by Amy Cross
"I'll say anything I need to say to get you to come with me," he replies. "Benjamin and I both know that we can't do this without you. Neither of us knows Patrick very well." He pauses for a moment. "There's also the matter of what he told you."
"What he told me?"
"The Watchers have spies everywhere," he continues. "We know that Patrick whispered something to you a long time ago. Now, you have two choices. You can either come with me, or you can just tell me what Patrick said."
I take a deep breath. "I've told you what he -"
"Not all of it," he replies. "You're holding back."
"Tell me one thing," I say, trying to change the subject. "Tell me why we have to do any of this. 'Cause it seems to me that if we just sit back and don't do anything, there's no problem. Patrick's dying? Fine. Great. Abigail doesn't have to know who she is, or where she came from. She's probably doing just fine. So instead of interfering, why don't we just wait it out? Let Patrick go, and let Abigail have a normal life."
"It's not that simple," he says. "Abigail's as much vampire as she is human. Do you seriously think there aren't creatures out there that can sniff her out? She's in danger. Now that she's getting older, she'll be getting easier and easier to find. We can't take the risk any longer. We have to go get her, take her somewhere safe, and help her prepare for the moment when she takes her rightful place."
"And Patrick?" I ask. "Where's he in all of this? Shouldn't he be looking out for her?"
"Patrick's not in a position to help Abigail at the present time," he replies.
"What does that mean?"
"It means what it means," he says. "It means a lot has happened while you've been drinking yourself into oblivion here in New York. Some of us had to keep watch, and it wasn't easy." He pauses for a moment. "What do you think would have happened if we'd all reacted the way you reacted? What if we'd all drowned our sorrows in drink and drugs? You took the easy way out, Shelley."
"You call this easy?" I reply, angry at his assumptions.
"You didn't even go to her funeral," he says. "Everyone was asking about you, but you didn't show up. Have you even been back to Dedston? Have you even bothered to go to her grave?"
"Why would I?" I reply, lighting up another cigarette. My hands fumble a little with the lighter. "It's just a patch of ground with a dead body in it. It doesn't mean anything."
"It would have been a sign of respect."
"No," I say, taking a drag on the cigarette. "Saving her life would have been a sign of respect. Going to her grave would just have been a sign of pity."
"You can't blame yourself for what happened to her," he says.
"I don't," I reply. "Not much, anyway. I blame you, or rather the people you work for. If your lot were always watching what happened, why didn't any of them step in and do something about it?"
"We're Watchers," he says. "The clue's in the name. We observe. We don't interfere."
"Until now."
He nods. "Until now. Times have changed. When I joined the Watchers a few years ago, the first thing they told me was that the Age of Chaos is coming and that we'd have to get more involved. They also told me that when the time came, I'd have to come and get you."
"And that's why you're here?" I ask.
"That's why I'm here."
I take another drag. "I don't have a choice, do I?"
He shakes his head.
"Promise me one thing," I say. "Promise me that, no matter what happens, we won't try to save Patrick. He's a killer. He's a fucking monster. We have to let him die."
"None of us have any interest in saving Patrick," he says. "It's not even possible. The process has already begun, and it's irreversible. His death is assured. The focus here is Abigail."
"I'll pack a bag," I say, realizing that there's no point fighting. I walk over to the wardrobe and pull out an old rucksack. "So you've really got nothing better to do than stand and watch me pack?"
He shrugs. "Maybe you'll do a runner as soon as I'm out of the room."
"So you're gonna stare at me all the time?"
"Maybe," he replies.
Zipping up the bag, I turn to him. "Ready."
"That was quick," he says.
"I don't plan to be away for long," I reply. "Don't forget, I'm not one of you. I'm not a Watcher. I'll help Abigail, but then I'm coming back to New York." I haul my bag over my shoulder. "I'm really not planning to be away for long."
"It might take a while," he says.
"Do you even know where she is?"
"Abigail?" He smiles. "We've been watching her for years."
