by Naomi Clark
“I didn’t kill Beckett,” I said. “And if your boss wants a chat, sending goons to smash my windows in isn’t a great start.”
He blinked. “I don’t know about any goons. I just got the word that he was looking for you.”
Something about his words made me uneasy, beyond the obvious. How had he found me? How long had he been following me, and why hadn’t I noticed? My skin prickled. Was I really so rusty that an ordinary human could get the drop on me? If so, I had no business getting back in the game.
Not that I was getting back in it, of course.
He smiled, suddenly, oddly more confident. His spine straightened, and he reached his hand out. “I’d like my knife back, please.”
“Seriously?” I tossed it and caught it easily, liking the weight of it. “What do you think is going to happen here? That I’m going to come along quietly?”
“I think,” he said, in a soft, measured tone that betrayed no hint of fear now, “that you’re worried. You’re putting on a front, because that’s the sensible thing to do, but you’re worried. You’re not sure how I found you. You’re not sure who else might be looking for you. You’re wondering if the dead junkie behind you was a trap, and if there aren’t half a dozen vampires lurking just out of sight, and if you’re too rusty to even notice.”
I started, taking a step back reflexively, because all those thoughts had rushed through my mind, abstractly and fleetingly. “How –”
“And let me tell you something, Georgia Victoria Jackson, I could have half a dozen vampires here in a flash if I wanted, and they could take you back to Mr. Cold piece by piece. But he wants you whole. For now, at least. So why don’t you just come along quietly? It’s the smart thing to do.”
He held his hand out again, this time as if to take mine. I raised the knife warily, warding him off. My blood pounded, my unease threatening to turn to fear. He was a telepath. That was the only explanation. He was plucking my doubts straight out of my own head. His soothing, hypnotic tone could be as dangerous as the knife in my hands if I let my guard down.
Suddenly the dark alley felt a whole lot more threatening, and my unassuming assailant looked a lot less innocent.
“Don’t fucking do that,” I said.
“Relax,” he said. “I can’t make you do anything you don’t want to. But I would strongly advise you think about coming along for that chat. Make your life easier now, Georgia. Do you really want to be on the defensive night after night, not knowing when it might end – and not even knowing why you’re doing it? Twenty minutes with Mr. Cold, and we can clear everything up.”
I wavered and hated that I couldn’t be sure if it was genuine or him influencing me. After all, didn’t he kind of have a point? I could run around town all night looking for clues, or I could go straight to the source. I could fortify my home and hole up there hoping this would all blow over, or I could go wrap this up with a single conversation.
A conversation with a master vampire who might think I’d killed one of his underlings. A master vampire with telepaths in his employ.
Shit. There really was no good option here. The one thing I was sure of was that I was not prepared to go walking into the lair of a master vampire here and now. I was strung out, amped up, and not thinking clearly. Some of that might be the telepath in front of me, but either way, it put me on the wrong footing before I’d even gone through the door. If this meeting had to happen, I had to at least try to make it happen on my terms.
“Tomorrow night,” I said. “Just tell me where to come and I’ll be there. But not tonight.”
He tilted his head, frowning. “That’s not how it works.”
“It’s how I work,” I said. “Thanks to Mr. Cold’s hit squad, I’ve got things to take care of at home that take priority. He’s only got to wait one more day.”
“A lot can happen in a day,” he said, then added, “and he didn’t send anyone to your house, you know.”
“Stay out of my head,” I snapped. “And don’t bullshit me. Nobody else has any reason to be throwing bricks and smoke bombs through my windows.”
He looked genuinely surprised, but there was no reason he should know about it. I doubted Mr. Cold kept all his goons informed of what the others were up to.
“Tomorrow night,” I repeated. “Where should I come?”
He shifted his weight around and folded his arms, considering. “Come back to the shitty coffee house,” he said finally. “Nine o’clock. I’ll meet you there. If I can.”
“If you can?” I echoed.
He gave me a grim smile that made him look decades older. “If he finds out I had you and let you go, I might not be around this time tomorrow.”
