The Longest Night #3

by Heather Knox

  “And you killed her?”

  “Seriously, Kiley—will you let me tell the story?” Lydia challenges.

  “Sorry. Continue.”

  “And I killed her.”

  Kiley blinks at her. “That’s it? That’s how the story ends? With, ‘And then I killed her’?”

  “That’s how her story ends.”

  “You just said you were close to this girl!”

  “There’s more to the story, calm down. It’s just that it’s ancient history, you know? Baudelaire wrote ‘Remembering is only a new form of suffering.’”

  “Did you seriously just drop Baudelaire in casual conversation?”

  Lydia shrugs. “It’s like . . . as a child, did you ever lose a pet? I mean, not like the family dog that you grew up with for most of your life, but, like, a hamster or a goldfish that you got and it died a few weeks later?”

  “I don’t think I’m going to like where this analogy is headed, but yes, a hamster. I had him for six months. His name was Ham-Ham.”

  “Does talking about Ham-Ham make you sad?”

  “Well, no. It was a hamster and I was eight. Dad ran him over with a lawn mower.”

  “Why was your hamster outside?”

  “So not the point here.”

  “Right. But there you go. He’s dead but you’ve moved on.”

  “But—no. That’s a hamster, not a person! And I didn’t kill him.”

  “I’ll bet he didn’t wander outside on his own . . . ”

  “Again, so not the point here!”

  “Okay, the metaphor wasn’t the greatest but trust me when I say that time really does heal all wounds. Sometimes it just takes a lot of time. When Ham-Ham died, did you think you’d ever not be sad?”

  “No, I guess not.” Kiley considers her next question before asking it, not sure she wants to know the answer but having gone too far not to ask. “So . . . why’d you kill her?”

  “Survival leaves no room for sentimentality,” Lydia says simply.

  “Wow,” Kiley says after about a minute of silence. “That was some real talk. I feel like I should share something devastating to even the score. Ham-Ham’s about it, though.”

  “Look, Kiley—it’s not like that. I can’t really explain it to you, but once you’ve outlived your expected lifespan, some things just aren’t a big deal anymore. Like death. Like dying.”

  Kiley wants to argue, wants to bring up Johnny while the wound is still fresh because she knows it will get a rise out of Lydia, might even be what she needs to begin putting this behind her, but she doesn’t. Instead she leans forward, pausing a moment before throwing her arms around Lydia, pulling her tight against her. She holds on for several moments, channeling into the impromptu embrace all the fear, all the anger, all the uncertainty plaguing her.

  When Kiley’s grip loosens, Lydia pulls away, blushing, the glisten of tears in her eyes.

  “I—I’m sorry. I didn’t, I mean . . . ” Kiley stammers.

  Lydia waves it off. “It was a hug, not a marriage proposal.”

  Kiley studies her a moment before speaking. “Lydia—why’re we here?” She changes the subject.

  “I was afraid you’d ask that.”

  “Above your pay grade?” she jokes, borrowing from their earlier conversation.

  “Nah, I was kidding about that. You’re here now, it’s not really a secret anymore. Remember how I said there were two factions, us—the Praedari—and the Keepers? And that soon they wouldn’t matter anymore?”

  Kiley nods.

  “Well, the plan is to awaken the very first Praedari.”

  “Awaken?”

  “The CliffsNotes version is that she’ll awaken and eat the Keepers.”

  “And us,” Kiley says drily, eyes narrowing suspiciously. She hugs a pillow tightly to herself.

  “What? No. That would be such a waste of time. You’re like a single Pringle each to her,” she teases. “You’re here because the four of you will help awaken her. You’re descendants of the first Praedari.”

  “No part of me wants to ask this next question: how will we help awaken her?”

  “You’ll donate some blood.” Lydia grabs for Kiley’s journal, a mischievous smile tugging at the corners of her lips. “So, what’d ya write about me?”

  GREETINGS CITIZENS OF THE WORLD. WE ARE Anonymous. We are reaching out to you in such a direct manner because we have exhausted every other avenue. The influence of the vampires is far-reaching and inclusive—and the threat very real. The violence transpiring globally has made us as a collective reevaluate our priorities in response to what has become a supernatural epidemic.