"How is she?" I ask as we walk to the door.
He pauses for a moment. "It's complicated."
"Alright, whatever-your-name-is, let's go," I say.
He stops. "You don't recognize me, do you?"
I sigh. "Have we met before? Have you been peering in my bedroom window every night, 'watching' me?"
He smiles. "Not quite. I suppose I should have introduced myself properly at the start." He reaches out a hand for me to shake. "It's me. Todd. Sophie's brother. Long time no see."
Abigail
Callerton, New Mexico.
"So how was school?" asks Evan, my foster father, as we sit eating dinner. He does this every evening: in order to keep us from talking about anything important, he fills the silence with banal, trivial questions. I guess it's his way of trying to maintain the pretense that there's nothing unusual about me, even though he knows the truth. I can see from the way he and his wife Ruth look at me that they know I'm not right. I guess they wanted to foster a nice, normal girl who'd grow up to be a credit to their fine parenting skills. Instead, I'm going bad; I'm going wrong. I'm rotten. It's not their fault, but they must be disappointed.
"I saw you had some friends with you when you came home," Ruth says, forcing an awkward smile. "Are you finally starting to fit in a little better at school?"
I shrug. To be honest, I'm distracted by the feeling of Donna's spit in my ear. I want to run to the bathroom and clean it out, but she told me I have to wait until midnight. I know there's no way she'd find out if I did it sooner, but then again... you never know. Best not to take a risk.
"I told you it'd be okay," Evan adds. "Trust me, I remember what it was like to be your age, and the whole world seemed to be against me. But things have a way of working out. You'll see."
I force a smile, purely for Evan and Ruth's benefit. It's not that I want to disappoint them. I've grown to like them over the years, and I've tried to 'fit in' at school. I wish I could magically replace myself with some perfect, perky teenage girl who'd make them proud. Instead, I just spend day after day making them wonder what they did wrong when they raised me. There's something deeply wrong with me, and I have no idea how to deal with it. Some of the symptoms, like my strange teeth, are visible, but most are in my head. I just feel totally, completely different to these people, almost as if I'm not from the same species. Trying to fit in, trying to conform to what my foster parents want, almost drove me crazy. I've had to just accept that this is how things are going to be for now.
And then there are the ghosts.
The ghosts started coming a few weeks ago. Just a couple at first, loitering in the street outside the house. Then I noticed more and more of them, and now they're everywhere. They don't come until late at night, and they always stay outside. They just stand at the window, watching me. They're too fuzzy to make out properly, so all I can see are shimmering white outlines. I know they're definitely looking at me, though, and it's as if they're waiting for me to do something, or say something, or... I wish someone else could see them, because then I'd know that they're not inside my head. To be honest, I think I'm starting to lose my mind.
"Just three more weeks," Ruth says. "Are you looking forward to having your braces out?"
"Let's not get carried away," Evan adds, smiling at me. "Abby, you understand that you might need the braces for a little longer, don't you?"
I nod. I can still feel those two strange teeth; if anything, they've become more pronounced since the braces were fitted. It's kind of pathetic how desperately Evan and Ruth are clinging to the idea that somehow everything's going to become more normal once these braces are off. I guess this is their last, best hope to 'fix' me. They ignore all my emotional and psychological problems and focus on these weird teeth; they get metal bars fitted in my mouth, hoping to force the anomaly straight by caging the abnormalities. It won't work, but at least they're trying. I just wonder what they'll do when they have to accept that I am what I am. I'm not normal.
"So we were thinking," Evan says eventually, "maybe when your braces are done, we could all take a little family vacation somewhere nice? Just a small road trip. How do you fancy California for a week?"
I look over at him. I have no particular interest in California, and I know a 'road trip' wouldn't solve anything, but I want to make him happy so I smile and nod.
"See?" he says to Ruth. "We can all go as a family."
"I might have to stay behind for work," she says, smiling falsely at me. "We'll see. But you two should definitely go."
