by Martha Woods
I stand there as witness as the girl's throat is ripped violently open by the monster’s claws. I can see the bone of her neck. She can no longer scream, but she still struggles as the creature lifts her up over its body and tilts his head back so the blood can pour down its face. The more she fights, the crueler the creature is. It tosses her onto the ground again, and snaps her arm like it is a twig; the girl can’t scream anymore, and she’s lost so much blood she should be unconscious by now, but she isn’t. Terror dances in those eyes that won’t look away from me. She is in agony. I am rooted to the spot. I cannot help, I cannot look away. My mouth is dry and I want to retch. I want to fall to my knees, I want to scream, I want to sob. But I am frozen.
The girl’s eyes flutter shut for a moment, but when they open again they stare at me accusingly. They say, Why didn’t you help me? I remember the gun still at my side and draw it. I take aim at the creature on top of the girl and I fire. It feels so real my body jerks back from the recoil of the gun going off. The bullet hits the monster in the shoulder, and it turns, and it sees me. Red eyes stare into mine. The girl’s body is thrown to the side like a discarded toy. She hits the wall and bounces off. I hear bones crunching.
“Run,” whispers Jane. The dead girls have drifted in front of me to stand in a line, a blockade between me and the creature, and I turn to run. I can’t save that girl, but this is a dream. In a dream, I should be able to do anything I want. I try to conjure up the ability to fly, but there is nothing. There is just the very real feeling of my feet slapping against pavement, my lungs straining in my chest, my legs burning with exertion. There is just running. I hear horrible wet slashing sounds and dare to look behind me to see the girls collapsing on the ground as their limbs are ripped from their torsos. I start to scream, pointing my gun and firing blinding behind me, not knowing if I’ve hit the monster or not. But someone is grabbing my wrist – I can’t see who it is – and I’m pinned against the wall. I hear my name shouted over and over again.
I open my eyes and find myself in an alleyway, my gun warm in my hand as if it has been fired. I look into the worried eyes of Damon, who has let go of my hands to cup my face. I have tears streaming from my eyes, and I’m not sure where I am.
“I told him we should wake you,” I hear Vincent hiss from my side.
“You never wake a sleepwalker. I didn’t know she would fire her weapon,” he says as he runs a finger down my cheek following the trail of my tears. I look around for the dead girls, but they’re nowhere in sight. Damon draws me into his strong arms, and I let myself collapse against him.
“It’s okay, I’m here, it’s okay,” he says.
“We need to leave,” Vincent says.
“Leave?” I choke out. I can’t go. I have to find the dead girls, and the newest victim. I have to know what happened here.
“Someone will have heard those gun shots. Damon, take her home. I’m going to collect all the bullets then leave. Daylight is coming,” Vincent says. “She brought us to the dead.”
I peek around Damon, and he tries to keep me from looking, but there is the girl – the one from my dream. Curled into a dead ball with her body rent apart by some horrible monster. Her body gives a few twitches as if trying to live, but I know there is no longer a soul inside of the ruined shell. She still stares at me. I close my eyes and press my face against Damon.
“Did you see him?” I ask once he has me walking to his truck. How far did I walk that he had to drive to follow me?
“No, we were too late. Your gunshots must have scared him off. How did you know he was here?”
“I didn’t. I was brought here,” I say. Damon helps me into the passenger seat. This time, there is an arsenal of weapons there. He takes them out and begins putting them in a metal box in the back of his truck. I slide in next to a rather long and sharp sword he has decided to keep out.
“The best way to kill a werewolf is to remove its head,” he tells me as he slides in. I’m shivering, even though it isn’t too cold outside. It’s like the touch from those girls has gotten underneath my skin.
“You started to sleep walk not long after you fell asleep. Vincent wanted to wake you, but I said to wait. Things can go wrong waking a sleepwalker and…honestly I wondered…I didn’t realize you would go so far, or that you were still armed. I’m sorry.”
