
Gasping so I wouldn’t throw up, I waved my hand. It shook. I swallowed several times. “It’s fine. You just startled me a little.”
“Come away from there,” she replied, tugging at my arm. With more strength than I expected, she pulled me away from Scott’s body. I didn’t fight her. When she pressed my stained copy of Among Us into my hands, I managed not to drop it.
“I’m sorry,” I mumbled.
“Don’t be. It’s terrible,” the woman replied, a faint waver in her voice. She shook her head. “I can barely believe it.” With a shudder, she turned so her back faced Scott’s body. I followed her lead. It didn’t let me forget that my sweater was soaked with his blood.
Nodding my agreement was all I could do. If I tried to speak, I feared I’d come undone. Maybe I’d react like the poor cashier. Her shoulders shook from the force of her tears, though to my relief, she no longer screamed. Some sick and violent part of me wanted to lash out and burn away the evidence of Scott’s death.
I squished the impulse.
“I hate to ask, Nicole, but my phone died. Can I borrow yours?” The woman rubbed her hands together, the motion drawing my gaze. It was a fidgeting, nervous gesture, and my eyes focused on the blood staining her pale, perfect skin.
I blinked several times before I comprehended what she was asking. Shoving my hand into my pocket, I fished out my cell and unlocked the screen. With a swipe of a finger and several quick taps, I closed the battery-draining apps. I handed it over to her.
Blood splattered the screen, and there was nothing I could do about it. The woman grimaced, but accepted my phone, took a few steps away from me, and dialed a number.
She held my cell to her ear, and Scott’s blood smeared her cheek. “Hey, it’s Laura. I’m going to be late. Something happened at the mall.”
Something had happened, all right. If an award existed for the understatement of the year, I would have nominated her without hesitation. Still, I marveled at her confidence and even tone of voice.
“I’m fine, but we’ll talk later. It’s pretty bad. Look, I’ve got to go. The police look like they’re getting ready to question us.” There was a long pause, and she wrinkled her nose, shifting my phone to her other ear. “I told you, I’m fine.” Laura leaned against one of the tables and drummed her fingers against my phone. Her lips pressed together into a thin line.
When she caught me staring at her, she turned away, speaking in a much softer voice. “Why do you care? I borrowed the phone from someone at the mall. Mine died.”
I turned around to give her some privacy, careful to avert my eyes. The conversation was too quiet for me to make out the specifics, but there was anger in the woman’s voice. It wasn’t long before she returned, holding my phone out to me.
Offering her a forced smile, I took it back and slipped it in my pocket. “I guess it’s going to be a long night for all of us.”
“Are you okay?”
It frightened me at how easy it was to slide into an acting role, to pretend I hadn’t been at ground zero of a death that event major movie studios weren’t brave enough to show. I tried not to think of what type of person I was portraying in my effort to disbelieve what had happened.
“I’m okay,” I lied.
Deep lines creased Laura’s brow, but she didn’t question me. After a long moment of silence, she nodded. “You’re a tough woman, Nicole. I’m glad I got to meet you, although I wish it were under better circumstances.”
I wanted to run home, find the darkest corner of my cheap apartment, and curl into the fetal position, but I couldn’t tell her that. “You’re pretty tough yourself.”
Laura smiled and nodded. When one of the police officers approached us, she intercepted him. Instead of following her, I turned away. The cashier’s eyes met mine; her pupils were dilated, and she breathed in shallow pants through her mouth. Despite the crowd of people, the steady flow of paramedics, and the increasing number of officers crowding the bookstore, she stood alone.
Careful to keep my chin lifted and my eyes fixed on anywhere other than the floor and Scott’s body, I made my way over to where she stood behind the cash registers. Clearing my throat didn’t get her attention. When I touched her elbow, the young woman jerked away from me with a startled cry.
“I didn’t mean to scare you.” I kept my tone quiet, though I doubted there was anything soothing about my hoarse voice. Maybe this was one of those circumstances when the thought counted more than anything else.
“Have you seen Scott?” While she looked at me, her eyes didn’t focus on anything. I wasn’t even certain she knew who I was—or cared. Her expression was slack. The sickly pallor of her skin contrasted against the red-brown of drying blood. She looked more like a zombie than a living, breathing person.
I swallowed several times so I wouldn’t throw up.
How could I tell her that Scott was dead, lying on the floor not even ten feet from where she stood? I couldn’t. Maybe that made me a coward, but I couldn’t force myself to point out what was right in front of her.
