by Bera, Ilia
“Go and get the police.”
Vanessa’s heart skipped a beat. “What about you?”
“I’ll wait here.”
“But—But they’re going to kill you.”
“That’s fine.”
“You’ll be in every paper.”
“That’s fine too,” Peter said. It’s what he wanted. Peter was the ultimate martyr. His crime not only liberated a house full of imprisoned children, but also took Tarun off of the hook—off of police radar. “Go get the police,” he said again.
Vanessa wiped the streaming tears from her cheek. She lifted herself up onto her tippy toes and gave her brother a kiss on the cheek. Then, she turned and ran down the stairs. She got dressed in her warmest coat, and then began to run to the nearby police station.
Peter looked around the hallway, and then took a seat on the floor.
“Peter?” a familiar voice said.
Peter looked down the hallway. An old bearded man, with weathered skin and tattered clothes stood and looked towards Peter.
“What?” Peter said.
“Don’t you recognize me?”
“No.” Peter continued to sit and stare at the old man.
“It’s me—Your father. Your dad.”
Peter continued to sit and stare. Philip walked down the hall, closer to Peter—revealing more detail in his aged face.
“Philip?” Peter said.
“That’s right.”
“What are you doin’ here?” Peter asked from the floor.
“I don’t know,” Philip said. “I come by sometimes, to watch Vanessa… Make sure she’s doing okay.”
“Why would you let her live here? With the Clarksons?”
“It wasn’t in my control. They took her away from me, Peter.”
“Where’s mom?” Peter asked.
A lump formed in Philip’s throat and he stopped. “Your mom’s dead. She killed herself.”
Peter remained unmoved. “Why?”
“Because of you, Pete… She couldn’t handle what you and your brother did.”
“Oh,” Peter said. He didn’t have anything else to say.
“Peter?” Philip said.
“What?”
“I’m proud of you.”
“Why?” Peter asked.
“I’m an old man, Pete. I don’t have anything these days. No money, nothing. Vanessa is all I have, and even then—I don’t even have her. She doesn’t even know I exist—probably thinks I’m dead.”
Philip smiled and then looked up from his son. He walked past him, and went into the Clarkson’s bedroom. A moment later, he emerged with the bloody knife. “Get out of here, Pete.”
Peter stared at his father for a moment in silence. “Why?”
“Get out of here. My time is through, Pete. You’re young. Follow Vanessa—watch over her. Make sure she gets far away from here. I’m getting too old to watch over her these days.”
Peter stood up as the sirens became audible.
“At least give me this,” Philip said.
A gust of wind whistled against the cold home.
“Okay,” Peter said. “You know what they’re goin’ to say, right? In the papers and whatnot?”
“I know. I don’t care. I just care about her. Go and keep an eye on her.”
Peter looked at his father one final time before turning to leave. Nothing more was spoken. As Peter vanished into the guise of the blizzard, the police pulled up to the Clarkson residence. Not a minute later, Philip was in the back of a police cruiser, hands cuffed behind his back. It was a rookie cop that made the arrest.
CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED AND NINETEEN
THE DEADLIEST HUNT
Hanna knocked on the front door of Brittany’s home and waited for a response. The frigid winds stretched every gruelling second into a gruelling hour. Becoming increasingly impatient, Hanna knocked again.
Knock! Knock! Knock!
She knocked harder and harder each time. She could still see the fireplace flicker through the living room window. She assumed she just needed to wake her friend up.
Knock! Knock! Knock!
“Brittany! Open up! It’s me—Hanna!” she called out.
Brittany wanted to scream at the top of her lungs—she wanted to tell Hanna to run. She could hear Kane’s footsteps come to a halt as the knocking began. The moment Hanna revealed her identity, Kane’s footsteps began to make their way towards the front door.
It was Brittany’s best chance to escape—her best chance to pull down one of the boards from the window, and run as fast as she could down the street. But she wasn’t prepared to abandon her friend.
