by Amy Cross
"Remember," she says, "you're not allowed to clean your ear out until midnight. If you try to fix it sooner, I'll find out and I'll hurt you". She pauses for a moment. "You're pathetic. You don't even struggle. Come on, get up. Time to go home".
I haul myself up and start walking. It'll only take ten minutes or so before I'm home, but I can hear Donna walking right behind me every step of the way. All I want to do is clean out my ear and then run, but I know that would just provoke her. I thought I had her sussed out, but her behavior right now seems out of character. It's almost as if she's not really herself. I guess the best thing to do is to let her feel like she's winning. I don't care about revenge. I don't care about hurting her, or about making her see the error of her ways. I just want her to stop, at least for today. So I walk home with Donna's spit in my ear, knowing all the time that she's right behind me, until finally I reach the driveway in front of my foster family's house. Evan is just getting out of his car as I walk towards the door.
"Hey, Abby," he says, before looking over at Donna. "Hi".
"Hi, Mr. Parlour," Donna says with a smile. "I was just walking Abby home".
"That's nice," Evan says, clearly shocked at the thought that I might actually have a friend. He turns to me. "Abby, maybe Donna would like to stay for dinner?"
"Oh, that's nice of you," Donna says, "but I don't know if Abby would really want that. We haven't known each other for long. It's best not to rush these things".
"Nonsense," Evan says, heading into the house. "We'll add an extra plate at the table".
Once he's gone, I turn to Donna. The thought of having her in the house makes me want to scream.
"Relax," she says, "I don't want to come into your stinking home and eat your rat-shit food. Not today, anyway. Maybe another day. Tell your fake Daddy I said thanks but no thanks". She takes a step closer. "That's right, isn't it? They aren't your real parents, are they? What happened? I guess your real parents took one look at you when you were born, saw you were a fucking asshole, and got rid of you". She smiles. "They made a good choice. They're probably having a much better life without you. The only miracle is that they didn't just put a blanket over your face and finish you off". She leans close to my face. "Don't clean your ear out until midnight. Got it?" With that, she turns and walks away.
Heading into the house, I shut the door and take a deep breath. Finally, she's gone. I don't know how much more of this I can take. Donna was right about one thing, though: my real parents are better off without having me around. Whoever they are, and wherever they are, I hope they're happy.
Chapter Two
New York.
It starts with a phone call in the middle of the night. Incessant and loud, it breaks through into my nightmares and pulls me back up into the conscious world. Emerging from a deep sleep, I groan as I reach out to the bedside table, fumbling for the phone; after a moment my hand knocks it to the floor, where it continues to ring. Sighing and still kind of drunk from last night, I decide to just let it ring out. I mean, what kind of person phones someone in the dead of night and expects them to answer? It's inhumane. Finally the ringing stops and I'm left in peace, but moments later it starts up again. The light on the front of the phone is flashing, lighting up the whole damn room. Why won't this person let me sleep? Sighing, I stare up at the dark ceiling and wait until the ringing stops. There. There's no way they'll try again. And yet - moments later, the phone starts ringing again! I take a deep breath, determined not to answer. This person has to learn that you simply don't phone people at 3am, 4am, or whatever time it is. The ringing stops and I wait, and the room stays silent. Well, that took long enough. I roll onto my side, close my eyes and try to get back to sleep.
"You should have answered that," says a voice nearby.
I literally leap out of bed, running over to the window before turning and looking across the dark room. My heart pounding in my chest, I finally see a dark figure standing on the other side of the room. Realizing that I'm at a distinct disadvantage, I cautiously step over to the bedside table and reach down for the drawer. Fumbling around for a moment, I manage to find the small gun I keep in there for emergencies. After quickly removing the safety catch, I switch on the bedside lamp, raise the gun, and turn to find a guy standing there. He's younger than me, probably early twenties, and he's smiling at me with a bemused expression.
"Do I need to introduce myself?" he asks.
"Depends," I reply. "Are you what I think you are?"
He nods. "I take it you were expecting us".
"Yeah," I say. It's kind of true. For the past sixteen years, I've known that they'd turn up eventually. "You could have knocked, though".
"You wouldn't have answered".
"Not in the middle of the night, no. Call me crazy, but that's when I like to sleep".
He smiles. "Sorry. I just wanted to make an impression".
"Job done," I reply. "In case you haven't noticed, it's four o'clock in the fucking morning".
"How are you doing, Shelley?" he asks.
"I've been better," I tell him, putting the gun on the bedside table and walking over to the door. "Give me a minute, okay?" I head into the hallway and then through to the bathroom, where I switch on the harsh white light and turn to look at myself in the mirror. Damn it, when did I get old? I mean, I look good for a thirty-six-year-old woman, especially considering I've got a fucking hangover, but I'd kill to get rid of these faint wrinkles and the rings under my eyes. Grabbing a dressing gown to put over my pajamas, I turn on the tap and splash some cold water onto my face before walking back to the bedroom.
"Hey," I say, grabbing a pack of cigarettes from the table in the corner.
"You smoke?" he asks.