  On Thursday, October 26 at 11:59 p.m., after multiple mainstream media appearances seem to have caught the attention of the vampires, the blog penned by someone calling himself “Doc” was removed in its entirety. Shortly following, other blogs, vlogs, articles, discussions, and relevant sites were also taken down. This widespread censorship of those standing up to our oppressors must end.

  Vampires are among us. What was once considered myth has now become undeniable fact. We are held by a code of honor to protect those who are defenseless, both in the cyberworld and the real world, and to that end we will read a list of organizations in the government, public, and private sectors known to be infected by their ranks, as well as a list of known vampires and their aliases—both within these organizations and without. We will stream photographs of these individuals as they become available, as well as any video submissions of encounters with the vampires that we’re able to collect. Any information we glean from you, citizens of the world, about their strengths, weaknesses, powers, abilities, influence, and destruction will only help us in our common mission.

  Vampires, consider this a formal hit list.

  Citizens, consider this war. Protect yourselves. Arm yourselves. Be vigilant. The longest night has come.

  “IT’S PROPAGANDA—” BUT BRANTLEY IS INTERrupted as he leans back in his seat and props his feet up on the large mahogany table that gleams as if a mirror.

  “You imbecile! Don’t you remember the Inquisition?” Alistair challenges.

  “Did you really just play the Inquisition card? I’m saying that this kind of stuff surfaces all the time in the darkest corners of the internet and it never amounts to anything.”

  “Anonymous has rallied the entire world to take up pitchforks and grill us with the morning sun. I think it warrants some consideration,” Evelyn interjects.

  “Perhaps if Brantley hadn’t poked the bear . . . ” Alistair mutters.

  “Hey, the Council was squirming because of the amount of legitimate media attention that one conspiracy theorist guy received, so I made him disappear.”

  “Without the Council’s approval,” Leland offers, always attentive to decorum and protocol.

  “The formation of the Council of Keepers wasn’t so we remain stagnated while waiting for a formal vote, thus making us vulnerable to outside threats because of our inaction,” Brantley says, letting his feet fall to the floor with a heavy thump and leaning forward. He locks eyes with Leland. “The formation of the Council of Keepers ensures that we take the necessary action to safeguard the tenets on which our sect was founded.”

  “You dare challenge my reading of the Code of the Council of Keepers?” Leland snarls as he stands, leaning forward on the table with his clenched fists.

  Brantley puts his hands out in front of him, palms showing as if in surrender. He shrugs. “All I’m saying is it’s better to seek forgiveness than ask permission.”

  “So you admit that it was foolish?” Evelyn inquires.

  “No. I stand by my decision. I just thought a Bible verse might diffuse the tension. People find the Good Book comforting, right?” Brantley explains with a smirk.

  Leland growls.

  “We’re off topic,” Temperance speaks up, directing her words towards Leland who visibly calms in an instant, frowning at the manipulation. “Regardless of who did what, we n
eed to focus on what we can do now.”

  “And has the girl updated you on her progress?” Alistair asks with an edge to his voice.

  “Me? I only know as much as the Council, of course,” Temperance begins innocently, “but I’ve invited the Conqueror to give a progress report as her proxy.”

  As if on cue, Leland opens the doors of their lavish conference room to a waiting Caius and ushers him inside. He gestures to the empty seat but Caius declines.

  “I’ve been summoned and so I’ve come. What is your need of me?” he asks, voice like gravel.

  “We wish merely for a report on Delilah’s progress,” Temperance speaks out of turn but no Elder dares call her out on it, figuring it best to let beauty handle the beast.

  Unaware that Delilah had not kept the Council even minimally updated on her mission—but not at all surprised by this—Caius thinks quickly. “Delilah revisited the location of Zeke’s murder and found a witness. She has gone off the grid to pursue the resulting lead, but I expect a call from her by sunrise. Shall we all wait here until the call comes in?” he asks, gambling that the Elders would rather not sit vulnerable in the conference room should the phantom call come in too close to sunrise for them to return to their respective domains. They may be ancient, but none of them could outlive the sun.