It was too cruel.
Maybe Laura, who had pulled me away from Scott’s body when I didn’t know what to do, had the right idea. No one deserved to see what had happened to Scott. Not his friends, nor his family. But what could I do to help her?
My ill-go
tten powers couldn’t bring the dead back to life.
She didn’t notice when I wiggled between her and her cash register, using my body as a way to shield her from seeing Scott’s corpse. A gentle shove was all it took for me to herd her towards the front door where the police and paramedics awaited. They stared at me, but I shook my head and gave the cashier a gentle push towards one of the uniformed men.
“She knew him,” I said, gesturing with my chin at the bloody hell behind me.
One of the paramedics stepped forward and stopped me with his outstretched hand.
“You should be examined, ma’am,” he said.
I sidestepped, once again shaking my head.
There was a trick to lying, and I used it without shame. The first step in telling a good, believable lie was to look confident, so I stared at him. The paramedic’s eyes were blue, and the color stood out against his dark-tanned skin. When our eyes met, I didn’t look away.
The second was to sound sincere. My chronic laryngitis made that harder for me, but I managed to keep my tone even. “She needs help. I don’t.”
Though he looked skeptical, he nodded and turned his attention to the cashier. I made my escape from the paramedics by heading towards the other side of the store, away from the blood stains, away from the cops.
I didn’t make it far before a beak-nosed detective in his mid-forties or fifties intercepted me. “Please come with me.”
The heavy weight of expectation brought me to a halt. Dreading the inevitable accusations, I stared into the cop’s dark eyes. I wasn’t sure if they were brown or blue. Something about the man’s dark tan washed the color out. Maybe the fault was with me, because I was ready to swear there was a red glint around the cop’s pupils.
Maybe I was closer to breaking down than I wanted to think about.
At a curt gesture, one of the paramedics handed him a bottle of water. With a twist of his wrist, he pulled off the cap and handed it to me. “We’re locking the scene down. Come,” he said, with the sharp edge of authority in his voice.
The wicked, violent part of me considered silencing him for his tone, but the rest of me was too tired and worn to argue. With a barked order, he herded those of us who had witnessed Scott’s death together and marched us out of the store.
Chapter Two
The cops took over the food court, descending on the hapless late-night crowd. With an almost-brutal efficiency, they herded everyone out, leaving us survivors to watch the exodus. I envied them; they could escape. I couldn’t. Many stopped and stared, particularly at the blood on my clothes, but with the beak-nosed detective snarling at them, they hurried away and made themselves scarce.
The cops managed keep me occupied for the few minutes it took them to clear the place out. For whatever reason, they were determined to keep us separated and quiet. I’m not sure why they bothered putting in the effort. Some, like me, had refused medical attention, but we weren’t making any efforts to talk to each other. Most of us we were too stunned by Scott’s death to do anything at all or were trying to not throw up.
All I could think about was why Scott had died, and not me. I was a wizard, something feared and hunted down by the Inquisition for being an abomination. It made no sense to kill him when a bigger threat—me—could have been removed. I swallowed and tried to forget, but between my blood-stained book and sticky sweater, forgetting about what happened to Scott was impossible. Worry lurked beneath my every thought. Would whatever had killed Scott come for me next? Did my presence put everyone else in the mall at risk? Why would anyone kill such a pleasant and kind bookstore employee?
Had it all been a mistake, and in the dark, the murderer killed the wrong person?
I didn’t know and that scared me most of all.
I envied those who managed to escape from the mall. Under the watchful eye of the beak-nosed detective, the cops converted the food court into a corral of witnesses. They assigned me a seat on the far side of the court, the farthest point from any route of escape. I shivered as I sat, placing my palms on the wobbling table. The cover of Among Us taunted me; I wasn't familiar enough with the art to tell which of the stains were real.
With my luck, Scott would come back from the dead as a vengeful spirit or walking corpse to seek revenge on those of us who still lived. Or worse, he’d come after me because it was my fault he had died.
I swallowed, shaking my head. What would I tell the cops when it was my turn to be questioned? They wouldn't believe I hadn't done it. I was the only one who had been close enough to kill him. I was covered in his blood. It was only a matter of time before the Inquisition investigated such an unusual, violent death, and when they did, I’d be in their sights. With a single mistake, I’d join Scott as a corpse. Maybe they were already aware of me, but had missed their mark, killing Scott instead.
The Inquisition put down those like me, who made unfortunate explorations into the world of witchcraft, awakening forbidden powers.
