by Kit Colter
“I—I don’t do other lines.”
“No?” he asked smoothly.
“No.”
“I want you to see something,” Sirian said.
“I don’t need to see anything. Seriously. I don’t want to see anything. I just want—” She felt the wall against her back and inhaled deeply as he moved in so close that only inches stood between them. Sirian reached to the side with one hand, fingers sliding across a small metal panel. She heard an odd clicking sound. Sirian nodded toward the wall behind her, waiting.
Erin hesitantly glanced over her shoulder. She stared, lips parting in awe. The wall at her back had become transparent, an enormous floor to ceiling window revealing a sweeping view of Phoenix. Erin gazed out, the city draped in night and glimmering lights at least ten stories below. The first rays of dawn fused a silver-grey hue into the skyline. The sight made her feel like she was standing on air.
Erin turned around and glared up into Sirian’s face. And then she realized that she really was going crazy, just not in the way she’d always thought. Underneath her fear of him—of the whole situation—somehow the anger was stronger. Anger for feeling crazy all these years. Anger for being so lost. Anger because Grandma had been right about the pills all along. Anger because, even now, she was still so completely in the dark.
“Is that it? Can I go now?” Erin pressed.
“Sure,” he said, then just stood there, watching her.
“The door’s locked,” Erin said.
“Yes, it is.” He took a single step back. “I want to talk to you.”
“Will you unlock the door if I talk back?” Erin asked.
“No.”
“Then I don’t want to talk to you,” she said.
“Do you know why I brought you here?” he asked.
“Psychosis,” Erin said.
“They’re going to kill you if you go back to your apartment,” he said.
“They?” Erin asked in irritation. “You mean they as in demons?”
He remained silent.
“Your girlfriend told me,” Erin said.
“She’s not my girlfriend,” he said, “and I wouldn’t have left you there if I’d known she was going to like you.”
Erin stared at him in disbelief. “She nearly killed me.”
“She’s picky,” Sirian said. “I didn’t think you’d be her type.”
“Type to kill?” Erin growled.
“You could put it that way,” he replied.
“Why did she ... ?”
“Guess.”
“I don’t know.”
“Yes, you do.”
“She’s not a ... a ...”
“Yes,” he answered.
Erin’s shoulders fell. “But you’re ... you’re something else ... aren’t you?”
Sirian slowly shook his head.
“That doesn’t mean you want to ...” She unconsciously placed a hand over her bandaged neck.
“Something like that, yes.”
Erin glanced around the room for a weapon. For an escape. For something, anything. Sirian wasn’t moving though. He just stood there and looked down at her face.
“Are you going to?” she asked.
“Not tonight,” he replied.
Erin stared at him, trying to hide her relief. At least she’d make it until tomorrow.
“If you’re hungry, you’d better say something,” Sirian said.
Erin didn’t respond.
“No?”
She remained silent.
“Alright.” Sirian walked into the kitchen and reappeared a moment later with rope in his hands.
Erin stepped to the side, positioning the coffee table between Sirian and herself.
“You really want to do this the hard way?” he asked.
She just stood there, waiting for him to make a move.
“Too bad,” he said, then swiftly pulled a handgun from inside his jacket and pointed it at her chest.
Erin froze.
“On the floor. Face down.”
Erin didn’t move. “You want me alive. You’ve shown that much.”
Sirian smiled, just wide enough to reveal his fangs, and tucked the gun back into his jacket. “There’s all sorts of things I can do without killing you, Erin.”
She gritted her teeth and lowered herself to the floor. Sirian quickly tied Erin’s hands behind her back. He then lifted Erin to her feet, walked her back down the stairs, and laid her face down on the bed. She frowned at the sensation of ropes tightening around her ankles.
“Why are you doing this?” she asked.
“You’ll be much less interesting dead,” he replied, stepping away.
Erin flipped onto her back and sat up, watching Sirian place his gun in the work desk drawer. “I’d be really interesting if you’d let me go,” she said.
