Shadows Grow

by Kara Jaynes

  And suddenly it does feel romantic. I shift nearer, our hips almost touching. It’s cold, I tell myself. That is why I draw closer. The gray mantle of approaching night seems softer, and the lights of the city sparkle over the black of the ocean. I unwrap my sandwich and take a bite. And it is good. “Wow,” I say, through a mouthful of perfectly seasoned vegetables. “Beats a PB and J; that’s for sure.”

  “What is that?” Eldaren asks. He shifts ever so slightly, like he’s trying to get comfortable, and now our hips are touching. Heat radiates from him, banishing the cold. I swallow, the food in my mouth suddenly dry.

  What did he say? He said something. I just can’t remember what it was. His ponytail has loosened, several tendrils of black hair hang down his face. He’s so handsome, it’s ridiculous. How is that even possible? “It should be a crime, to be that good-looking.”

  Flame burns my face when I realize I spoke my last thought aloud, and I turn away from him, burying my embarrassment in huge bites of sandwich.

  Eldaren snickers and the sound sends electric sparks of attraction shooting through me. “Your words please me,” he says, “even if they don’t make sense.” He’s quiet for a moment, before saying, “I think you’re beautiful, too.”

  “Strong words for someone who once called me plain,” I manage. My heart is thumping wildly, and I frown, peering down at my chest with squinted eyes. Traitor.

  “The Kenelky changes many things,” Eldaren says.

  “I have crooked teeth,” I remind him, cringing as I say the words. They are my greatest insecurity. “And stringy hair. I’m too thin. And—”

  “—Stop,” Eldaren commands. “You do not have my permission to degrade yourself. There is nothing wrong with your appearance, Stella. Your teeth are cute. And your hair is, well, tangled, most days, but I like it. You’ve put on some weight in the past few weeks.”

  “Hey,” I interrupt. “I have not.”

  “You just said you’re too thin,” he insisted. “I like everything about you, Stella. Everything.”

  “But you don’t,” I say, and I realize I mean it. “Not really, Eldaren. You only like me because of this Kenelky thing. Space magic, or whatever it is. You don’t know me well enough to truly find me beautiful.”

  “I stand corrected. There is one thing about you that I do not like.” Eldaren’s voice is expressionless. “You keep resisting nature. My attraction to you is completely natural, Stella, or the Kenelky would not have sparked. It is true that you are human—” puzzlement enters his voice for a second and is gone, “—but that doesn’t make my feelings for you any less real. You are my mate, even if you refuse to see it. Do you think the Kenelky would trigger if you were anything less than perfect for me?”

  I don’t respond. I want to believe him, but I am not sure I do. Yet. “Maybe?” I manage.

  “‘Maybe,’ isn’t a good enough answer, but I will let it be, for now,” he says. “I hope with time you will come to see what I see so clearly; you and I are meant to be. We’re mates, Stella. For life.”

  He says it so matter-of-factly. He is convinced that we’re a thing.

  I don’t like dealing in absolutes, not usually. They’re so stiff and unyielding. Eldaren says he loves me now, and I mostly believe him. Or at least, I believe that he thinks he loves me.

  But I won’t be young forever. Someday, I’ll age, turning bent and grey while Eldaren stays youthful. A snort escapes me. Then again, it’d serve him right, living with a grumpy old lady for several decades. Hmm. That’d probably be good for him, and I find the thought of growing old rather satisfying, now.

  I look at the prince slant-eyed. He’s acting like he didn’t take two bullets to the chest, which brings up a few questions. “Will those bullet wounds leave any scars?” A stupid question. Of course, they will.

  “No.” Eldaren takes another bite, his gaze roving across the waters, the street behind us, and even the sky. He acknowledges my disbelief and explains. “They were just bullets, Stella. My body heals too quickly. All elves are like that. Our bodies mend at an accelerated rate, compared to humans. A bullet would leave about as much of a scar as a briar scratch might for you.”

  “If that’s true,” I say slowly, “then why do you have scars all over your body?”

  I can’t see them now, but when Eldaren is training without his shirt, I most definitely can. Pale lines criss-cross his back, chest, and arms. He has a little crescent moon scar above his knuckle.

