by Sara Beaman
The horizon grew brighter.
I began to feel the presence of the estate looming behind me, following me, as if the buildings were tethered to my shadow. When I could see a streak of pink at the edge of the sky, I turned to look. There was the estate, no more than a few hundred yards away. I looked back down the driveway, towards the warm horizon. I couldn’t have more than minutes left before sunrise.
I raced back past the sundial to the main entrance. As I arrived at the massive wooden doors, the left-side door swung inwards. Standing there, waiting inside the foyer, was Julian. He smiled at me warmly, and continued smiling even as I could feel my own face contort into an expression of disgust.
“I was wondering what you would decide,” he said. “I’m glad you chose to return on your own.”
“What do you mean? Would you have forced me to if I hadn’t?”
He closed the door behind me.
“What would you rather hear?” he asked. “That I would have let you kill yourself, or that I wouldn't have?”
I didn’t know how to respond.
“Come,” he said. “I’ll show you back to your rooms.”
13
Passport
{Anonymous}
I wake up in the converted bathroom at Tara’s estate. I crawl out of bed and walk to the sink, splash some water on my face and take a good look at myself. Dirt-smudged, raccoon-eyed, greasy-haired and yet still clearly the spitting image of severe, sterile Mirabel. I don’t dwell on the image; instead I put a stopper in the bathtub drain and start running the water while I scrounge for breakfast.
I eat some beef jerky, then some Pop Tarts. The combination of the two is vile. I fill up my canteen at the tap, then take a sip, swishing it around, trying to wash the taste out of my mouth. I brush my teeth without toothpaste—how did I remember to buy a toothbrush but no toothpaste?—then grab a bar of soap, cut off the water and get into the tub.
The bathwater is lukewarm and has an unpleasant greenish tint to it—perhaps just a result of the light in the room, but who knows. It’s odd and I don’t feel like soaking. I scrub myself down fast, including my hair, mashing the bar soap into my scalp in vigorous circular motions, then rinse myself off and get out.
I dry myself off and wrap a towel around my hair. My head is throbbing. I wonder if there were any painkillers in the first aid kit that Adam bought? Maybe I can get them out of his stuff.
I pull on underwear, black jeans and a black T-shirt—an exact duplicate of Haruko’s outfit from yesterday, only one size up—and pick up my canteen. I peek out into the room with the two cots. Inside Haruko and Aya are sleeping, or something. They’re still as statues. I guess vampires don’t need to breathe unless they’re talking...
I cross through the room on tiptoe and open the door to the living room a crack. The light is on. Slowly I open the door enough to slip inside sideways.
Adam looks up. He’s sitting on the couch, an open notebook in his lap and a pencil in his left hand. “Are you all right?”
I close the door behind me. I’m fine. It’s just a headache. Can I have some ibuprofen?
“Of course.” He places the notebook on the floor and walks over to his suitcase, producing a white plastic bottle and handing it to me.
I twist off the cap, pop three of the little pink pills into my mouth, and wash them down with water from the canteen.
“How did you sleep?”
Fine, I guess. What time is it?
“Seven-thirty P.M.”
Shit—I slept all day again?
“You’re still healing. You need rest. Have a seat.”
I sit down on the couch, holding my forehead in one hand and clutching the canteen in the other. Adam rummages through his things.
So what’s going on?
“With Vincent and Tara?”
No, just... things. How are things? I think, rolling my eyes. Of course I mean Vincent and Tara!
“I’m really not sure. He’s been down there for... what, twelve? Thirteen hours now?”
Are you asking me?
He gives me a flat look. “He’s been down there for a while.”
What do you think is going on?
“He’s probably force feeding her his blood. Depending on how long she’s gone without... well, she could need a lot in order to wake up. It’s going to be rough for him.”
I feel a twinge of guilt.
“Don’t feel bad. It’s his decision.” He takes out his folding knife. “Speaking of which, how do you want to do this?”
Same as always.
He sits down next to me on the couch. Something about his expression—the tension around the eyes, maybe—makes me think of my dreams of him, of the drinking, the death of his girlfriend, the brief but abject shocks of misery...
He gives me a look—not annoyed, but embarrassed.
Sorry. I just can’t help it. I can’t get away from it.
“That makes two of us, then.”
I smile slightly. What’s the real difference between you and a human, anyway?
For seconds he doesn’t say anything.
“You’re funny,” he eventually replies, but he doesn’t sound amused.
He puts his wrist in front of me, and I take it.
///
I’m back in the SpiraCom headquarters in Atlanta. I’ve locked myself inside a tiny, windowless closet of an office. I know that I’ve gotten myself into some profoundly deep shit, but I can’t remember how or why. And now I need to find something—a physical object—but I can’t remember what it is. I rifle through the drawers of the desk, hoping I’ll know it when I see it.
The phone on the desk starts to ring. I look at the digital readout above the keypad, hoping it’ll display caller ID, but all I see is a line of asterisks. Not picking it up. It rings two, three, four, five times before it stops. In the meantime I shuffle papers around, look through file folders, search through piles of random memos.