"Well, yeah," Evan replies, clearly a little disappointed. I get the feeling that they've been talking about this between themselves for a while now.
"Don't forget Dedston," Ruth says to him suddenly.
"No," Evan replies, looking down at his food.
Dedston? Is that a place? I wait for one of them to say something, but it seems as if Ruth's comment has killed the conversation completely.
Finishing my food, I set my knife and fork down and sit in silence. Evan and Ruth start talking about random stuff that's happened to them during the day, discussing their 'normal' lives. It's almost as if I'm not here. I feel sorry for them. They spent so many years trying to have their own child before they had to accept that Ruth was incapable of getting pregnant. Then they went to a foster agency and they were allowed to take me in, and look what I've grown up to become. I can see the sadness in their eyes, especially Ruth's. Lately, she's started to drink a few glasses of wine each night, to 'settle' her nerves. She's started the long slide into alcoholism, and there's nothing I can do to stop her.
"You can be excused," Evan says to me, "if you wish."
I stand up, my chair scraping loudly against the floor. After carrying my plate to the kitchen and putting it into the dishwasher, I go through to my bedroom. I keep the lights off and walk over to the window. Outside, the ghosts are gathering for their nightly vigil. To be honest, if I knew what they wanted, I'd just give it to them. I don't have the energy to fight. I'd happily disappear forever, except I know that it'd hurt Evan and Ruth too much. No matter how bad things are, they cling to the hope that in some way they'll eventually get it right. They hope that one day they'll wake up and I'll suddenly be the perfect girl they always hoped I'd be. I'd willingly sacrifice myself in order to give them what they want.
Sitting on my bed, I open my mouth and stick a finger inside to feel my teeth. It was about a year ago that I first noticed something was wrong. Two of the upper teeth near the front of my mouth seemed to be being pushed aside. When they fell out, I felt new, sharper teeth coming through from my gums. It was painful and sore at first, and eventually Evan and Ruth noticed that I was reluctant to eat. They took one look at the teeth and marched me straight to the dentists' office, where I was told that I needed braces. The dentist said he'd never seen anything quite like this before, and I felt as if he just attached the braces because he had no other ideas. I didn't really mind, though, since the braces are so bulky that they provide a convenient excuse for my silence. I've never spoken, and I never will.
Looking up, I hear a scratching sound at the window. The ghosts have never done that before, but perhaps tonight's the night when they'll finally make their move. Feeling my heart-rate rising, I imagine their fingers picking away at the frame. Are they going to come inside? I stay where I am, too nervous to go and take a look, but as I stare at the window, I slowly become aware of a presence in the room. I'm reluctant to turn and look at first, because I have a horrible feeling that there's something standing right behind me. Finally, I force myself to turn my head slowly to the left.
Nothing.
I relax a little. I guess my mind is playing tricks on me. Not surprising, really, considering I feel as if I'm being stalked by a bunch of ghosts.
I spend the rest of the evening alone in my room, reading. When the clock finally hits midnight, I head to the bathroom and I use the cotton buds to clean my ear. I've had to live with Donna's spit in there all evening, but at least now I can get it out. Even after half an hour of cleaning, though, I still don't feel totally clean. As I clear the cotton buds away, however, I start to hear the second heartbeat in my body. It's strange, but every so often I feel as if there's another heart, pounding away inside me. It only lasts for a few seconds at a time, but it's the weirdest thing I've ever felt, and it's another sign that something's very wrong with me.
Once I'm asleep, I slip into a vivid dream. Mostly, I have the same dreams every night, with a few variations. Tonight, I dream I'm in a huge house, like a mansion, and there's this other girl there and she tells me to hide. The weird thing about her is that she looks a lot like me, and she acts like she knows me. She leads me to a cupboard and pushes me inside before slamming the door shut. As the dream continues, I hear the sound of some kind of fight outside; eventually everything falls silent and I venture out from the cupboard. There's blood all over the floor. When I reach the next room, a small red goblin-like creature scuttles across the ceiling, and there's a man standing nearby. He has the darkest eyes I've ever seen, and they're staring straight at me. Over in the corner, the woman is on her knees, slouched over, with blood pouring from an open wound on her stomach. It's a horrific sight, but the weirdest thing is that I feel at home here. I feel as if this is where I belong. Here, and only here.