He spread a slight grin, then stretched out on the floor beside the bed.
“I can hook up some manacles if you think the rope isn’t enough,” he said, folding his arms behind his head.
Erin glared in Sirian’s direction, though she couldn’t see him through the edge of the bed. She glanced from side to side, then settled into listening to Sirian breathe.
She was going to get out of this. She had to.
* * *
Erin lay motionless for more than an hour, just listening to the sound of Sirian’s breath. She’d listened close enough to mark the change when he drifted into sleep. She knew this was her chance, but she wasn’t ready. She didn’t trust herself. She needed a plan. But the more she tried to think of a plan, the more she found herself thinking about what Sirian hadn’t said—the word he had so carefully not said. Vampire. Images of pale-faced creatures crawling out of coffins and turning into bats sifted through Erin’s mind. Fangs and blood. Little kids dressing up as Dracula on Halloween. Screaming virgins lost in dark, lonely alleys. What did that mean, then? She needed silver bullets? No, that was werewolves, wasn’t it? Erin bit her lip, feeling incredibly foolish as she filed through her memories of horror movies and popular mythology. Wooden stakes, garlic, and holy water. Erin thought of Espy’s stories about Skinwalkers, Shapeshifters, and the monster from Apache stories that fed on human beings and tried to stop the sun from rising, the Owl Man.
Slowly, Erin slid sideways on the bed and peered down. Sirian’s eyes were closed, face relaxed, arms still tucked behind his head. From what she remembered, the Owl Man was supposed to be a giant—and Sirian’s massive figure fit the bill. Then Erin noticed a detail she had missed before. Tied loosely around Sirian’s neck was a black cord connected to a silver cross.
Erin frowned. So much for mythology. None of it was possible, anyway. Was it?
It didn’t matter. She just had to get out of this.
Erin took a quiet breath and, very slowly, began to stretch her arms down, simultaneously curving her back and slipping her tied wrists beneath her legs to the front of her body. Silently thanked Espy for convincing her to take yoga her first semester, then lifted her wrists to her mouth and began untying the rope. It took less time than she’d expected, and within a few seconds she had untied her ankles as well. Then Erin just lay there for a moment, listening to Sirian’s breath.
Still asleep.
Erin quietly got to her feet. Her first impulse was to run, but she remembered the door was locked with a key from the inside. She paused, looking at the work desk. Bit her lip. Crept across the room. Opened the drawer. She took the gun gently into her shaking hands, disappointed to see Sirian hadn’t left the key to the door inside also. She stopped herself from closing the drawer to avoid the noise it might make. With the gun pointed at Sirian’s chest, Erin eased sideways to the staircase, held her breath, and moved onto the first step. She stood there for a moment, watching Sirian, then took another step. He didn’t move. Erin started to take another step, then spotted a red line on the side of the gun. She glanced at Sirian nervously, then turned the gun in her hands.
No way. The safety was o
n.
There was a soft click as she depressed the safety lever.
Sirian’s eyes peeled open. “At it already?”
Erin leapt up the remaining steps to the upstairs floor and whipped around, aiming the gun at the open hatch. Sirian would have to be crazy to come at her when she had a gun. That was if bullets did anything to him. She had stabbed him in the chest without much effect. Erin took another step back.
Sirian slipped up the stairs and stood casually before her.
“Are you going to shoot me, Erin?” he asked.
“Unlock the door,” she ordered.
He tilted his head from one side to the other, stretching his neck. “Put down the gun.”
Erin didn’t move.
“Manacles, it is,” Sirian said, moving toward her.
Erin glanced at the door, then the other way. Just walls. And that window. He must have darkened it again at some point. Could she get out that way? Then she realized she didn’t have to. Just breaking the glass could be enough.
“Twelve story drop, Erin,” Sirian said, taking another step.
Erin slid across the wall toward the window.
Sirian realized what Erin was about to do and lunged across the room.
