Shadows Grow

by Kara Jaynes

  “Um, spaghetti noodles, rice, beans . . .” Cecil rifles through the goods. “Here’s a canister of popcorn seeds.” He tosses it to me, and I catch it. “Where are your spices?” I ask.

  He points to a cabinet next to the sink, and I open it, going through the little glass jars. Ginger, cardamom, cinnamon, turmeric. Lemon pepper. “There we go,” I say quietly, and I pocket it.

  “Hey, here are some marshmallows.” Cecil’s voice turns melancholy. “I used to love these things.”

  “You don’t, now?” I say, but I already know.

  “Nothing sounds good anymore,” he says, “except . . . . Well, you know.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Do you need anything else? I don’t really want to stay here longer than we need to.”

  I nod. “Sure. Let me look around and see what I can find.”

  “Okay.” Cecil heads toward the entry. “Take whatever you want. I’ll be outside.”

  I head to the upstairs. I can’t help but notice that the house seems almost lavish compared to what Stella and I experienced. Stella had loving parents, but they hadn’t been able to afford a home this nice. And there seemed to be a good deal of food storage. If Cecil didn’t seem so upset to be here, I’d be tempted to make this our new hideout.

  I flick a switch. Nothing. This place clearly had electricity at some point, but it’s no longer working. Pausing by a window, I peer out at the backyard. I see a rectangle of freshly turned dirt. I can understand Cecil’s wanting to get away.

  Walking up the creaking staircase, I search the two bedrooms. I find some cash in one of the dresser drawers, and a coil of rope in a closet. I take both. His mother had definitely been the doomsday sort, though, in the end, her preparation didn’t help her much.

  After a second quick search of the upstairs, I go back down and finding a backpack in the closet by the front door, proceed to stuff it full of canned goods and the rope. I can still eat food. The thought fills me with hope. Maybe it will give me the nourishment I need so I won’t need blood at all. The lust has to fade, sometime. It has to.

  I grab the canister of popcorn and shove it in, as well as the bottle of lemon pepper.

  “I’m still the same,” I mutter to myself. “I just need to remember who that is.”

  If I can’t remember, though, Stella does.

  She will always see the best in me.

  18

  Wilder

  After searching the house thoroughly, I finish packing and step outside to see Cecil sitting in the yard, pulling up pieces of grass.

  “It’s not fair, is it?” he says. He didn’t see me come out, but being a vampire means he easily heard and smelled my approach before I even exited the house.

  His head rolls up, so he’s looking up at the stars. Or the sky at least; it’s hard to see past the smoke and polluted haze. “Why me?” he says. “That freak could have bitten anyone in the city, but he picked me.” He sighs and makes a small choking noise in his throat, then hastily coughs to cover it.

  “I was picking up some batteries at the local store,” he says. “My mom was always big on food storage. She wanted to be prepared for anything. We grew our food and canned as much as we could. Our whole backyard was a garden. We couldn’t make our own batteries, though. So I went to purchase some since our stash was low.” His voice turns contemptuous and he flinches. “I even brought a pistol with me. Mom never let me go anywhere without a gun. Big help it turned out to be. Did you know we’re impervious to bullets? Even a shot to the head or heart isn’t enough to stop us.”

  I’m a blend of morbid curiosity and nerves. We shouldn’t be out here, in the open. It’s not safe. We could be caught by other vampires, or worse, the elves could find us. But Cecil has never been this talkative, and I want to know what happened.

  Cecil doesn’t look at me; he almost sounds as if he’s talking to himself. “I plugged him full of holes. I think that’s what brought the elf. He’d heard the gunshots. From what you said, the elf probably would have killed me if I’d stuck around. Or if the vampire won, he would have finished what he started. But either way, my mom lost.”

  He scrubs at his eyes, and his voice thickens. “I should have stayed.” He coughs and clears his throat. “I should have stayed and died.”

  He hesitates, and keeps going. I’m not sure he can stop. How long has he been alone, unable to talk to anyone about what happened? “Mom tried to protect me. She patched up my throat and told me I’d get better. That whatever I was feeling would pass.” Cecil’s voice quivers. He draws his legs up, like making himself smaller will somehow help. “But the feeling never goes away, does it? It just grows and grows. The need for blood is never sated.” He shudders.

