Hollowed (Half Light)

by Kelley York

  "I didn't lie," he says. "I don't lie. There are a few documented cases in recent history of a bite being enough to turn a human, yes, but the chances of it are literally one in a million."

  No, no. This can't be right.

  "You lied by omission of information. Who was it?" I'm three seconds from crying. My gaze shoots to Cole. "Was it you? I thought it seemed pretty fucking convenient for you guys to find me."

  Cole steps up behind Oliver. I'm glad he gives me a little bit of breathing room, because I'm feeling really claustrophobic right about now. "It wasn't either of us. And we don't know; we were trying to figure that out. It's rare for a vampire to turn someone and simply abandon them."

  Abandoned. Ditched. Like Noah ditched me, like Ruby apparently did, too. "This isn't even a little thing. This is a big thing. Why didn't you just tell me?"

  "We debated it," Cole murmurs. "But we were concerned what your reaction would be."

  Yeah, right. More like, "You didn't trust me not run off to find the one who turned me."

  "I didn't say that."

  "You don't have to." I turn around. Oliver grabs my arm and I slap his hand away. Not enough to hurt, but it startles him into letting me go. "You didn't trust me to tell me the truth, so like hell I'm going to trust either of you." I back out the door with Oliver grabbing for me again.

  "Briar."

  Even as he calls my name, I'm turning, dashing down the hall and reaching the elevator before he can chase after. The obnoxious music wafting through the overhead speakers is a comical background sound to accompany my mood.

  I feel safer in the lobby. Even they wouldn't be stupid enough to try grabbing me where I can draw attention. I hit the double doors and then the sidewalk before I slow from a jog to a walk, only because I can hear the most pathetic mewling behind me. Algonquin struggles to catch up on his short legs and I instantly feel guilty as I crouch and open my arms. He hops into them, heartbeat a million miles a minute under his tiny ribs.

  "I'm sorry," I mumble into his fur. "Here I am upset about being left out, and I leave you behind." He purrs unsteadily and bumps his face against my chin, telling me everything is okay.

  It isn't, but it will be. If no one will tell me the truth, then I'll figure it out on my own.

  14. Wednesday – 12:41pm

  A day-pass and four buses later, and I'm home.

  I don't have any real attachment to this two-story house. It looks like any other house on the street and it's been three different colors—none of them attractive—during the time my family has lived there. This year's color scheme? Baby vomit.

  I let myself in through the back door. No barking dogs to greet me, which means Mom and Dad are out of town and have them staying with a friend. The house is eerily silent and lifeless. I don't know whether to be happy I'm here, where things are familiar, or lonely.

  Algonquin leads the way through the living room and upstairs. No sense in going to my room; we cleared it out when I moved. Instead I make straight for Ruby's door at the end of the hall.

  Beyond the doorway, everything is frozen in time, not a single thing touched in years. Her clothes in the closet, her CDs scattered across her desk and an unfinished essay that will never be completed. Never turned in. It still smells lived in with the perfumes and sprays she liked to use.

  Back when the cops were still looking for Ruby, I would sometimes come in here to sleep. I thought maybe she would come home. Sneak in through her window in the dead of night. But she never came back, and eventually the cops stopped looking. Eventually, Mom, Dad, and I gave up hope.

  Could she really still be alive somewhere? And if she is, what is she doing getting involved with vampires? Why did she leave?

  If all she wanted was to run away, why couldn't she have told me, of all people?

  Algonquin perches himself on the foot of the bed, sniffing around. His presence reminds me that I can't stay here forever. I thought I wanted to see Mom and Dad, but the more I think about it, the less it seems like a good idea. Losing one daughter was bad enough, but losing another one? It's going to kill them.

  But it would hurt more if I told them goodbye. Because I can't tell them why I can't come home again. If Noah was scared of me, then who knows how terrified I would make my own parents. I couldn't live with myself seeing that look on their faces.

  From Ruby's closet, I pull out a duffel bag and shove a few pairs of socks and a pair of her favorite boots. I can't wear any of her clothes. I'm too big in the chest, a little too wide in the hips. I guess if there's one thing I have going for me more than Ruby did, it's a bigger bra size.