I lifted my bloodstained hand to touch my sweater's high collar. Through the loose-knitted yarn, I could feel my pulse. Twisting scars stretched from my neck, over my shoulder, and down my stomach in a permanent reminder of the car crash I didn't remember. But I couldn't forget the circumstances of my flight leading to my hell and my disaster.
My sister had become one of them.
I should have known it was inevitable; while my mother and father were Fenerec—werewolves to those who didn’t know better—they had always been careful to let my sister and I lead normal human lives. We weren’t special enough to be one of them. But all of that had changed when my sister had undergone some ritual. Because we were twins, she had tried to take me with her.
In my cowardice, I had fled.
When I had recovered from the car accident, spending a year in the hospital as a Jane Doe thousands of miles from home, it had been simple enough to run away. I had run to L.A. to sing away the worst of my nightmares, and I had become someone new. Someone free.
And I had been free, until my voice had died away, and I had stooped to desperate measures to try to salvage my crumbling career.
I shook my head to clear it. The past wouldn't help me now, not when the cops would come calling for me, demanding to know how I had murdered Scott. Would they believe me when I told them the truth? I didn't dare speak of the occult, and my speculations that something was out there, in the mall, waiting to strike again. If there were Inquisitors among the police, they’d learn I wasn’t the normal human I pretended to be.
Normal people believed witches, wizards, and werewolves didn't exist, but a werewolf could've easily killed Scott, though I couldn't tell the detectives about my fears. My mouth twisted into a scowl. Werewolves hated their informal name, though I couldn't remember who had told me that. My father probably told me a little, though I had learned more about my pedigree from a book than I did from my family.
Fenerec, I guessed, was a more noble term for the vicious beasts wearing human skins.
I stared down at Among Us, working up the courage to touch the cover. I shuddered when my fingers trailed over the patches of dried blood. The texture was rough and cracked where it hadn’t been able to seep into the glossy cover of the novel.
The clearing of a throat startled me. I twisted away from the sound, swallowing back a startled gasp.
A police officer stared down at me with dark eyes. “Please come with me, ma'am.”
I blinked, but did my best to compose myself. It didn't work very well. To my credit, I didn't throw up on him. My legs trembled as I stood. The cop didn't say another word, gesturing with his chin towards the other side of the food court, which had emptied while I had been lost in thought, leaving only me and a few lingering officers.
“Ma'am?”
I flinched and took a tentative step after the officer. When my knees didn't buckle beneath me, I hurried to catch up, staring at his shiny shoes. Did all cops wear polished shoes, or had I been cursed with someone with more vanity than sense? Di
d it matter? I cringed a little at my superficial worries about a cop and his shoes.
“Do you have a car, ma'am?” The cop spoke in a low, soothing voice, as if I were some abused kitten in need of comfort. I don't know why his tone angered me, but I lifted my chin, and narrowed my eyes at him.
“It's parked out front, sir,” I growled back. Maybe my hoarse voice hindered me more often than not, but there were perks. When I wanted to sound vicious, all I had to do was cease my efforts to keep my words smooth and mellow. Maybe I was a fool, but it gave me courage pretending I could swallow shrapnel, chew it up, and spit bullets.
The cop's eyes widened. To his credit, instead of backing down, he nodded. “If you give me your license plate and model, I'll make sure it is taken care of.”
‘Taken care of’ could mean a lot of things when said by a cop. I hoped he meant my car wouldn't get towed and I wouldn't be fined an exorbitant amount for parking after hours at the mall. With my dubious relationship with Murphy’s Law, I suspected my car would be impounded and I would have to fight the city in order to get it back.
Maybe if they did take it, I'd just let them have it. That'd serve them right. Instead of expressing my opinion on what I thought would happen, I gave the cop the information. He wrote it down on a note pad, ripped the sheet out, and handed the page to one of the other cops standing guard.
With brisk efficiency, the cop herded me to a waiting police car, and to my surprise, he opened the front door and gestured for me to slip inside. I nodded, mumbled my thank you, and climbed in.
The beak-nosed detective waited for me inside. “Buckle up,” he ordered. Then he hesitated, inspecting me from head to toe. “Please don't touch anything.”
I considered rebelling, but I obediently reached over my shoulder, grabbed the seat belt, and buckled in. It was something I did whenever I drove, although being told to do it left a sour taste in my mouth. Still, I valued my life, and dying because I hadn't worn my seat belt was one of the last ways I wanted to go.