  I don’t respond. What can I say? That he’s right? That the desire will never leave? That he’ll always be a monster?

  He falls silent after that, his breathing harsh and uneven. He’s not ready to tell me the rest of the story. And I don’t need him too. I already know what happens next.

  Cecil is a monster. Like me. He hunts and murders.

  “We need to keep moving,” I say. My voice is the only sound on this street. It’s like the life had left Winifred Avenue the night Cecil killed his mother. We’re probably the last two souls here.

  If we have souls.

  No one has a soul, I think to myself, my lip curling at the thought. Souls are fake, just like everything else: no God, no devil, no heaven.

  But there is a hell. I’m living in it right now—just Cecil and me, and the other poor, vampire wretches that plague this city.

  Cecil still sits in a huddle.

  “We’ve got to go,” I say, “unless you plan to have us stay here at this house today. Dawn will arrive in a couple of hours.”

  He already knows, of course. Vampire instincts can tell them just how much time they have before daylight arrives.

  But my words seem to remind him that he’d rather not be here, and after a heavy sigh, Cecil pushes himself to his feet.

  We begin the journey home. Home is where the dark is. The thought makes me snort.

  “Do you want me to take the bag?” he asks.

  “Nah, I got it.” And I do. It’s packed to bursting, and it’s pushing fifty pounds, but I hardly notice the weight. It’s one of the few positives of being a vampire. I’m now stronger than I could have ever hoped to be in my previous life.

  Stars, what I’d give to have my old life back. Before the drugs destroyed it.

  Before I destroyed it.

  Cecil halts, his entire body going stiff. He sniffs the air. “What’s that?” he whispers, his voice laced with uncertainty and fear. “What is that?”

  I lift my head, and adrenaline surges through me when I catch the scent. “Trouble.” I slip the backpack off my shoulder and pass it to Cecil. “Run.”

  “But what about—”

  “Run,” I interrupt. I spin around. “It’s no use trying to sneak up on me,” I call. “I can smell you. I’m a vampire, remember? By the way, thanks for that.” I don’t bother trying to keep the acid out of my voice. “I can’t think of a better existence than living as a demonic monster.”

  Only a second passes, and then an elf steps out of the shadows of a house several yards down. With a startled cry, Cecil takes off at a dead-sprint, leaving me alone. Smart boy. He would have only gotten in the way.

  I eye the approaching elf. He’s shorter than I am, with spiky blond hair and a pale gaze full of murder. “I’ve seen you before,” I say. I stand my ground. There’s one thing I didn’t slip into the backpack, and instead is sitting in the waistband of my jeans, hidden under my shirt. We’ll see how well an elf can stand with a chest full of bullets.

  He doesn’t respond. Even now, with my gaze locked on him, he approaches, neither fast nor slow, each step full of calculated purpose.

  “Who are you?” I say. I refuse to back down, and I move into an offensive stance.

  “Mortyum,” the elf says. His voice is j
ust above a whisper. “I am death.”

  “Very clever,” I say dryly. “But in case you haven’t noticed, I’m already as good as dead. You turned me into a freak with your science experiment, remember?”

  I don’t recall seeing this elf, specifically, in that room where I was turned. But all elves are the same. Not to be trusted. Especially this one. This is the elf who’s been hunting me relentlessly.

  He doesn’t respond, and instead, pulls something out of his belt—a knife. I laugh. “It’ll take more than a pathetic little piece of steel to destroy me.”

  The elf explodes into action. With a tremendous leap, he’s closed the distance and is vaulting over my head. The knife arcs downward, and I twist aside just in time to keep my throat from being sliced open.

  I hiss in pain when the blade cuts across my left shoulder. A searing heat runs down my arm. I leap away from him, skidding to a halt several yards away. “I’m not left-handed,” I pant. My right fingers curl around the revolver, and I yank it from my waistband and aim. “Let’s see if you’re faster than these bullets.”