  I go for a jacket and her favorite striped scarf instead. It doesn't smell like her anymore, which I can fix easily because she still has a bottle of cherry blossom body spray on her desk. I snatch that, too. A couple pictures off the wall. A birthday card I drew for her in sixth grade.

  I stand in front of the full-length mirror beside her desk, wearing Ruby's hat, Ruby's scarf, Ruby's jacket. Staring at myself. Trying to see some sign of my sister. It doesn't work. I haven't seen my natural hair color in years, preferring red to the blonde that always looked so lackluster compared to Ruby's. She was taller and slender thanks to all her swimming and track.

  Why am I gathering her things like they're my keepsakes? Why am I even contemplating ways to make myself look more like her? I don't know. Because I've always admired Ruby's stuff. Admired her. Because I miss her and I miss my parents.

  And I'd rather be anyone but me right now.

  There's a low, rumbling growl from the bed. Algonquin's ears are slatted back, bottle-brush tail straight in the air. He hops to the floor and slinks out of the room. I follow with the duffel bag over one shoulder, ignoring the little skip of my heartbeat warning me that someone might be here.

  The next time I see my cat at the bottom of the stairs, he's no longer a cat. In fact, his new massive dog-shape startles me until he levels a long look in my direction to let me know it's him. I exhale. He turns away, head pointed at the front windows. Listening. Watching.

  Swallowing hard, I dare to inch the curtains aside enough to get a peek. The driveway is empty and there's no one at the door.

  But I notice them. The two guys standing on the sidewalk, facing my house. Not approaching, not passing by, just standing and watching. Waiting for me. Because they know me, and I know instantly who they are. Their presence makes my skin itch all over. I put my hand to my throat where the scar used to be.

  I jerk back from the window, take a breath to steady my nerves, then steal another glance.

  The sidewalk is empty.

  Without thinking, I abandon the duffel bag and take off upstairs, throw open my parents' bedroom door and shove my hands beneath their bed. Shoe boxes full of receipts, birthday cards, old letters, are all cast aside until I get my hands around a metal lock-box.

  And it's locked. Imagine that.

  Why, Dad, why? He doesn't even have kids in the house anymore, what's the point of locking up his gun? I shake it in frustration.

  Downstairs, Algonquin barks a warning. I bolt for the steps, planning to slip out the kitchen door and escape through the back yard. Halfway down I catch the flash of a shadow across the living room wall. I didn't hear them come in, but there they are. There's no way out without being seen. Algonquin barks again.

  A voice: "Man, I hate dogs."

  Second voice: "Leave it alone, Artie. Get the kitchen, I'll check upstairs."

  Shit shit shit.

  I backpedal down the hall, slipping through the closest door and into my old room. Void of all my things, cluttered with Mom's stuff. If I can't get downstairs, I'll take the window.

  Scratch that. Footsteps ascend the stairs and linger at the top. No time for climbing out, I'll have to wait until he goes away. It's all I can do to disappear into the closet, easing the folding doors shut.

  The bedroom door flies open. A dark-haired man steps in, surveying his surroundings. I hold my breath, clamp a han
d over my mouth. I can't resist peering through the slats in the door and watch him move about the room. Will he sense me? Can I be tracked like I can track humans? Like prey?

  He's broad-shouldered and tall, messy hair brushing the tops of his shoulders. If I had any doubts of who he was when I saw him on the sidewalk, I don't now.

  He lingers near Mom's desk, running a hand over her papers, pausing just shy of a picture frame. He picks it up and studies the people in the photo: Me, Ruby, Mom and Dad. An odd little smile passes over his mouth and he places it face-down.

  The closet is stifling, closing in around me. I've never liked confined spaces, and surrounded by boxes and winter coats leaves me feeling like the little breaths I'm taking just aren't enough. Dark-haired guy circles the room, hovering by the closet door. I want to sink down, bury myself and will him away, but I can't take my gaze off of him. His dark eyes sweep over the door, pause, swing back and stare right at me.