  The elven prince doesn’t respond right away. His gaze has grown distant, seeing memories I cannot. When he speaks, his voice is quiet and almost sad.

  “Elven weapons,” he says at last, “are made with materials that when combined, create a deadly effect. We don’t heal from wounds made from them as easily, and sometimes there is scarring, then.”

  I don’t speak right away, shock pushing against curiosity, and when I do, I can hear the incredulity in my voice. “Why use those sorts of weapons in training?” I ask. “Surely it makes more sense to use something less dangerous.”

  “Where is the challenge and skill in that?” Eldaren asks. “We might as well fight with foam or wooden sticks.” His upper lip curls in disdain. “How weak.”

  “There’s no shame in avoiding pain,” I say. “In all honesty, it seems stupid to fight with such a risk of getting hurt, maybe even killed, if you or your opponent is careless.”

  “We’re not weak.” Eldaren’s voice now carries a thread of emotion—contempt. “We don’t shy from pain. We train with dangerous weapons because it helps us improve. We learn to accept pain as a natural part of life. It’s necessary to experience it, and in some cases, embrace it.”

  “So, all of those scars are a result of training?” I ask. “Gotta say, that’s dedication.”

  Eldaren falls silent and turns his gaze to the sea. I peer at him suspiciously. “There’s something else,” I say, “isn’t there? Something you’re not telling me.”

  “It’s getting late, Stella. I need to take you home.”

  “You can’t just tell me half of what’s going on,” I protest, waving a hand for emphasis. “You have a secret, Eldaren.”

  “I don’t keep secrets from you,” the prince says tersely. He crushes the sandwich wrapper and stuffs it back in the bag. “But I will withhold information if you are not ready for it.”

  “You can’t leave me hanging like that.” I frown at him. “Spill. How did you get that moon-shaped scar on your knuckle? Sol told me to ask you.”

  “Sol needs to learn to keep his stupid mouth shut,” Eldaren replies, “and I shall remind him of that the next time we meet.”

  “Only if I’m there to see it,” I say with a grin. Sol is a lot of things, but despite the fact that he isn’t elven royalty, I don’t see him obeying that order. For an elf, Sol likes to talk an awful lot.

  We ride home in silence; the only sounds are the wind and the gentle humming of the wind plank. My brain hurts trying to make sense of everything that happened today.

  Eldaren hunted down gang leaders. He thought it important enough to do the job himself, or at the very least, he doesn’t consider himself above missions like that. He’d gotten shot—twice—and healed rapidly. On top of that, elves train with far more dangerous weapons than what we humans use on earth, weapons more lethal than guns. I can hardly fathom it.

  And there’s something else. Eldaren carries a scar with a memory tied to it. A memory he isn’t ready to share. Why? What happened to Eldaren? What burden does he carry that he refuses to tell me?

  I don’t know the answers.

  But I intend to find out.

  15

  Wilder

  I’m on his trail.

  Cliff Gordon is a weasel of a man. One of the weaker members of the Golden Fist gang, Cliff is the sort to hang back in a fight until his side is sure of winning. He’s thin with a large nose and shifty black eyes. He’s gaunt and skeletal, like all the fat has been melted off his body. Not a trace of muscle
to be seen. I’m not sure why the gang leaders keep him on. Maybe he has money, or perhaps he’s just cunning enough to have survived in a gang all these years.

  I’d gotten tangled up in matters with the Golden Fist. Word on the street was that their leader had a stash of star-blood. I’d gone to them to see what I could do to earn some. It was all that mattered in those dark times.

  Those memories used to be a haze; everything swept up in my crippling lust for the drug. But since turning, it’s like a thick curtain has been drawn away. My memories have returned. I wish they hadn’t. I can remember the horrible crimes I’d committed in my frantic, debilitating need. Even then, after fulfilling my end of the bargains, the gang had withheld what they’d owed, instead, giving me paltry pinches of the powdered drug to strengthen my dependency on them. I’d stolen, bullied, and killed to get my dose. I’d groveled and begged. Nothing had been more important than the star-blood.