Shelley
Los Angeles, California.
"Shelley, stop fidgeting!" Todd whispers to me. "Be patient!"
"I'm not fidgeting!" I say, getting slightly annoyed. We're in a spacious, clean and very modern-looking apartment just outside Los Angeles. It's a bright day and light is streaming in through the large windows. After a two-day journey from New York, I'm pretty exhausted and all I want to do is find somewhere to sleep, but Todd insists that we have to be here at Benjamin's house right now. Honestly, if this is all so fucking important, I don't see why Benjamin couldn't come to New York instead.
"He'll be here," Todd says.
"That'd be nice," I reply, "considering I've come two thousand, four hundred and forty-three miles to see him." I shrug. "Yeah, I checked the exact distance. I was bored."
"Patience," he says.
"Stop saying that!" I hiss at him.
"One moment, please," says Benjamin, walking into the room. He's a lot older than last time I saw him, with short gray hair and a thin, lined face. The guy must be sixty if he's a day, perhaps even in his seventies, but he has a real aura of style and class about him. Undercutting this slightly, however, is the fact that he's wearing boxer shorts and a singlet vest.
"Can we just -" I start to say.
"Wait," Todd says, interrupting me. "Just wait. You've waited sixteen years, you can wait another couple of minutes."
"I haven't been waiting for sixteen years," I tell him. "I've been getting on with my life."
"Patience," he says again.
"I remember when you were just a little kid," I say, sighing. "I used to come over to see Sophie, and you'd be playing on the carpet." There's a pause. "I liked you better back then."
He smiles. "I thought you were a hooker," he replies.
"You wish." Deciding to ignore him, I watch as Benjamin picks up a slice of ham from a box on the counter and puts it in his mouth. As he chews, he walks over to a small container in which, it turns out, there are some young chicks. They open their little beaks and Benjamin leans over, carefully spitting
out a portion of chewed ham into each of their mouths.
"That's gross," I say. "That's one of the grossest things I've ever seen."
"Life is gross," Benjamin replies as he turns to me with a smile. "Let me guess, Shelley. You've managed to insulate yourself so that you only see the pretty things."
"No offense," I say, "but fuck you."
"One moment," he replies, walking out of the room.
"One moment?" I say, turning to Todd. "It's always 'one moment' with this guy. Why can't he just start talking?"
"You need to be more patient," Todd says. "Benjamin knows more about what's happening than anyone. He's the one who decided we had to keep an eye on Abigail, and he's the one who knows how we're going to keep her safe."
"And where's Patrick in all of this?" I ask.
"Let Benjamin explain."
"Great," I say. "He did such a good job keeping Sophie safe."
"The Watchers didn't involve themselves directly in what happened to Sophie," Todd replies. "Abigail's different."
A few seconds later, Benjamin returns to the room, and this time he's wearing a perfectly cut black suit. The contrast to his appearance earlier is striking, and as he sits on the sofa opposite, he looks like he could be a Vegas lounge singer.
"The birds need their feed at a certain time each day," he explains, "or their routine is destabilized. I appreciate that it must have looked a little strange, but life is life and it must be maintained wherever possible, and by whatever means necessary."
"Enough about birds," I say. "Where's Abigail?"
"She's in a town called Callerton, New Mexico," he replies, "living with Evan and Ruth Parlour, a foster family. She's been with them since she was just under a year old."
"Who are Evan and Ruth fucking Parlour?" I ask.
"They've been good parents to her," he continues. "They're aware of the situation, or at least part of it. They've kept her safe and they've raised her well, but I'm sure you'll appreciate that there are some things they can't possibly be expected to deal with. We've reached the point at which it has become necessary for us to intervene and take Abigail out of their care."