  He almost is. I can’t help but feel a grudging surge of admiration for this elf, but I blast him full of holes, anyway.

  He staggers, his pale face twisting into a snarl. Blood coats his chest, and I can see a bullet wound in his throat.

  The elf should be dead.

  Then the blade leaves his hand and is shooting forward. I dive out of the way, crying out when the knife embeds itself in my right shoulder. The same fiery heat spreads down into my other arm, weakening it.

  Time to go. I turn tail and run. Maybe I should have just tried to pull his head off instead of shooting him. Stars, how is he still alive?

  Though maybe he won’t be for long.

  I won’t be, if I don’t make tracks. Putting my pride aside, I run as fast as the wind, down alleys and side streets without any rhyme or reason to my direction.

  I stop when I’m a good five miles from Cecil’s old house. My chest is heaving from the combination of exertion and pain. Stars in the sky, it shouldn’t be this hard to run. What’s going on?

  I look down, only remembering then, that I still have the blade embedded in my shoulder. I wrench it out with a hiss and holding it up to the lamplight, study it.

  It’s an elven blade. The make and design aren’t like anything I’ve seen here on Earth. It’s made of some sort of metal that glows faintly with its own silvery light, runes etched into the blade and handle. It’s all one continuous piece, where the metal has been sharpened to a lethal edge on one end and polished to a solid blunt handle on the other.

  My arm still tingles and burns, but I notice it does feel a good deal better now that I’ve removed the blade. I’m still bleeding though.

  I head back home, still holding the Elvish knife. I hope Cecil is there. His mother seemed like the self-reliant type; maybe Cecil knows how to fix up wounds.

  It takes longer than usual, and I’m staggering by the time I reach the house where I’ve been staying. Is it just me, or has the air grown colder? My throat is parched, an uncomfortable feeling between the sensation of dehydration and the need for blood.

  Cecil opens the door before I even reach it. His face is pinched with concern. “Hurry, come inside,” he says. “You’re bleeding everywhere.”

  He slams the door behind us and locks it. Not that it would stop an elf, and I wonder what will happen if the elf finds us in the daylight hours. I shiver.

  “Lay down,” Cecil says, his voice brisk. “We need to clean up your wounds.”

  “I’m fine.” I try to wave a hand airily, but it’s difficult to lift. My brain feels like it’s stuffed full of cotton.

  “What did he stab you with?” Cecil asks.

  I show him the blade. Cecil frowns as he studies it. “It’s elven make,” he says.

  “I already know that,” I say. My words are slurred.

  “And it’s clearly a material that is dangerous for our sort,” Cecil finishes. “Stars, even just holding it burns. It’s like holding sunlight.” He puts it on the ground.

  He proceeds to literally rip the shirt off my back, tearing the fabric into long strips. “Let’s get you patched up,” he says. “If we can stop the bleeding, your accelerated healing should kick in, hopefully.”

  Hopefully. That doesn’t sound very encouraging. I’m feeling strangely tired, though, so I let him dress the wounds as best as he’s able.

  “You’re a good guy,” I say after he’s finished tying bandages around my wounds. “I’m glad I shared dinner with you.”

  Cecil barks a laugh, but he looks pleased. “I’m glad you shared dinner with me, too,” he says. “I didn’t think I’d find a friend ever again.”

  I blink at him. I hadn’t considered that. Are we friends? We barely know each other. But then, we understand each other as no one else could.

  “Get some sleep,” he says. “I’ll stay up for a while, and make sure the elf doesn’t find us. I’ll let you know if he does.”

  I nod mutely and head toward my bedroom. I pause when I reach the door.

  “Cecil,” I say. “What you did, I mean, what happened, to your mom . . . You know it wasn’t your fault.”

  A lie, but it’s worth it, seeing the relief on his face. “Thanks, Wilder,” he chokes, his voice full of emotion. “I appreciate that.”

  I go to bed.

  19

  Sol

  Fyit. I almost had him.

  Pain roars through me, particularly my throat. I reach up, growling as I dislodge a bullet. Fyit. That hurts.