"Yep," I reply, lighting up. "I also eat red meat, drink wine and whiskey, have unprotected sex and wander alone through dark alleys. Sometimes, all in one night".
He smiles. "Well, you're a real bad-ass, aren't you?"
"Shut up," I reply. "What do you want?"
He pauses for a moment. "Benjamin sent me".
This is the moment I've been waiting for - dreading - for so many years. I knew it would come, but I tried to ignore my fears by getting lost in a chaotic life of drink, drugs and parties. Still, no matter how drunk I got, I was never able to forget that somewhere out there, there were people like Benjamin doing their work, and one day they'd come back to tell me that they're ready. I guess somehow I was hoping things would sort themselves out on their own.
"So..." I take a long drag on the cigarette. "What does that mean, exactly?"
"It means it's started," he replies. "We've been watching Patrick, waiting for a sign. Finally it happened, last week".
"How can you be sure?"
"We're sure".
"How?"
"You think we don't have our methods?" he continues. "We've been following Patrick for centuries. The Watchers know everything about how vampires operate. Even when he went into the mountains after the incident with Sophie, we kept track of him. And it's finally happened. He's done it".
I pause for a moment. "How long?"
"Five months. Maybe six. It's not an exact science. Vampire physiology is a subject area that requires a lot more study". He takes a deep breath. "But it's definitely started. According to Benjamin, the first signs were detected a couple of days ago. Also, Patrick has begun to come down from the mountain. It's pretty obvious that the moment is here. Added to that, there's the fact that Abigail turned sixteen last week. Everything's starting to come together and it all adds up. The Age of Chaos is getting closer and closer".
"Fine," I reply. "Well... good luck with it. Let me know how it works out".
"You know it's not that simple," he says.
"I don't want to come," I tell him.
"Are you scared?"
I nod. "Aren't you?"
"No," he replies. "I'm not remotely scared. I'm ready for this. I've been training for over a decade".
"Yeah, well," I say, before
having a small coughing fit. "I haven't been training," I tell him after a moment.
He smiles. "That's pretty obvious".
"Thanks". I stub the cigarette out in the ashtray. "I smoke about twenty a day," I continue. "My lungs are probably fucked beyond all belief. Do you really think I'd be any use to you at all?"
"You were Sophie's best friend," he replies. "You owe it to her".
"She's dead," I say bluntly.
"I know". He pauses for a moment.
I stare at him. "It must be easy for you," I say. "She was my best friend. To you, she's just a name".
"Maybe," he replies. "Maybe not. But this isn't about Sophie any more. She's gone. This is about her daughter".
"So you've come here to play the blackmail card," I say. I knew this was coming, but there was a part of me that had hoped perhaps he wouldn't be so cruel. He must know that I've always blamed myself for what happened to Sophie. I should have been in Dedston when she needed me; instead, I was here in New York, starting a new life for myself. I swear to God, not a day has gone by in the past sixteen years when I haven't relived - over and over again - the moment I heard that Sophie's body had been discovered.
"I'll say anything I need to say to get you to come with me," he replies. "Benjamin and I both know that we can't do this without you. Neither of us knows Patrick very well". He pauses for a moment. "There's also the matter of what he told you".
I stare at him. "What he told me?"
"The Watchers have spies everywhere," he continues. "We know that Patrick whispered something to you. Now, you have two choices. You can either come with me, or you can just tell me what Patrick said".
I take a deep breath. "I've told you what he -"
"Not all of it," he replies. "You're holding back".
"Tell me one thing," I say, trying to change the subject. "Tell me why we have to do any of this. 'Cause it seems to me that if we just sit back and don't do anything, there's no problem. Patrick's dying? Fine. Great. Abigail doesn't have to know who she is, or where she came from. She's probably doing just fine. So instead of interfering, why don't we just wait it out? Let Patrick go, and let Abigail have a normal life".
"It's not that simple," he says. "Abigail's as much vampire as she is human. Do you seriously think there aren't creatures out there that can sniff her out? She's in danger. Now she's getting older, she'll be getting easier and easier to find. We can't take the risk any longer. We have to go get her, take her somewhere safe, and help her prepare for the moment when she takes her rightful place".
"And Patrick?" I ask. "Where's he in all of this? Shouldn't he be looking out for her?"
"Patrick's not in a position to help Abigail at the present time," he replies.
"What does that mean?"
"It means what it means," he says. "It means a lot has happened while you've been drinking yourself into oblivion here in New York. Some of us had to keep watch, and it wasn't easy". He pauses for a moment. "What do you think would have happened if we'd all reacted the way you reacted? What if we'd all drowned our sorrows in drink and drugs? You took the easy way out, Shelley".
"You call this easy?" I reply, angry at his assumptions.
"You didn't even go to her funeral," he says. "Everyone was asking about you, but you didn't show up. Have you even been back to Dedston? Have you even bothered to go to her grave?"
"Why would I?" I reply, lighting up another cigarette. My hands fumble a little with the lighter. "It's just a patch of ground with a dead body in it. It doesn't mean anything".
"It would have been a sign of respect," he says.
"No," I say, taking a drag on the cigarette. "Saving her life would have been a sign of respect. Going to her grave would just have been a sign of pity".