I flip past a newspaper clipping and it hits me: I’m looking for my passport. That’s right. I’m looking for my passport so I can leave the country. This is my desk, my office at work. I seem to remember having squirreled it away in here somewhere. Where would I hide something like that?
The phone rings again. I pick up and hang up in a single movement.
I look inside some jewel cases stacked under a pile of papers in a wire inbox to the right of the computer screen. I look inside my Rolodex full of blank cards, through my desk calendar, underneath the inbox—nothing.
What the hell did I do with it? The only place I haven’t searched is my computer—my ancient monolith of a desktop. I look under the keyboard, under the base of the monitor, under the CPU—nothing.
The phone rings again. I pull the cord out of the jack.
I look through a desk drawer for the second time. Why’d I bring the passport to work, anyway? Why not just leave it at home? It’s here, though, somewhere. I know it is.
My cell phone starts to ring, buzzing in the back pocket of my jeans. I pull it out and look at the display: caller unknown, it informs me. I pull the battery loose and throw both parts in the wastebasket. They can use those things to track you. I’m better off without it.
I slump down in my desk chair. At a loss, I look at the CPU once more. I peer inside the floppy disk drive—it has a floppy disk drive?—but nothing’s there. I feel like it’s in the terminal somewhere. I dig my fingernails into the plastic siding of the case and pull as hard as I can, dislodging it just enough to shove my hand inside. I pull the power supply free, then start groping around inside the box. My fingertips make contact with a little pamphlet. It’s the perfect size, the cover just the right leatherette texture; I even think I can make out the emblem embossed on the front.
I laugh to myself, feeling a surge of glee as I extract the passport from the shell of the computer. I flip the cover open to make sure it’s mine. Sure enough, there’s my face staring back at me—maybe the least flattering rendering possible, b
ut my face nevertheless—and my name’s there, too.
My name, I note, is Katherine Avery. Why couldn’t I remember that before?
I grab my backpack from underneath the desk, unlock the door and peek my head out into the dimly-lit cubicle farm outside. I dart out into the corridor between the offices and the cubicles and begin tiptoeing toward the end of the hallway. If I can get to the stairwell, I’ve made it. There’s a door on the ground floor that leads right out to the street. From there, I can run to the Marta station and I’ll be at the airport in a matter of minutes.
I feel unbalanced. I’m trying to be silent, but each of my steps land with a thud. If anyone is hiding in the cubicles or a nearby office, they’ll certainly know I’m here. I’m not usually this clumsy! I’m just not thinking straight. In fact, I’m having trouble even walking straight.
I make it to the stairwell, throw open the door and start running down the stairs two at a time. It’ll take me twenty flights to get down to the ground floor, but I walk up and down them twice a day, so I’m sure I’ll be fine—at least at first I’m sure, but then vertigo sets in. I lose my balance after the first flight and nearly hurl myself down the second. I grab onto the handrail to steady myself at the last possible instant.
I shake my head, trying to reset my inner ear. I continue my descent, this time taking one stair at a time, holding the rail throughout. I walk like this down flight after flight of stairs. Looking directly forward and down, focusing all my attention on the stair in front of me, I can manage to avoid the full force of the vertigo, keeping at a manageable level of shaky nausea.
I realize I’ve lost track of where I am or how many floors I’ve descended. I feel like I should have gotten to the ground floor by now. Did I overshoot and miss it? I can’t tell.
I keep going until I make it to a landing. I glance at the door leading back into the building; the placard next to it reads B3.
Shit.
I start climbing back up the stairs. The dizziness is getting worse; my vision is starting to double. What’s wrong with me? This isn’t like being drunk, and I wouldn’t drink at a time like this anyway. Have I been drugged? Rophenol, or something?
Just keep moving. One stair at a time.
The next stair has a pair of shoes on it. Polished red heels with pointed toes.
I look up to find myself eye-to-chin with a thin, pretty woman with auburn hair. Her lips curl into a mirthless smile.
“Are you really trying to escape?” she asks. “That would truly be amazing, although it’s a bit late at this juncture. You even managed to find your old office, didn’t you? You’re quite a tenacious little thing.”
Her face keeps shifting in and out of focus. I blink several times, to no avail. It doesn’t matter. I know who she is.
“If you’re trying to escape, you must remember that you’re in trouble,” she says. “With me.”
I swallow and clench the handrail.
“Do you remember what you did to me?”
I don’t. I kind of wish I did. I shake my head no.
She laughs, shakes her head, then, suddenly and without warning, she grabs the lapel of my jacket and hurls me down the stairs.
My skull hits the concrete floor of the B3 landing and I pass out.
///
I come back to the living room to find myself hyperventilating, one hand gripping the armrest, the other gripping Adam’s thigh. I release both, fan out my fingers and dig my fingernails into my scalp.
Think, I tell myself. Think hard. What did I do to her?
“We’ll figure that out in time,” he says softly.
It’s in my head somewhere. If I just think about it hard enough—
Adam stands up and kneels down in front of me, putting his eyes at the level of mine. “The memories are locked. There’s no getting at them without help.”