Outwardly I scoffed, but I did believe him. You can fake a lot of things, but that haunted look in his eyes... I didn’t think you could fake that. I pocketed the knife, swayed by a sudden stab of guilt. Was I going to get him killed?
“He won’t kill me,” the telepath said. “He might just break a few crucial bones.” He shrugged and stepped aside, clearing the way for me to leave the alley. “But yes, I will blame you for it.”
His psychic probing was enough to evaporate my guilt.
“Stay out of my head,” I said again as I passed. “Or I’ll break a few crucial bones myself.”
He grinned now, clearly enjoying my annoyance. “See you tomorrow, Georgia.”
“Fuck you,” I said, and walked away.
BY THE TIME I GOT HOME, I was exhausted and miserable. The sight of Elijah perched on the porch just made it worse. He cawed expectantly as I approached, and I felt tears sting my eyes.
“Where were you?” I asked. “I could have used a little back-up.”
He began preening, ignoring me.
Ignoring me, I thought as I headed round to the back yard, because he was a bird, with a bird’s brain, a bird’s memory, and a bird’s understanding of the world. Nothing more. Nothing fucking more.
I was crying freely by the time I reached the back door, hot angry tears that I scrubbed away in vain. The sight of my broken kitchen window brought a fresh wave, and suddenly I found myself sat on the lawn, hugging my knees and weeping like a child.
I’d lost so much to vampires. First my childhood innocence. Then my mother. Then Elijah. All I had now was this house, this stupid fucking retirement. It was supposed to be a chance to start fresh. Take all the grief and anger and violence and cast it out to sea, and live quietly, like a normal person. A real human being. I’d earned that. Earned it with blood and heartbreak, over and over.
And now it turned out I was going to lose that too.
I cried until my throat was raw. It was a luxury I never really allowed myself, mostly because I knew how hard it was to stop once I started. But eventually, the tears ran dry and the heat of the night made me feel too sweaty and gross to stay outside. Pragmatism asserted itself. I had a window to fix and a master vampire to meet. Neither of those problems were going away by themselves.
Sniffling and wiping my eyes, I stood and went inside to find something to board the window with. A soft croak behind me told me Elijah had followed me, and I fought another bout of tears.
Crying didn’t fix anything. I’d learned that a long time ago.
Chapter Eight
After I’d covered the broken window with some cardboard, I showered and went to bed, where I didn’t sleep at all. Morning rushed in far too quickly. I was tempted to call in sick again, but I needed to go into town today, and didn’t fancy explaining myself to any co-workers I might bump into.
Besides, I loved my job. I loved the maritime museum. I’d worked hard to get from temporary assistant to exhibit designer, making up for a lack of formal qualifications with aggressive enthusiasm. I probably wouldn’t have succeeded at a bigger museum in a bigger city, but here in Ridderport, I’d gotten lucky. My dream job. A normal job, where I didn’t kill anyone. I wasn’t going to risk it for anything.
“You have to cling to whatever normality yo
u can, right?” I asked Elijah as I rifled through my make-up bag. He croaked in agreement.
This was our morning routine. I showered, dressed, and sat on the bed to do jewelry and make-up. Elijah delicately picked through my earring collection, making a little pile of silver on the bedspread while I fiddled with mascara and eye shadow. The morning sun slanted through the blinds, striping the plain blue sheets, and the smell of saltwater wafted in through the window I’d opened a crack. The world was peaceful. I knew that was a lie, but I enjoyed it anyway.
“Which earrings today?” I asked him, spreading out the pile he’d made. My eyes ached from last night’s crying jag, but even with that misery still sitting like a stone in the pit of my stomach, I couldn’t help smiling at him.
He was a handsome bird. Could crows be handsome? I figured if I was a lady crow, I’d be impressed, anyway. He was big, with glossy black feathers that turned dark purple or deep turquoise in the sunlight. Some days, if I really wanted to hurt myself, I’d pull out photos of him from before, and try to see the man in the crow.