“It’s not your fault. It was them.” I motion in the direction of the girl’s body. Soon there will be police swarming the area, and I’m in no mood to be questioned. What could I say? Dead girls in my dream dragged me to the murder site?
“Who are they?”
“The victims, I think. It was Jane. The most…the second-most recent victim. She came, grabbed my hand and dragged me here. It’s not the first time I’ve dreamed them,” I admit quietly. Saying it out loud nearly makes me vomit. I don’t want this to be real. “They’ve been showing up when I’m awake, too. Just…appearing in front of my eyes. It’s like reality is slowly shattering around me.”
Damon looks at me. He’s worried, but he doesn’t disbelieve anything I say. He reaches out a hand to mine and gives it a squeeze. Slightly awkward with a giant sword in the way, but I wouldn’t mind learning how to use it since my bullets seem to have done nothing.
“He was there, he saw me, so I fired,” I say.
“I don’t know what it is you’re seeing, but you’re a little more than human, Amy. If Vincent can’t get into your head, and the dead are talking to you, you’re likely a Medium.”
“Not entirely human?” I pull my hand back and sink back into my seat, bringing my knees to my chest.
“A little more than human,” he amends quickly. “Every now and then someone is born who can talk with the dead, the ghosts of the world, who can predict the future in their dreams,” he says.
“I don’t see the future; I see things as they happen. It started when I met Vincent,” I say. “The day I met you. I’ve never had that before.”
“When he tried to get into your mind he probably triggered something. Some like to call it the third eye.” He glances over at me. “I know someone you can talk to. A witch.”
“A witch?”
“A bit different than you’re imagining. She runs a trinket shop where people can buy stones and Tarot cards, mass-market books on spells, things like that. But she’s the genuine thing. She can at least help you with your nightmares,” Damon says. “She sees the future; she helps hunters with our own nightmares and with tracking the paranormal.”
“Doesn’t that put her life in danger from them?” I ask.
“No one wants to get on her bad side,” he says with a laugh.
I could use someone like that in my corner. But somehow I knew it wouldn’t be enough. “Could you teach me how to use a sword?” I ask.
“I’ll teach you anything you want. I know what you’re going through, Amy. I know what a shock it is being catapulted into this world. I’ll help you any way I can.” He clears his throat. “I’m…I’m sorry I didn’t tell you the truth sooner, but most girls think I’m crazy. I thought you might be different. Even that first night I met you, I felt like there was something about you. I had a feeling,” he says.
I’m a bit too shaken up to really process what he’s saying. He had a feeling. He must have somehow known Vincent was around that night. Hunter’s instinct or something. And he didn’t warn me. Probably because he thought I would have laughed him off. I can’t blame him for that. I would probably still think all of this was a trick, that he and Vincent were working together to con me or something – were it not for the horrible dreams.
“Yeah, I guess that would have been an awkward warning to give.”
We pull up to our apartment complex. It’s close to 4 a.m. Damon brings his sword in with him, seemingly unconcerned about who might see it. I suddenly remember my protection detail. Where were they? Did they follow me on my sleepwalk too? My stomach sinks. If Rick hears about this…but I don’t see any signs of them. Maybe they went home aft
er they thought I’d turned in for the night. Or maybe…was it possible for my stomach to drop even lower? Maybe something happened to them. I make a mental note to call Rick in the morning and ask, then try to put it out of my mind. There’s only so much I can worry about at one time, and killer werewolves are a bit higher on the list.
I imagine I’m not going to see any more of Vincent tonight, which is fine with me. I just want to crawl into bed again, knowing that Damon will stay and watch over me while I sleep. We get to my front door, and I start to smell something funny, something revolting even. It reminds me of the dead girls, and my stomach does a flip again. I don’t know if it’s ever going to settle completely after all this. I get afraid the girls are on the other side of the door, waiting to tell me of yet another gruesome murder I’m powerless to stop, except Damon seems to smell or sense something wrong too and he pushes me behind him. He’s got my keys; I must have left the house without them to go wander the block in search of Elric.