  The memories stir up thick, choking anger, and it’s all I can do to force it down.

  I can still remember my first dose of the star-blood; the night when everything changed.

  I shake my head, stuffing the memory away as I stalk down an alley. This isn’t a night for remembrance.

  It’s a night for vengeance.

  My intent had been to hunt down yet another stray animal, but I’d come across the scent of Cliff, and now hate blisters through me. Why track down dogs, when I can take revenge and human blood?

  Cliff’s scent has grown stronger. He’s getting close, or rather, I am drawing nearer to him. Anticipation licks my skin, goosebumps prickling down my arms. It’s almost time.

  Rain begins to fall. It’s just a drizzle, but combined with the late winter wind that whistles down the streets, it’s a miserable night. Though if I’m being honest, it’s not much different from any other late winter night. This is Liberty, after all.

  I’m drawing close to the abandoned building that’s one of the hideouts to the Golden Fist gang. My lips peel back in a silent snarl. So much evil has been committed here.

  It’s payback time. And I’m here to collect what’s owed, and it isn’t star-blood this time.

  It’s death and blood. Thick, red, and fresh.

  There are a couple of men lounging outside the door, and I roll my eyes, a smirk spreading across my face. Despite their casual stances, it’s plain as day they’ve been set as guards. No one hangs out in Liberty rain in the dead of night without a good reason for it. Or a nefarious one.

  I halt, peering at both of them. Neither is Cliff. His scent goes through the door. I landed on his trail too late. Still, these guards are food. And they’re gang members. They might have families, somewhere, people who will miss them, but they should have thought of that before turning to the gang, right? If they’re part of the Golden Fist, they’ve done enough to deserve death.

  My breathing deepens in anticipation, and every sense is heightened. I can kill them both, but I’m not sure I can drink the blood of both without getting sick.

  Unless I bring one back with me. Can I store blood in a body? I don’t know, but I suppose there’s only one way to find out.

  Cliff will live another night.

  Dropping into a crouch, I slink toward my prey. They’re not watching. Shoulders hunched against the cold, one man is lighting a cigarette, while the other stifles a yawn. “That’s your third smoke tonight,” he complains to the first. “You’re gonna die.”

  Sooner than you know.

  I stalk closer, closer. They still don’t see me. What pathetic guards.

  “Shut up,” the first man mumbles. He inhales and exhales with a heavy sigh, spewing smoke into the night. “Stars, this night is misery.”

  I strike. I hit him in the head with all the power I can muster, wincing when his skull cracks under the blow. I forget my strength.

  Leaping over his still-collapsing body, I lunge for the second man.

  He cries out, but that’s all he has time for before I’ve gripped a fistful of his hair, yanking his head back.

  Pinning him down on the rain-soaked cement, my fangs sink into his throat. Euphoria surges through me with every frantic swallow of blood.

  This man’s blood is different from the girl I’d killed, and from the elf woman. This blood tastes tainted, somehow. Drugs? I don’t know. But it’s still blood, and it fans the flames of my ever-growing lust for it.

  Pain slams into my side. This member of the gang is strong for a human. The blow should have cracked my ribs. It would have, once.

  But I’m a vampire, and his weakening struggles are useless against me. I drink him dry, and push myself to my feet, staring down at his withered corpse.

  Shouldn’t I be sated? Shouldn’t I feel satisfied? I should. I should feel relief at having given in to my urges. My temptation.

  But I don’t. My need is still there, roaring through my veins, commanding me to drink, drink, drink.

  I turn around, gazing down at the first man with a bleeding and broken skull. I was going to haul his body back to the shack I’ve been staying in, but why wait? I should drink him dry, too.

  A guttural groan rumbles in my throat and I crouch down, my lips pulling back to expose my fangs.

  Someone is watching me.

  Snarling, I spin around, fingers extended like claws.

  A boy falls back with a startled cry, pulling himself into the shadows of an adjacent building.

  He’s a vampire. I can smell his scent. Human, but not quite. Elven, but not. His red eyes glow in the darkness. Hunching his shoulders in a crouch, he edges forward. “Please,” he whispers. “Please, sir. Just a small drink. I’m so thirsty.”