  There’s no sign of the cursed dykner, so I head back to the base. Any humans who see me on the streets right now will probably most distressed at the sight of my bloodied form. Fortunately, the city-wide curfew Eldaren set means very few humans are out and about this late.

  I move into a jog. I’m still bleeding, but not as heavily as before. There will be no further hunting tonight. Wilder ran like the coward he is. He should have stayed and fought like a warrior. But of course, vampires aren’t heroic. They’re self-serving, carnal beasts, down to the last. Hatred overrides my pain, and it’s an effort not to spin around and track him down. I could. There is still time to find him. Perhaps he will just run straight to his hideout.

  But no, he won’t. Wilder is a coward, but he’s no fool. He will run and make me chase him over half of Liberty, and by then, I’ll lose his scent.

  I turn a corner and almost collide with a human. He staggers back from me, his eyes bulging in the lamplight. “Zombie,” he gasps, taking in my blood-soaked garments.

  I cuff him on the ear. “No humans out after curfew,” I say curtly. “Get inside.”

  He turns and bolts, and it isn’t until then that I realize I didn’t correct his assumption. Oh well. Maybe thinking zombies walk the city at night will keep the foolish humans safely indoors.

  Another snarl rumbles in my chest. Zombies don’t stalk the streets, but vampires do. Vampires. The foulest beast ever to emerge from raeg itself. I hate them. My hatred for the wretched beasts runs molten-hot through my veins. I hate them so much it physically hurts. And if Wilder gets his claws on Stella, I’ll never forgive myself.

  I break into a run. No use scaring any more humans with my bloodied, if relatively unharmed appearance. I understand why Eldaren tasked me with hunting the vampire. If word reaches Stella that Eldaren killed her old boyfriend, well, I imagine that wouldn’t go over very well. The thought only makes my anger grow. Stella is stupid to harbor any feelings for a vampire, other than fear and loathing.

  It hardly matters, though. Eldaren has set extra guards around the base, and I’ll find Wilder, eventually. Stella will never see him again.

  I stride up to the gates, and a guard opens it for me. He sees my state, he has to, but says nothing—typical elven behavior. We’re not expected to fuss over each other, and he can see I’m not in any peril. I appreciate it, as I don’t feel like explaining myself right now.

  I
go indoors and breathe a sigh of relief, letting the silver light of the lamps wash over me. Here, I am at peace. I don’t care for my home planet, Dertryis—far too many memories—but I like it here. This base gives me the stability and order all elves need.

  I head upstairs and pause on the steps, looking at the young woman standing before me.

  Lyra’s eyes are wide; her mouth slightly open as she stares at me. Stars, she’s pretty. Her skin is much darker than Stella’s, and her eyes are a dark brown, much like the dark chocolate that humans enjoy.

  And I like Lyra. She’s loud, confrontational and fearless. She is also small and physically weak, but she hides it behind an attitude of ferocity, and I like that very much. I admire brave women.

  “For the love of, what—what happened to you?” she finally manages.

  “I was shot,” I say evenly. I look down at my now torn jacket and waistcoat, soaked in blood. I’ll need new ones.

  Lyra hurries down the steps to me, her face grim. “We need to get you into the sick room,” she says. She grabs my hand. “Come on.”

  I tug her in a different direction. “I do not need any assistance,” I say. “I am neither sick nor seriously injured. I am already healing.”

  “You have blood all over you, idiot,” Lyra says, but she allows me to pull her along. “Where are we going?”

  I open a door and lead her inside. “My room,” I say.

  “It’s a mess,” she says, looking around critically.

  My face warms and I pull my coat off. “I have much more important things to see to than house cleaning,” he says.

  “Then we think alike,” she replies and sits on the edge of my bed. She eyes me dubiously. “Are you sure you aren’t about to fall over dead? That’s a lot of blood.”

  “Elves heal quickly.” I unbutton and slip off my waistcoat and drop that on the floor as well. “Here, I’ll show you.” I tackle the buttons on my shirt and expose my chest. “See? No bullets. I’m as right as . . .” It takes me a moment to remember the expression. “As right as rainwater.” I smile, pleased with myself. “That’s a fitting expression to use, here in Liberty, is it not? Since it rains so frequently.”