  No, no. Not at me. He can't be looking at me. He can't see me. But maybe he can hear me, sense me, and I'm holding my breath and trying not to shake. Cole said I can control my presence. How much can I will myself into nonexistence for that to work?

  From downstairs the first voice yells up. "Joel! S'all clear. You find anything?"

  I have a name to put to a face. Joel. Funny, he doesn't look like a Joel. But the voice makes Joel turn away with a roll of his eyes and a sigh, muttering to the empty room. "Yeah. Yell and alert the neighbors..." And silently he goes.

  I listen for whether he went further down the hall or back downstairs, but I can't tell for sure. Either way, I can't stay in here. I give myself ten seconds to steady my nerves before I slip out of the closet and head for the window. Joel didn't shut the door. If he walks by again, he'll have a perfect view of my retreating back.

  The window latch is old and it takes longer than I would like to twist it. Like it or not, the window isn't going to open quietly or quickly. It squeaks the entire way, making me cringe. But I get it open and sling a leg over the window ledge, leaning out, looking down. It's a straight drop to the back porch pavement. Here's hoping my body is sturdy enough to handle it.

  I start to haul my other leg over the pane.

  Someone grabs me by the hair. Yanks me back sharply into the room, twisting me around before I know what's happening.

  Joel's face is inches from my own.

  My attacker. The one who killed me. The one who turned me.

  I'm dragged kicking and screaming back into the room. Joel's hand covers my mouth and I sink my teeth into the meat of his palm. Hard. Blood hits my tongue, dribbles down my chin. He jerks away with a pained snarl. Too bad he has ahold of my hair, so I don't get far. Any minute now, his friend is going to join him and I'll have zero chance of getting away.

  I jab my elbow back into the vampire's stomach. He doubles over for a fraction of a second, long enough for me to twist around and slam the heel of my hand into his nose. Superficial damage, not going to last long on someone that heals so quick, but like hell if I'll go down without a fight.

  He rears his head, injured hand covering injured face, groaning. His fingers twist in my hair and he shoves me away with enough force that my feet leave the floor. My back connects with the corner of Mom's desk. The throb shudders straight up my spine, makes me stagger when I straighten, but I have to get out of here. The window's right there, if I can just—

  Joel cracks his nose back into place. The teeth marks on his hand are already knitting together, and I've succeeded in severely pissing him off. He stalks forward. Two steps, three, just as I'm getting my leg over the window sill. He reaches for me, and I know I'm not going to make it.

  There's a thunder of footsteps tearing down the hall, into the room, and Algonquin is on him. There's a flash of bone-white teeth before they sink into the back of Joel's neck, paws the size of my hands slamming him to the ground. Joel screams, helpless underneath two hundred pounds of solid muscle while Algonquin shakes him back and forth like a squeaky toy.

  Enter Artie. Judging by the bloody mess he is, it's safe to say Algonquin already got to him. I have both legs over the window sill, ready to jump.

  But I can't yet.

  Artie wraps his thick arms around the wolf's neck, wrenching him back. Algonquin goes but not without taking a mess of skin and tissue with him. Joel's shriek of pain rises in pitch. My stomach rolls. Algonquin squirms in the other vampire's grasp, teeth gnashing while Artie tries to get a better hold on him. And I know if I leave, they'll kill him.

  I swing my legs inside. Algonquin keeps Artie moving, standing on his hind legs, trying to shake him off. On Mom's desk is a solid silver letter opener and I snatch it up, jump over Joel who is down for the count, at least for a few minutes. He grabs for my legs, misses; I make it a point to slam my boot down onto his fingers.

  Algonquin whines and pants, starting to lose strength as Artie chokes the air out of him. I don't think about what I'm doing. I don't think as the letter opener slides into Artie's back halfway to the hilt, just between his shoulder blades. I swear I can feel it grazing off bone. He stiffens, howls, as I pull it out and stab him again. And again, and again. Until he has no choice but to let Algonquin go and whirl around to deal with me.

  He meets my eyes. I'm frozen. Too scared to move. Taken back to the night by the river where these men took Sherry's life and tried to take mine.

  And Sherry, dying, had begged them not to hurt me.