  Temperance smiles at the strategy. “Of course not, Caius. We will expect your report first thing tomorrow evening, but let us all exercise patience in the meantime,” she suggests as she stands to accompany him to the lobby. She links her arm in his before addressing the other Elders of the Council. “I regret I must recuse myself early from Council chambers. There is a matter I must attend of the most trifling sort but alas,” she punctuates this with a sigh, “such matters often make themselves more urgent than is convenient.”

  The others nod as she lets Caius escort her to the lobby. As the doors shut again to the Council chambers—surely so the others can continue discussing the so-called security threat posed by the hacktivist group—she turns to him.

  “The girl has not contacted you. You’ve lost her and she’s put you in this precarious position of knowing both not enough and too much—but still you take the heat for her, lie for her. Why?”

  “I’ve no time for this, Siren.”

  “You scoff when I propose that you love her.”

  “Because it’s ridiculous—you know this as well as I,” Caius retorts, his back to her as he heads up the staircase.

  “If that were the case, why would I propose it at all?” she calls after him.

  Before disappearing up the stairs and into the night, Caius turns to addresses her: “That’s a very good question, Siren. But I know that while you may be a great many things, stupid you are not.”

  “WHAT DOES IT EVEN MATTER IF THIS WOMAN rises up and eats all the other kind of vampire? If she wipes out half of them, doesn’t that help our cause?” Kiley argues. “The enemy of my enemy, right?”

  “Right. Some ancient vampire goddess lady is going to drink a cup of our blood, lick her lips and say, ‘Thanks! That was refreshing! Now I’m off to eat half of the blood-sucking monsters that walk the night!’ without so much as looking our way a second time. That’s exactly what’s going to happen—silly of me to worry!” Hunter rants, pacing.

  “I’m saying if what Lydia said is true, this Elder will be distracted—they will all be distracted—and we can make a break for it. We can use this if we play our cards right.”

  “This is a war we’re talking about, Kiley—a war between the vampires. Here,” he thrusts a tablet out at Kiley. A YouTube video embedded in some other site: distorted and blue, and someone wearing a mask. “Anonymous has caught on and they have proof of vampires. They outted them. Out there where our families are, where we should be. Apparently someone was blogging about exactly this and got a lot of mainstream media attention—and then his site was taken down.”

  “How’d you access that?”

  “It’s Anonymous. They’re everywhere. Even the vampires can’t stop them.”

  “Somehow I doubt that . . . ” Kiley laments. “Maybe if we can see it we’re meant to see it.”

  “So now the vampires fabricate elaborate conspiracy hoaxes to—what? Make us think the outside world knows about them when really they don’t? To make us give up on trying to escape because, hey, it’s just as bad—worse, even—out there?” He rubs his temples. “You know what? No. I can’t even. I can’t do this anymore—” He flops down on his bed, a tear escaping from his eye that he brushes quickly away. “It’s all so convoluted.”

  “I’m saying we don’t have all the information. Victor, Lydia, the doctor—they’ve filled in blanks but we really don’t know what of it we can trust. We need someone on the outside who isn’t a vampire to give us some perspective. We need to get a message out,” Kiley comforts.

  The sound of a throat clearing startles them. In the doorway Logan stands next to an athletically-built blond girl, about their age. Logan glances behind them and gives someone out of Kiley and Hunter’s field of vision a wave.

  “Sure, Victor, I’ll tell her—pie tomorrow,” he says, stepping into the doorway and letting it slide closed behind him and the newcomer. “What the eff was that?! He’d have heard everything if I didn’t start babbling about Kiley’s freakin’ pie craving . . . ”

  “Charlotte?” Kiley asks, stepping towards the two.

  “Charlie, please,” the girls says, thrusting a hand out in greeting.

  Kiley rushes to her and embraces her. “You picked an interesting time to wake up . . . ”

  C—

  Heading to nest. Found Z’s killer. Cover for me. Update soon.