But no matter how badly it hurt, I was desperately grateful every day that he was still here. Even if he didn’t understand me. Even if he didn’t remember me. Even if I was just a source of food and shelter for him. All of that was better than nothing.
You can see now why I don’t try dating anymore.
He hopped back to let me look properly at the earrings, and I picked out a pair of small silver crosses with a wry smile. Then I scooped the rest back into my jewelry box and quickly put on my make-up. That done, I had just enough time to gulp down a cup of instant coffee before I left for work.
My beloved, beat-up VW bus still ran pretty well, but in the summer, I liked to cycle or walk to the museum. I’d left myself enough time to cycle today, and was just wheeling my bike round to the front of the house when Mr. Holland called my name.
I turned, shading my eyes against the sun, and saw him leaning over his back fence, waving.
“You okay, Mr. Holland?”
“Hey, I think I met your vandal last night!” he said, sounding way too excited about it.
Alarm bells ringing, I went over, leaning the bike against the fence. “What do you mean? What happened?” I tried to surreptitiously inspect him for signs of vampire bites.
“About an hour after we talked, I was out front with Molly and this kid came by. Well, I didn’t like the look of him, and Molly was barking, so I asked him what he was doing, and he said he was looking for you!”
“What did he look like?”
Mr. Holland shrugged. “I don’t know, like a bad kid. Dark hair, I think. Messy.”
“Long hair?” I asked, recalling Beckett’s grungy-looking friend.
“Yeah, like a hippie kid,” he agreed. “Molly didn’t like him at all!”
Molly was Mr. Holland’s terrifying chihuahua-Yorkshire terrier crossbreed. She was about eight inches tall, weighed less than ten pounds, and ruled the neighborhood pets with an iron paw.
“Molly is wise,” I said. “He didn’t give you any trouble, did he?”
The old man shook his head. “Naw, I just told him you weren’t around and that I knew he wasn’t from round here. Think that shook him up! He took off pretty fast.”
He looked so proud of himself. I swallowed, head swimming with images of Mr. Holland left dead in a bloody heap on my doorstep.
“Do me a favor?” I asked, grabbing my bike. “If you see him around again, just keep out of his way. And let me know.”
His face creased in worry, gray eyes serious. “Sounds like a bad kid, Georgia.”
“He is,” I said. “But I’m taking care of it, okay? You and Molly just stay safe in the meantime.”
“Molly wouldn’t let anyone hurt me,” he said, tipping me a salute as he headed back into his house.
I believed it. I wouldn’t take on Molly in a fight. I hopped on my bike and pedaled off, any good humor I’d had disappearing. It sounded like Beckett’s friend, and it was a sure thing he’d been the one to smoke bomb the house. But why come back and ask for me? Another message from Mr. Cold, maybe?
By the time I reached the museum, the sticky heat of the day had set in and my mood was pitch black. Coming after me was one thing. Bringing my elderly neighbors into it was fucking unforgiveable. I wished I’d just gone with the telepath last night and jammed a stake right into this Mr. Cold’s undead throat.
I slammed my bike into the rack at the front of the museum violently enough to rattle the bikes on either side. Then I accidentally jammed the key to my bike lock into my hand hard enough to draw blood. Perfect.
Cursing, I raised my hand to my mouth, then paused. Consuming my own blood wasn’t going to help or hurt me, but it might trigger appetites I’d rather keep buried. I didn’t need blood. I’d never needed blood.
But I couldn’t deny that sometimes I wanted it.
“You okay, Georgia?”
I glanced back to see Warren, the museum historian, peering at me with some concern from over his glasses. I had a brief flash of how I must look right then, through someone else’s eyes, hunched over my bike, the back of my hand almost pressed to my lips, blood trickling over my skin. I grimaced.
“Fine,” I said, straightening up. “Just having a bad morning.” I showed him my hand and managed a rueful smile.
Warren was the kind of guy who always had a packet of tissues on him, and he didn’t fail me now. He pulled one from his satchel and handed it over.