Brittany closed her eyes again and desperately tried to summon her vampiric powers. She had to become the hunter—but the relics and the nearby sunstone wouldn’t allow it.
Hanna was losing patience quickly. She reached for the handle and gave it a twist. It was open—uncharacteristic of Brittany, uncharacteristic of any vampire. Hanna stepped into the dark empty foyer, with her arms close to her body. “Brittany?” she called out, closing the front door behind her.
Dread overwhelmed her body and an empty pit formed in her stomach. Something was wrong—something was awry. Hanna sidled along the wall as she scanned the room, noticing the dancing light emanating from the nearby living room.
Brittany couldn’t handle the anxiety any longer. She cupped her hands around her mouth and stood up. “Hanna! Run! Kane’s here!”
As Brittany’s distant voice touched Hanna’s ears, Hanna froze. A long creak reverberated from the next room and Kane’s flickering shadow filled the doorway. In one swift motion, Hanna slipped into the adjacent room and took cover around the corner. She covered her mouth with her hand to silence her breathing and then closed her eyes to try to control her heart, which was pounding deafeningly against her chest.
Kane stepped into the empty foyer with his crossbow drawn.
“Fuck,” he muttered as his eyes fell upon the empty room. One hidden vampire was enough to deal with. He looked around the room while he formulated a new plan in his head. Simply hunting the vampires was going to get him nowhere—not in that dark, unfamiliar house. He needed to outsmart the girls.
He stepped towards the front door. He twisted the lock closed, and then aimed his crossbow at a forty-five degree angle to the door. He fired, driving a wooden stake through the door and the doorframe, toenailing it shut.
Making his steps as light as possible, Kane began to make his way back to the kitchen. Without their vampiric senses, Brittany and Hanna were left in the dark—they were just two little girls against a trained hunter, a trained killer. Kane was smart. He knew that if Brittany was going to run, she would have already done it already. He knew that she stayed for him—and for Hanna. He knew that Hanna could have run, but she stayed for Brittany.
Kane made his way into the kitchen, carefully stepping over the dead body of Michael. He reached into his coat and pulled out his small pistol. He readied his trigger finger as he grabbed onto an empty glass. He scanned the room and he backed into the corner with his eyes glued to the room’s two doorways.
He took a breath, and then kicked his foot back, into the wooden cupboard, making a loud thud. With a racing heart, he waited.
He could hear someone’s gentle footsteps approaching. He took another deep breath—the image of Tanner and the image of Paige flashed through his mind. The approaching footsteps stopped.
Kane fired his pistol randomly, faked a loud grunt, and then threw the glass onto the floor.
Smash!
His bait worked perfectly: Brittany, who had been meticulously timing her attack from the adjacent room, ran into the kitchen. The moment she passed through the doorway, Kane fired his crossbow.
Impeccable accuracy—The wooden stake penetrated Brittany’s chest—plunging through her heart. She dropped to her knees and let out a loud, painful cry.
An intense fire began to burn inside of her chest. She grasped onto the wooden stake pr
otruding from the center of her chest and looked down at the ground. Her eyes met Michael’s, and then the internal fire overtook her body. In one final, excruciating moment, Brittany’s body dissipated into dust.
Kane’s pounding heart stung. He’d destroyed the closest thing to love he ever had; not by accident, but on purpose.
“Brittany!” Hanna cried out from the doorway on the other end of the kitchen.
Kane raised his weapon and pulled the trigger.
Twang!
His crossbow was out of ammunition. Inside of his pea coat, there were still a few spare stakes. Before he could grab a stake from his coat, Hanna was on her way to the foyer.
Kane pursued. He followed the fleeing girl’s frantic footsteps to the front door as he loaded another bolt into his weapon. As he ran to the foyer, he raised his weapon and prepared to fire.
CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED AND TWENTY
AN EYE FOR AN EYE LEAVES THE WHOLE WORLD BLIND
Hanna ran up to the front door and grabbed the handle. She tried to turn it, but it wouldn’t budge. She fumbled with the lock and then tried again. Still, the door remained frozen shut. After pulling on it for a frantic moment, she noticed the bolt that Kane had driven into the door. Her heart froze in her chest. She was trapped.
A hand grabbed onto her arm and pulled her away from the door, throwing her into the corner of the room. The assailant moved quick, jumping across the room and sidling against the wall next to the doorway.
Kane ran through the doorway. The mysterious figure swatted his weapon from his hands and then grabbed him, tossing him to the ground. The whole moment happened in a few fierce seconds. Before either Kane or Hanna could process the frenzied attack, Kane was pinned to the ground by a force much more powerful than he could bare.
“I’ve waited a very long time for this moment,” Megan said, her claws digging deep into Kane’s wrists, penetrating his skin. Megan’s eyes were glowing a dark red and her fangs were in full form. She was completely immune to Kane’s sunstone. “I’ve dreamed about ripping the flesh from your bones.”
Kane looked down into his open pea coat at his arsenal—so close, but so far away. He strained to get his arms free from the vampire’s powerful strength.
“I’ve dreamed about ripping your heart from your chest, sucking you dry, breaking all of your fingers and toes—one by one. Oh God, how I’ve dreamed about seeing you beg for your life.”
Kane strained his fingers towards his coat—if he could just grab his vial of holy water—if he could just get his fingertips around one of those wooden stakes.
Megan wasn’t interested in a battle. She pushed his arms further apart—she was far more powerful than any mortal.
“You remember me, don’t you?” Megan asked.
Kane looked into Megan’s eyes.
“Answer me, damnit!” Megan said. She clenched her clawed fingers tighter around Kane’s wrists.
“Yes,” Kane grunted. “I remember you.”
“Why’d you do it? Why’d you try to kill me? Why did you kill James? What did we do to you?”
“James was a killer. He killed innocent people—some just kids!” Kane said.
“He changed. We were trying to start a new life! That was behind us!”
Kane laughed though his pain. “He didn’t change. He was killing behind your back—he didn’t want you to know.”
“You’re lying,” Megan said.
“No I’m not. He was good at it—always disposed of the bodies, picking people who wouldn’t be missed. Almost every week, he killed another one. He did it while you were staring up at the stars.”
“Stop lying!” Megan cried.
“Just kill me. I’m done with this. I can’t do this anymore.”
“I will kill you!”
“Then do it! Please, just do it already!”
Megan held the hunter tight and watched the blood pump through his veins.
“Well?” Kane said. “What are you waiting for!?”
“He wasn’t a killer! James was not a killer!”
“Fine. I don’t care. Just end it.”
“Tell me!” Megan said.
“Tell you what?”
“That he wasn’t a killer.”
“Fine. He wasn’t a killer. Does that make you happy? Just end it already!” Kane said.
Tears began to fall from Megan’s red eyes. “What are you doing to me?”
“Kill me!” Kane screamed.
“What do you mean he was killing behind my back? Why would he lie to me?”
Kane stared into Megan’s eyes. “It was in his blood—just like it’s in yours. You’re a vampire.”
Megan didn’t want to give Kane the satisfaction, but she couldn’t let him go either. The red in her eyes became more intense, and her thirst was overwhelming. Her claws clamped down even harder into his wrists.
“Do it!” Kane screamed.
Megan pulled one of Kane’s hands down to his side and then she pinned it down with her knee. Using her sharp fangs, she bit into her wrist, drawing her own blood.
“What are you doing?” Kane said.
“Open your mouth.”
“What? No. Just kill me!”
“Open your damn mouth.”
Kane refused. Megan reached down and pried the hunter’s mouth open with her fingers. She lowered her bleeding wrist down to his mouth, and then plugged Kane’s nose. Kane squirmed and screamed a muffled scream.
“Drink it!” Megan said.
“No!” Kane grunted. Tears ran down his face.