He unlocks the door, and the stench becomes overpowering. I very nearly throw up this time. I drop down to the ground, unable to keep my legs under me, and peer around Damon’s legs. My mind doesn’t want to process what I’m staring at; it doesn’t want to register what is laying there on my front step. Bella’s head has been pulled clean of her body, her tongue lolling out, her eyes gone. The death is so recent there is still fresh blood around her. My Bella, my dear sweet Bella. The one companion I’ve had for years. My running partner is just a head on my floor.
I think Damon is saying my name, but I can’t hear him over the sound of my own sobbing scream.
Chapter 9
Bella is gone. There is no way of saving her. I crawl around Damon’s legs. He tries to stop me, but I’m small enough to slip past him and desperate with grief. I take up the head and pull it to my chest, sobbing. My apartment has been decorated in her blood, in her entrails. There is nothing in view without a spot of blood on it. I didn’t know a dog could bleed so much. I can only imagine the pain he put her through. My sweet puppy who wouldn’t hurt a human being, my horrible guard dog but best friend. She is gone in the most horrible of ways.
I can’t stop the tears from falling. Damon is talking to me, but I can’t hear him. I just stumble through my apartment. Her legs have been left on my sofa, ripped clean from their sockets. Her tail is left in my open tea kettle. When I walk into my room, I see her ruined torso tucked into my covers, sliced open so what’s left of her entrails bleeds all over my bed. I run to the bathroom, still cradling her head, and vomit. Damon is there to hold my hair back, he’s still talking to me, but I can’t register anything he is saying. When there is nothing left in my stomach, he begins to pry Bella’s head from my hands.
“Shh,” he whispers in my ear. I try to latch onto that and not onto the horror that surrounds me right now. I want to be filled with rage, but there is so much sorrow.
“She didn’t do anything,” I sob out, turning Damon. “It hurts so bad. I feel like I’m drowning. I can’t breathe. How am I still breathing? I can’t breathe. Help me. She didn’t do anything.”
The head is out of my hands, and he places it gently on the bed. He moves to wrap me up in his arms. I let out a startled cry realizing there is blood – her blood – smeared all over my shirt. Damon picks me up, sliding one arm under my legs and the other around my shoulders. I turn my head to sob into his shoulder. Closing my eyes, I to try to get the images out of my head, but they are seared into my mind. How am I ever going to sleep in this apartment again without Bella? It’s been tainted. I want to burn it to the ground, burn the sheets, throw out the couch, and melt the teakettle. There is nothing that belongs to me left in this place without Bella.
Damon moves me to his apartment, unlocking the door and heading towards his bathroom. He sets me down on the toilet as he begins to run a warm bath. He pours something into the bath, it smells of lavender and he swirls it around the tub. I’m shivering in my clothes.
“I’ll do whatever I can to take the pain away, I promise,” he whispers as he tilts my head back for a brief kiss.
He starts to remove my clothes, pulling the shirt over my head. He has me stand as he removes my jeans, my underwear, and then he unsnaps my bra. Damon is controlled in his movements; he doesn’t touch me in any inappropriate ways. His hands are gentle, kind, reserved. I’m shivering, feeling myself going into shock. He picks me up and sets me down in the lavender bath and the warm water engulfs me; the sweet scent begins to chase away the smell of death. I can feel my muscles relaxing even though my mind is spinning to the deepest, darkest hole it has ever been in.
Damon gets a large plastic cup. He fills it with warm water and tilts my head back so he can pour it over my hair. He works methodically, doesn’t talk, and I just lie there and try to concentrate on the feeling of the water. There is something else mixed into the water that is soothing, calming my brain down. The tremors begin to stop, and I close my eyes. Damon works his hands through my wet hair, massaging my scalp. The shampoo and conditioner he uses do not have an overpowering odor; they smell like the forest, with a hint of cinnamon. They come in glass bottles, specially made, not something bought from the store. I barely register these observations before my mind meanders on through its confusion; I don’t have time for analysis. He finishes washing my hair and sits on the toilet beside the tub with his head bowed, his fingers clasped tightly together.