Erin aimed at the window and fired. Once, twice, three times. She felt her entire arm jump with the recoil. Sirian ripped the gun from her hands. Growling in pain as sunlight streamed through the bullet holes in the glass, Sirian leapt backwards out of the light. Erin grabbed the first object within reach—the coffee table—and hurled it against the window. The glass shattered as the coffee table went sailing into air, and a sheet of morning light flooded the room.
Sirian let out a roar of pain, darting down the stairs and out of sight.
Erin swept the handgun off the floor, where Sirian had dropped it, and ran to the door. Hands shaking, she pointed the gun at the doorframe and tried to estimate where the lock slid into place. Squinted and turned her head slightly to one side, then pulled the trigger. She pulled it again. Then again. And again. Eight shots. Nine. There was a tight snapping sound. Strips of metal and wood splinters exploded into the air. Something nicked Erin’s face, but she barely felt it. She jerked the door open and sprinted down the hall. Looked ahead. Elevators. No good. Erin threw open the door to the staircase and leapt down the first five steps.
Erin ran faster. She had twelve stories to clear. She wasn’t going to make it. Sirian wouldn’t let her go this easily. She had to be faster than this. Erin’s throat burned as she gasped for breath. Her heart pounded in her chest. She told herself she could make it. She had to make it.
Halfway down the third flight, Erin put one hand on the railing and vaulted herself sideways over it, plummeting down several feet to land on the flight below. The impact exploded in the soles of her bare feet, but she didn’t slow down. She took three steps and vaulted herself sideways over the railing again. Falling. Hitting the steps. She jumped sideways over the railing again, landing sideways on her foot. Pain ripped through her ankle. Erin pushed herself forward, taking only a few more steps before jumping again.
She landed hard on the last flight, jumped sideways over the railing and landed on the bottom floor. Leapt into a run down the hall. She could see the exit. She was going make it.
A door swung open behind her. Erin glanced back.
Sirian.
She pushed faster, legs reaching—faster. The exit was so close.
Sirian was gaining. She could almost feel him. Could feel his hand reaching out to grab her. Erin clenched her jaw, pushing faster. Reaching toward the exit with every ounce of her strength.
Chilled metal against the palms of her hands.
The doors swung open and sunlight spilled into the hall behind her.
Concrete, then asphalt, beneath her feet.
She kept running even after the sound of Sirian’s footsteps died behind her.
Chapter 6
Birds chirped, their song mingling with the muted sounds of morning voices. Car engines. Doors opening and closing. After cutting through what seemed like every alley and dog park in Phoenix to avoid drawing attention to herself, Erin trudged into the parking lot of her apartment complex, feet bare and bleeding, with one destination on her mind. If she made it to her car keys, everything would be alright. If she got them, she could go home to Las Cruces. Or escape to Canada. Maybe the Arctic Circle. She could go anywhere.
Halfway across the parking lot, Erin stopped and stared up at the apartment complex. She’d known long before this that her keys were in her apartment. She had told herself that she would be able to go up, that she’d force herself to go get them.
But she couldn’t. Not after what had happened there.
Last time she was here, her apartment had contained a demon, a vampire, and some kind of fire thing all at one time. Each one of them had been there for her. For whatever they wanted from her. She couldn’t make herself go up there again.
Erin bit her lip and limped to her car, punched in the keypad code, and slid inside.
Then she sat in her car and stared up through the windshield at her apartment window until the world seemed to flicker, and fade.
* * *
Tapping sounds. Quiet at first. Then louder. The cedar branch was banging on her bedroom window again. The landlord trimmed it two weeks ago.
“Erin.”
She sat up and realized she had been sleeping on the steering wheel. Knuckles wrapped against the window. She pressed the button to roll the window down, but nothing happened. No keys.
“Erin!”
She felt a whoosh of relief as Isaiah Watts’s familiar silhouette appeared before her. He had dark brown skin and even darker eyes. The contrast usually made his smile seem to glow, but he wasn’t smiling this time.