“Drink it!” Megan yelled louder.
Out of air, Kane was forced to breath in through his mouth—inhaling the vampiric blood into his body. The second the blood trickled down his throat, his body tensed up. The vampiric plasma was instantly absorbed into his bloodstream.
Kane’s head jolted back and he screamed out loud. He pushed Megan back with an impressive newfound strength, and he sprung to his feet.
Hanna watched unmoved from the corner with wide-eyes. All the veins in Kane’s body painfully throbbed against his skin. He screamed and squirmed as he tried to fight back the unbearable pain.
“What’s happening?” he screamed. “Make it stop! Why did you do this to me?”
The white flushed from Kane’s eyes in place of a burning dark red. Kane could see all of the living creatures within five miles—every single man and woman asleep next to the fireplace—every single baby asleep in their crib—every snow rabbit under every deck and every single deer nestled comfortably in every forest den.
Kane was thirsty. He needed to feed.
He ran towards the doorway and in one solid push, he slammed it open, sending shards of wood into the air. A cold breeze swarmed the empty foyer as Kane ran out into the blizzarding town of Snowbrooke.
Megan stared at the ground in total defeat. Deep down inside, she knew that James fed behind her back. She had always been in denial. Now, it was a reality—all of this—all of the murder she’d committed was in the name of a murderer. All of innocent faces flashed through her mind—all of the lives she’d destroyed.
The foyer lights flickered and then became lit. The frigid arctic blizzard was beginning to die down. From the other room, the radio began to crackle and the local station’s emergency broadcast became audible.
The storm was over.
CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED AND TWENTY-ONE
ZELDA
The police station was packed, shoulder to shoulder with tired faces and angry voices—some of which were just escaping the cold, others demanding charges be pressed against the desperate trespassers, who were simply escaping the cold. There was no shortage of shouting in the station as the police dismissed all of the angry homeowners—prioritizing matters of actual importance, such as finding temporary homes for the late-Clarkson’s homeless foster children, and getting statements pertaining to the Clarkson double homicide.
Vanessa claimed that she saw nothing but the bloody body in the foyer. She didn’t
rat her brother out. Her testimony was more than that of the fourteen-year-old Zelda, who didn’t speak a single word—she hadn’t spoken a single word since Hanna left her. Her silence drove the Clarksons to the brink of madness, just as Hanna’s had done years before. Like Hanna, she just didn’t have anything to say.
Zelda’s biggest challenge was containing her emotions in the police station—containing her overwhelming joy and hiding her beaming grin.
Vanessa, Zelda, and the rest of the Clarkson’s kids were given warm cots to sleep on for the night.
They were all woken up the next morning by the sound of tow trucks, pulling all of the abandoned cars into the police impound lot. All of the same policemen were buried in all of the same paperwork—making the same phone calls to, quite possibly, the same foster families.
One particularly rusty vehicle caught Zelda attention as it was pulled into the impound lot. A familiar vehicle: An old rusted ’69 Ford Mustang. As the tow truck turned around and took off for the next car, Zelda slipped outside. She stared at the car for a minute while a repressed memory began to seep back into her mind—
From the window of her childhood home, Zelda watched as Kane got into the old muscle car and drove away, leaving her alone with the body of her dead mother. She spent an hour alone with her mom’s corpse before The police pulled in with news of her father.
Zelda had replayed the memory so many times that it became a nightmare—a piece of her mind’s fiction and not a piece of reality. Like every other nightmare, Zelda forgot about it. She repressed it.
The door of the old Mustang was unlocked. Zelda looked back at the busy, distracted police station. Hotwiring a car was a skill that became second nature living with the Clarksons, just like pickpocketing and petty theft. With no money for transit, one either had to steal some money, or steal a car.
Zelda fired up the Mustang’s engine. The tank was full. The police were oblivious that the car had even been in their possession. By noon, Zelda was half-way to the next town. No one noticed her leave. No one made an effort to track her down once she was gone.