"You can't blame yourself," he says.
"I don't," I reply. "Not much, anyway. I blame you, or rather the people you work for. If your lot were always watching what happened, why didn't any of them step in and do something about it?"
"We're Watchers," he says. "We observe. We don't interfere".
"Until now".
He nods. "Until now. Times have changed. When I joined the Watchers a few years ago, the first thing they told me was that the Age of Chaos is coming and that we'd have to get more involved. They also told me that when the time came, I'd have to come and get you".
"And that's why you're here?" I ask.
"That's why I'm here".
I take another drag. "I don't have a choice, do I?"
He shakes his head.
"Promise me one thing," I say. "Promise me that, no matter what happens, we won't try to save Patrick. He's a killer. He's a fucking monster. We have to let him die".
"None of us have any interest in saving Patrick," he says. "It's not even possible. The process has already begun, and it's irreversible. The focus here is Abigail".
"I'll pack a bag," I say, realizing that there's no point fighting. I walk over to the wardrobe and pull out an old rucksack. As I sort out some clothes, I glance over at Todd. "So you've really got nothing better to do than stand and watch me pack?"
He shrugs. "Maybe you'll do a runner as soon as I'm out of the room".
"So you're gonna stare at me all the time?"
"Maybe," he replies.
Zipping up the bag, I turn to him. "Ready".
"That was quick," he says.
"I don't plan to be away for long," I reply. "Don't forget, I'm not one of you. I'm not a Watcher. I'll help Abigail, but then I'm coming back to New York". I haul my bag over my shoulder. "I'm really not planning to be away for long".
"It might take a while," he says.
"Do you even know where she is?"
"Abigail?" He smiles. "We've been watching her for years".
"How is she?" I ask as we walk to the door.
He pauses for a moment. "It's complicated".
"Alright, whatever-your-name-is, let's go," I say.
He stops. "You don't recognize me, do you?"
I sigh. "Have we met before? Have you been peering in my bedroom window every night, 'watching' me?"
He smiles. "Not quite. I suppose I should have introduced myself properly at the start". He reaches out a hand for me to shake. "It's me. Todd. Sophie's brother. Long time no see".
Chapter Three
"So how was school?" asks Evan, my foster father, as we sit eating dinner. He does this every evening: in order to keep us from talking about anything important, he fills the silence with banal, trivial questions. I guess it's his way of trying to keep up the pretense that there's nothing unusual about me, even though he knows the truth. I can see from the way he and his wife Ruth look at me that they know I'm not right. I guess they wanted to foster a nice, normal girl who'd grow up to be a credit to their fine parenting skills. Instead, I'm going bad, I'm going wrong. It's not their fault, but they must be disappointed.
"I saw you had some friends with you when you came home," Ruth says, forcing an awkward smile. "Are you finally starting to fit in a little better?"
Unable to speak because of the braces in my mouth, I shrug. I'm distracted by the feeling of Donna's spit in my ear. I want to run to the bathroom and clean it out, but she told me I have to wait until midnight. I know there's no way she'd find out if I did it sooner, but then again... you never know. Best not to take a risk.
"I told you it'd be okay," Evan adds. "Trust me, I remember what it was like to be your age, and the whole world seemed to be against me. But things have a way of working out. You'll see".
I smile. It's not that I want to disappoint Evan and Ruth. I've grown to like them over the years, and I've tried to 'fit in' at school. I wish I could magically replace myself with some perfect, perky teenage girl who's make them proud. Instead, I just spend day after day making them wonder what they did wrong when they raised me. There's something deeply, deeply wrong with me, and I have no idea how to deal with it. Some of the symptoms, like my strange teeth, are visible, but most are in my head. I just feel t
otally, completely different to these people, almost as if I'm not from the same species. Trying to fit in, to conform to what my foster parents want, almost drove me crazy. I've had to just accept that this is how things are going to be for now.
And then there are the ghosts.
The ghosts started coming a few weeks ago. Just a couple of first, loitering in the street outside the house. Then I noticed more and more of them, and now they're everywhere. They don't come until late at night, and they seem to be unable to come inside. They just stand at the window, watching me. They're too fuzzy to make out properly, so all I can see are shimmering white outlines. I know they're definitely looking at me, though, and it's as if they're waiting for me to do something, or say something, or... I wish someone else could see them, because then I'd know that they're not inside my head. To be honest, I think I'm starting to lose my mind.
"Just three more weeks," Ruth says. "Are you looking forward to having your braces out?"
"Let's not get carried away," Evan adds, smiling at me. "Abby, you understand that you might need the braces for a little longer, don't you?"
I nod. I can still feel those two strange teeth; if anything, they've become more pronounced since the braces were fitted. It's kind of pathetic how desperately Evan and Ruth are clinging to the idea that somehow everything's going to become more normal once these braces are off. I guess this is their last, best hope to 'fix' me. They ignore all my emotional and psychological problems and focus on these weird teeth; they get metal bars fitted in my mouth, hoping to force the anomaly straight. It won't work, but at least they're trying. I just wonder what they'll do when they have to accept it hasn't worked.