“How are you feeling?” he asked, watching me dab delicately at the gash. “Lacey said you were sick yesterday. That’s a first! How many years have you worked here now?”
“Five and a half without a single day off,” I said. “I think that probably qualifies me for some kind of reward.”
“Some murderers get less time than that,” he joked, as he always did if anyone mentioned how long they’d worked at the museum. Warren himself had been there for fifteen years. He’d first hired me as a temp, in fact, after we bonded over our mutual passion for history.
I finished cleaning my hand and locked my bike up. We walked to the museum doors together, exchanging idle chatter.
The Ridderport Maritime Museum had once been a Dutch shipping merchant’s house, a century or so ago. Two stories high, made of the same uninspiring gray bricks that made up most of the Historic Quarter, it had been donated to Ridderport on the merchant’s death, specifically to become a museum. It was actually called the Gerolf Leeuwenhoek Maritime Museum, but that didn’t roll off the tongue the same way.
Originally the exhibitions had been limited to bits of wrecked ship from Ridderport’s waters – massive, rusted anchors, splintered lumps of broken masts, tattered sails. The seas got rough here, the bays full of jagged rocks just below the water, and shipwrecks were frequent before the lighthouse was built in 1791. Over the past decade or so, we’d broadened the exhibitions to include one on marine research and conservation, local marine wildlife, photography showcases, and a section on naval warfare.
Warren and I were currently working on adding a marine folklore section. For a lot of reasons, I was hugely excited about it, and we soon fell into discussing mermaids and sailors as he unlocked the front doors.
“Remind me to show you the Sofronio book today,” he said as he let me in. “There’s an amazing account in there of a sea serpent that followed The Constant for eight days in 1901.”
It was just after eight, and we were the first people here. That wasn’t unusual, and I enjoyed the first quiet half hour or so before the rest of the team showed up and the museum opened for the day. Warren and I would grab tea and sit in his cluttered, cozy office, reading together in silence or animatedly discussing ideas.
Today I found myself especially grateful for that slice of calm. I was miserably tired and on edge. As much as I would have loved to throw myself into stories of sea serpents and sirens, I had another mythical creature on the brain. When the museum opened at ten, I excused myself and left
Warren’s office, heading to my own to hide for the day.
My ‘office’ was actually just a corner of the basement, partitioned off from the rest of the room with a wall of filing cabinets. I shared it with the HR team and our finance guy. Thanks to the height of the filing cabinets, nobody could see my desk, or me, once I was sat down, and so I was able to put my headphones on and shut the world out very effectively.
I wasted the morning looking at paint charts, telling myself we had to repaint the Narrow West Room if we were going to put a new exhibit in there. But should the feature wall be Sea Glass or Pale Amethyst?
That made me think of my hated Harbor Gray kitchen walls, which made me think of the broken window, which pissed me off so much, I couldn’t concentrate anymore. I should have just gone to Mr. Cold with the telepath there and then. One way or another, this might already be over.
I shook my head and took off my headphones. Finger-combing my hair, I checked the time and decided it was close enough to lunch time to go for a walk.
“I’m heading out for a bit,” I called over my filing cabinet wall.
“Christ, Georgia, I didn’t even know you were there!” Lacey, the HR trainee, called. “Where are you going? I could do with some fresh air.”
I groaned silently. Even on good days, I preferred to take lunch alone. Today was the polar opposite of a good day, but I couldn’t think of a polite way to put her off.
“Lillis Street,” I said. “Just got an errand to run.”
“Perfect! There’s a great Mexican place there.”
I heard rustling as Lacey stood, and a heartbeat later she was at my desk, beaming hopefully at me. I stifled a sigh. I liked Lacey just fine. She was quietly competent, and had a cool, pastel-goth vibe that I really dug. Her hair was dyed lavender, and she always looked like she’d come straight from an Instagram photo shoot, with color-coordinated make-up, clothes, and accessories. If we’d been the same age, I would have envied her style and wardrobe desperately.