  D

  I spend several minutes silent as Quinn drives, holding out as long as I’m able before finally taking the hammer of speech to the tension that has been building. Zeke spent most of his unlife waiting for an opportunity like this; for the sake of his memory I shouldn’t squander it.

  “So you’re a Valkyrie.” The statement manages to sound hostile though I rehearsed my tone in my mind a dozen times before blurting it out.

  “And you’re the queen of segues,” Quinn teases.

  “It was a statement, not a question.”

  “You’d like to know how much of the myth is in fact truth.”

  “Something like that. I figure you owe me.”

  “Those of you living solely in this world have a skewed sense of what balance means.” She keeps her eyes on the road. “All I owe you is this ride.”

  I glare out the windshield and cross my arms over my chest. The landscape looks familiar, even painted by the hand of night: highway stretching on, dark save for the Jeep’s headlights, empty save for the Jeep.

  “Fine,” she sighs. “The Valkyries are a collective of female-spirited individuals whose purpose is to bear the honored dead to Valhalla to await Ragnarok.”

  “‘Female-spirited?’”

  “Not everyone is born into a body that matches their identity,” she explains. “Some cultures recognize this—hopefully society will come to accept this, in time—and we do not deny a place to those worthy based on a mismatch of body parts to spirit.” She checks her mirrors and that’s when I notice that her reflection bears not the decay nor mutilation most Everlasting find themselves cursed with. “Nor are all Valkyries Everlasting,” she adds, catching my eye in the side mirror.

  “Really?” I gasp before admonishing myself for showing astonishment.

  “Sure,” she shrugs. “All learn to pass out of this world into Asgard, slipping between the two at will, but that journey brings difficulties no matter the Valkyrie’s mortality.”

  “But you are one of the Everlasting . . . ”

  “You know full well I am. Your predator within responds to mine, just in a different way since I walk two worlds. To yours, I am both threat and kin, familiar and alien. We Valkyries train extensively as we come to accept and prepare for our new role. Some of this is martial training, but a lot of i
t is . . . how would you say it? Spiritual? I don’t think there’s a word for it in this world, but our Beast is not so separate from us as yours. Ours must endure this training just as we do and come out of it changed.”

  “And if it doesn’t?”

  “Death is not uncommon in the temple, and takes many forms. While the Everlasting find themselves more capable of physically enduring training, the mortals have not this extra battle to wage. The rate of survival is not as skewed in our favor as you may think.”

  For just a moment this woman, Zeke’s murderer, sounds so much like him I have to blink back tears. How many nights did we waste away discussing death and pain and transcendence and our shadow-selves? How many nights did we toil with ritual whip and blade trying to reconcile our dual natures? How many nights did I think would be my last?

  “You had wings—were they a trick of the shadows?” I ask, changing the subject.

  “Sort of—I mean, I have wings, they’re just not here, in this truck, now.”

  “Then where are they? Do they retract?” I eye what I can see of her shoulder blades but her clothing betrays no slit nor tear from where the wings should have emerged.

  “They’re in Asgard,” she answers but, sensing my confusion, she continues: “Asgard is a place, but instead of being a place near here or far from here, it is a place around here, encompassing our world—both an aspect of here and its own . . . ”

  But I don’t hear her. Instead, the hum of the road beneath us has become a metronome, counting me backwards into memory. The sun has warmed the beige leather seat between us, between me and him, this man who drives us. Him. Who is he? my conscious self asks, echoing in memory. Or impression. Reality fades, becomes hazy like when a forest fire rages many miles away but you can still smell it, see it, choke on it—not a vision, but a something.

  I know I’ve run my hands through his hair, short and clean, smelling of fresh-cut grass—or outside does, the window rolled down and the breeze blowing through my own. I know I tease him about spending so much time messing up his own hair in a mirror when driving around the country like this would do it for him. I know I’ve run my hands along those biceps and their farmer’s tan, those ribs that I cannot see now. Wiry, but stronger than first glance would let on, the kind of build that comes from working hard, from throwing hay bales and hauling lumber, the kind of handsome you’d expect to see in a movie about someone like him but not in the real thing.