Erin pushed the door open and stumbled out onto the pavement.
“Erin, what ...,” His expression could have been shock. Or horror. She wasn’t sure. His hands landed on her shoulders, and she felt her knees buckle under the slight impact. He wrapped an arm around her waist to hold her up and pulled out his cell phone with the other hand.
“What the hell happened to you?” he asked, then jammed the phone to his ear.
“I’m fine. You don’t have to do that,” Erin murmured. “It’s not as bad as it looks.”
“I need an ambulance,” Isaiah spoke into the phone. “1024 Van Buren Street. Female. I’m not sure.”
“Zaiah! I’m fine. It’s just scratches. Tell them I’m fine.”
The look on his face silenced her. Erin told herself it wasn’t pity, then clawed out of his grip and staggered back to her car. Crawled inside and locked the door. She pressed her face into the steering wheel and willed the world to end.
* * *
Warm fingertips brushed lightly across her forehead, sweeping her bangs aside. A damp cloth moved to her skin, gentle and cautious against her wounds.
Erin leapt backward and grabbed something near her face. A man’s wrist. Not Sirian’s. Not Isaiah’s.
That old, leather strap watch.
Erin felt the air catch in her throat as she recognized Coach’s face. “Don’t,” she said, tightening her grip on his wrist. “Don’t touch me.”
“You’re in pretty bad shape, Erin,” Coach said. He wore a lab coat over his clothes, and a stethoscope around his neck.
“What are you doing here?” Erin asked, edging backwards in the hospital bed.
“I’m here to see you. I worry about you. You know that,” he said, gently prying his wrist free. “Frankly, I don’t think it’s such a good idea for you to be tangling with vampires. It’s bad enough you’re still hanging around that black kid—what’s his name? Isaiah?”
“You leave Isaiah out of this,” she warned.
Then Erin saw it—the shadow of someone else’s face emerging beneath his skin. A peculiar, living darkness in his eyes. Erin felt the sudden certainty that there was more—so much more—inside his body than belonged. Staring at the si
lent, inky presence behind his gaze, Erin’s mind summoned her memory of the shadow that had come to her apartment. That dark, three dimensional silhouette.
Was it possible? Truly possible?
“Starting to put two and two together, I see,” Coach said, with that bizarre shadow of someone else’s face still lurking beneath his skin.
Coach was possessed—by one of those things.
He leaned in close, placing a hand on her knee. “Just remember you belong to me,” he whispered. “I saw you first.”
The door opened.
Coach leaned back, removing his hand, as Isaiah walked into the room. “I was just telling Ms. Stone she needs her rest. Try to make your visit brief,” he said, patting Isaiah’s shoulder as he slipped out the door.
Erin stared after him.
Isaiah studied her face for an instant. “They didn’t want to let me in, so I told them we’re engaged.”
Erin looked at him, but didn’t register what he was saying. She was thinking that if Coach could find her, Sirian could find her. Or Krysis. Or one of those things that came to her apartment.
“I’ve got to get out of here.” She ripped the I.V. out of her arm, pushed off the bed, and paced to the window. She peered through the blinds, relieved to see it was daytime and the Phoenix sun was as bright as ever. She wasn’t sure Sirian really was a vampire—regardless of whatever Coach might say—but he had run from light, and that was good enough for her.
“Where’s my car?” she asked Isaiah.
Isaiah put his hand on her shoulder. “What happened to you, Erin?”
She frowned.
“I know you’re in trouble,” he said.
Erin stared across the room at the door. What was she supposed to tell him? Abduction by extra-terrestrials was her best explanation at this point.
“Tell me what’s going on, Erin,” Isaiah pressed. “What happened to you?”
“It’s complicated,” she said. Understatement of the millennia.
“This complicated?” he asked, gently taking her wrist and turning over her arm to reveal the needle mark in the crook of her elbow.