  I frown at him. “Why aren’t you fighting me for it?” That’s what I would have done, in his place. I can feel his thirst, his hunger for blood rolling off him in waves.

  He flinches at my question and pulls himself even closer. It’s not a crouch so much as a cringe.

  “I—” he exhales hard and scrubs at his eyes. “I don’t want to hurt anyone else,” he mumbles. “And besides, you’re so much stronger than I am.”

  I blink, not sure what he means until I push out further with my senses.

  I am strong. I’m not sure when it happened, but I can feel power surging through me like the crash of waves against the cement walls of the harbor. Is it because I’ve been drinking blood? Does my power grow with every victim I take? The thought is both exhilarating and terrifying.

  The teenager is weak. His life force beats fitfully with his heartbeat. He’s been resisting, I can feel it. Despite myself, I can’t stop the twinge of pity. He reminds me of myself. Lost, disoriented, and alone.

  I step away, my mouth twisting in a half-smile. “Drink up.”

  He stares at me, his red eyes wide. “Y-you mean it?” he stammers.

  I step further away, giving him some space. “Better hurry,” I say. “Or I’ll change my mind.” The corpse’s blood is luring me, and I inhale sharply, trying to focus on the smell of rain.

  With a whimper, the boy scrambles forward, throwing himself at the dead body. His fangs tear skin, his eyes closing as he succumbs to his basest instinct.

  I watch him, my lip curling in disgust. He looks so weak and pathetic. How old is he? Fifteen? Sixteen? Was he one of the dream vagrants that was turned, or from somewhere else?

  Whatever he might have said about just drinking a little, it’s clear he can’t stop now. He’s clutching the corpse with a white-knuckled grip, doing his best to choke down sobs of relief as he drains the body dry.

  He finally pushes away with a gasp. He tries to rise and falls to his hands and knees. He shakes his head and asks in a small voice, “why don’t I feel better?” He moans and smacks his forehead with the palm of one hand. “Why do I still feel this way?”

  “What way?” My voice is harsh in the silence that has fallen over the street.

  The boy moans again and rolls onto his back. “Like I’m dying,” he says. “I think I’m dying. It’s
not enough.” He rubs at his eyes and another tear-soaked cry tears from his throat. “It’s not enough.”

  I know what he means. Our thirst is never slaked. It just grows and grows, never-ending. It’s a wonder people are still alive in this city, with monsters like us lurking in its shadows.

  I don’t bother hiding the bodies. They will send a clear message to the Golden Fist that they are being watched. That they aren’t safe. That wasn’t something I planned, but it would work well enough. Let them feel uneasy for once.

  I turn to leave. The boy is still on his back. He starts to cry, tears mixing with rain on his cheeks. It’s annoying. “Shut up,” I growl.

  He cups his hands over his mouth, trying to silence his pain, but his shoulders still shake.

  Sudden anger wells up inside of me. “Look at you,” I snarl. “Crying over someone already dead. You didn’t even know him. You’re pathetic.” Wait. “Did you know him?”

  The boy shakes his head. His red eyes shine in the lamplight, watery with welled up tears.

  “Well, stop it, then. You’re a vampire. The end. This is your new life. You better toughen up, or the elves will catch you and kill you. Do you want to be dead, you idiotic boy?”

  Another head shake. His light brown hair is plastered to his skull, rain dripping into his collar.

  “Do you have a home? Any friends?” Why am I asking him? I don’t care about this kid. I don’t. Pity is for the weak. That is what I tell myself.

  “N-no, s-sir.” He’s trying to hold back his sobs, and doing a terrible job of it.

  “No parents?”

  I know the words are a mistake the moment they leave my lips. The boy’s face crumples, and a howl rips out of him. Still lying on the soaked pavement, he arches his back in agony. “Momma,” he wails. “I’m sorry, Momma. I didn’t mean to. I’m so sorry!”

  Shock reverberates through me at this revelation, and I stare at the boy, wide-eyed.

  The boy killed his mother.