When the water starts to get cold, he begins to drain the tub, picking me up out of it and wrapping me in a towel. He holds me close, and I don’t protest. Damon walks me from the bathroom to his bedroom where he finds one of his shirts for me to put on. He goes to get a brush and turns me around, slowly getting all the tangles out of my hair before putting it into a tight wet braid. I wonder briefly where he learned to braid. I look around his room. It is sparse; just a bed and a night table, long wooden trunk with a lock on it. The sheets and bedspread are hunter green. A thought that feels like it’s come from outside my body observes that they match his eyes. He leaves me for only a moment, returning with a glass of water and a tiny pill.
“Take this. You won’t have any dreams. I’ll be right here all night,” he says. “And the pain will go away till morning.”
The pain will go away; those words echo through my mind. I put the pill on the back of my tongue and swallow. There is a bitter aftertaste and I drink more water because it feels lodged in my throat. Damon moves me to place my head on a pillow, bringing the covers in tightly around me as I close my eyes.
“I’m going to make a phone call, and I’ll be right back,” he whispers. He kisses my forehead and disappears out of the room but leaves the door open. Damon always stays in my vision. I can’t tell what he’s saying, but he keeps clenching and unclenching his fist. He paces back and forth, but the image of him is getting blurry. I think of how cold this bed is without my mutt to curl up next to me and the tears begin to come again. My brain is reconstructing Bella as the dog she was, not the body all over my apartment.
Damon hangs up the phone and comes back into the bedroom. He strips off his clothes. Through my growing haze I note they have a couple of bloodstains on them. Generally, I would love to take in his physique, but tonight the pain is too much. He changes into pajama pants but doesn’t bother with a shirt, then slips into the bed behind me. He draws me in close to him. I feel his warmth through the shirt I wear. It is the only thing that feels real.
“I’m so sorry I failed you, Amy,” he whispers into my ear before kissing my cheek.
I want to respond, but whatever was in that pill has hit. My eyes close and I fall into a pit where I feel nothing. There is no pain here, there is no joy. It is just a numbingly fantastic sleep.
Chapter 10
I sleep until the sun is at its highest point in the sky. At first when I wake, I’m not sure where I am. I jerk to sit up. Damon is there, sitting on a chair by the window, sharpening the silver blade he had drawn against Vincent that night in my apartment. That
night – last night? It feels like years ago. My brain is fuzzy from whatever pill he gave me. I can’t quite grasp why I’m in here, but then Bella’s face pops into my head, and I have to choke back a sob. Damon is there in front of me, caressing my face and planting a kiss on my forehead.
“Shh, it’ll be okay,” he croons. I can feel his empathy. He seems sad, not just because I am hurting, but because he’s been hurt too. How much have you lost dealing with the supernatural, Damon? I wonder.
“I don’t know if I’ll ever feel safe in my apartment again,” I choke out. He draws me in to hug me.
“It’s clean now, you can go get your clothes and stay with me until you find another apartment or until you’re okay going home.”
My apartment is clean? I remember the phone call he made last night. Maybe he had been calling friends in to remove all the blood. Maybe he worked in a network of hunters that deal with messy situations. No wonder Damon doesn’t have a dog or a cat. He seems like an animal lover, though I’ve never really seen him interact with one. His first time in my apartment was so violent that Bella hid under my bed. But something about his sweet, soothing nature makes me think he’d be likely to own a Golden Retriever or something. He probably never makes those kinds of attachments, though, for fear that they could be used against him. I start to think about all the attachments I’ve made, all the people that Elric could hurt, and I start to tremble again.
“We have to kill him,” I say.
“I know,” Damon says, running his hand over my braid.
“I’ve got too many people he can still hurt,” I say.
Damon pulls me back to study my face. I know my eyes are red from crying, but I’m determined. I’ve never wanted to kill something so badly in my life. Bella didn’t deserve to die like that. She probably greeted the damn monster when he came into the apartment, her little tail wagging before he cut it off.