  It's not as sharp as a knife, but using both hands to drive it into the base of Artie's throat does the trick. He swings for me. Algonquin catches Artie's arm between his teeth. I twist the letter opener and watch Artie's eyes widen. Algonquin and I let go and he staggers back, grasping the opener and tearing it out. His blood starts pouring out of the wound so quickly even he looks surprised.

  Algonquin circles around, shoving his head against my side and pushing me for the door. I tear my eyes away and take the hint, and we both thunder down the stairs. I barely think to grab the duffel bag I abandoned earlier before we tear out the kitchen door.

  We head across the backyard and through the gate to the empty alley behind. Running until Algonquin can't run anymore, and my legs are trembling from the exertion. I guess even vampires have limits. Only then do we both slump down in the shade of a gated apartment complex to catch our breaths.

  We made it. Somehow. And I've proven that—vampire or no—the men who hurt me and Sherry aren't invincible. They're as much flesh and blood as me, which means they can be killed.

  And I'm going to do it. I'm going to show them what it felt like, being helpless at the mercy of monsters. I'll show them what Sherry felt as she died.

  Algonquin's warm tongue licks some of the blood from my face. He whines. I loop my arms around his neck, press my face into his fur and breathe in deep.

  "You saved me. Thank you."

  His tail thumps tiredly against the pavement. We're both bloody messes. God, Mom threw a fit if we got a kool-aid stain on the floor. Wait until she sees the house.

  I think of my parents coming home to that, seeing my old room a disaster. Them trying to piece together what happened like a game of Clue: Briar Greyson, in the bedroom, with the letter opener.

  I can't help it. The thought makes me laugh.

  15. Wednesday – 3:24pm

  We clean ourselves up in a gas station restroom. Even being in the place leaves me feeling grimier than before, but it's better than walking around covered in dried blood for the rest of the day. Algonquin changes back into his familiar kitten-self. Easier to sneak him onto the bus to get back downtown. The transformation process is pretty neat to watch, like those commercials of one person's face morphing into another and another. So quick and subtle that if you blink, you miss it.

  Downtown inevitably means passing by the bar. Complete accident, of course. Like I would have any reason to come back here. I stop across the street, watching people coming and going, and I put serious thought into going inside, seeing how
my coworkers are.

  Oh, right. Ex-coworkers.

  Paul would not be super happy to see me. Not when the cops are still looking for me as a suspect in Sherry's disappearance.

  I tell all this to Algonquin, who listens with that silent intensity cats have when they're interested in something. Ears pivoting, gaze locked on my face. I look down at his head peeking out of my zipped-up jacket.

  "Maybe we should go back," I say. "If Cole and Oliver wanted to stop me, they could have. I'm still pissed at them, but they didn't mean to upset me. Did they?" Algonquin blinks his wide eyes slowly. I take that as a sign I should head back to the hotel.

  I'm about to, anyway, when I sense someone. Well, of course I do—there are people in buildings all around me. But this is different. Familiar. Oliver.

  He steps outside of my bar across the road, shoulders squared, mouth drawn, that permanent crease between his brows. He spots me and some of the tension eases out of his stance. Hands buried in his pockets, he crosses the street to me. Us. Algonquin starts purring up a storm. As he approaches, Oliver has the grace to lower his eyes to the concrete guiltily.

  "Were you looking for me?" I ask.

  "We were worried." He glances around in that paranoid way of his. "You're all right?"

  Sure. I am now, now that I'm away from my stalkers. I shrug easily. "I'm fine."

  He squints, seeing right through me, but he doesn't push the issue. "I got this for you." The first thing I see on the newspaper clipping he offers out is a picture of Sherry.

  "What is it?" But even as I take it, I have a pretty good idea. Her obituary. Her pretty face, date of birth and death, the names of the family members she left behind. No mention of how she died. Does this mean they found her body?

  Cold prickles under my skin and I shove the clipping into my pocket, looking away. "Her memorial service is tomorrow."

  He nods slowly. "Will you go?"

  "Not very smart, is it? They all think I had something to do with it." I don't like being held accountable for shit I didn't do, either. Especially not this. The idea that they think I ever could have hurt someone I loved as much as Sherry kills me.