Don’t tell me what I can and can’t do!
He smiles a little. “I’m starting to see why she had so much trouble with you.”
Fuck you, Adam.
“I meant that as a compliment, Katherine.”
Hearing my own name and recognizing it as mine brings tears to my eyes. I cover my face and put my head between my knees. Adam puts a hand on my shoulder. I flinch, but then I force myself to relax. I can feel the sting behind the tears start to fade.
I’m surprised to realize that, despite all the weirdness, I’ve come to think of him as something. My friend, I guess. The only one I have.
“Revenge,” he says. “She chose you because she wanted revenge. Not like the others—not because you were weak or gullible or stupid. You made her irrational. I think that’s something to be proud of.”
I nod.
“She underestimated you,” he says, “but I don’t.”
I don’t know what to say to that.
“Katherine,” he says, looking upward. “So what do you want me to call you? Kate? Katie?”
Ugh, no, not Katie. Kate is fine.
“All right, Kate.” He stands up. “Do you want to go see what’s going on downstairs?”
Sure.
I follow Adam to the basement door. A steep, spiraling metal staircase with perforated steps leads down into the ground. We climb down to the basement, a small, square room with walls of bare earth and a floor scattered with candles.
Across from us, on a bunk carved into the wall, lies the corpse of a blonde woman. She might have been quite beautiful in the past, but now she’s wretched—her thin, pale limbs are riddled with countless gashes and puncture wounds, all bloodless, and at least one of her legs seems to be broken. Her skin is a sickly shade of grey; her lips are blue. Vincent is lying on the floor beside her bunk, still as a stone.
“Vincent?” Adam says.
The woman turns her head in our direction. At first I think I’ve imagined it, but then, slowly and with tremendous effort, she sits up. She leans against the wall as if unable to support any of her own weight, then opens her eyes.
“Welcome to my home,” she says in a barely-audible whisper. “It’s good to see you again, Dr. Radcliffe.”
Adam stares at her wide-eyed.
“Don’t be upset,” she says, her voice creaking. “We all have our burdens to bear, and I’ve long since accepted mine.” She looks me in the eye. “Is that really Mirabel?”
I shake my head no.
“That’s for the best,” she whispers with a weak smile.
“Vincent—is he...?”
“He is unconscious. All but withered. All to bring me back, I suppose,” she breathes. “I assume it has something to do with your companion?”
“Her name is Katherine,” Adam says. “We liberated her from the SpiraCom facility in Atlanta.”
I give Adam a sidelong look. That’s one way of putting it...
“As you can see, she’s a perfect double,” he says. “Or she was on her way to becoming one, before we got her out. We want her to testify in front of the Watchers, but her voice is gone. She’s taken a lot of my blood at this point, but it’s not getting any better, so I thought she might be cursed...”
Tara nods. “And you want me to release her.”
“Yes.”
Tara closes her eyes and leans her head against the wall. “I’m not capable of anything in my current condition, Dr. Radcliffe. I will need more blood.”
“All right, well... I’ll go into town. I’ve been bleeding myself to heal Katherine, but if I—“
“Please spare me the details,” she says.
Adam nods. “What about Vincent?”
“He will come around on his own.”
“Right. Well. We’ll be back as soon as we can.”
“Dr. Radcliffe?”
“Yes?”
“Do not let Gabriel see her.”
///
Adam and I climb back up the stairs and lock ourselves in the living room.
What now?
“We wait for nightfall. Then we go in to Lexington and I’ll have to find about five
people—“
Five?!
“About that many, yeah. If we want any of them to wake up tomorrow morning.”
I make a face.
“I don’t like it either.”
Let’s talk about something else, I suggest. What’s the deal with SpiraCom?
“SpiraCom.” Adam takes a breath. “The full name of the company is Spira Communications. It’s a media conglomerate, an umbrella company. They own a bunch of different wire services, television and movie studios, magazines, newspapers—that kind of thing. And they own majorities in a bunch of other publicly-traded companies in the industry.”
And Mirabel uses this company to control people’s thoughts?
“Not as far as we know. I have my suspicions, but nothing I can verify. Theoretically, she’s only supposed to find and erase media references to the existence of revenants.”
Why do you care if people find out about you, anyway? What does it matter? You have magical powers and shit.
“Magical powers and shit aside, our numbers are dwindling. Some of us are afraid that if the public knew we existed, there would be a pogrom or something.”
But didn’t you say that she can erase memories on a mass scale?
“Yes, well. There have been a few times when she’s slipped up, missed something, and a story has gotten out. In those cases she’s been authorized to erase the story from public memory. From what I understand, though, it requires a really complicated ritual—it’s not something she can do all the time...”
I snort. I bet that’s what she wants you to think.
“Perhaps.”
I still don’t get it. You said she has mass mind control. Wouldn’t it make more sense for her to control all the minds of the news executives and the journalists? Make them all believe vampires don’t exist? Otherwise people would notice what she was doing. Journalists would notice that their articles were being tampered with.
“I wouldn’t be surprised if that’s exactly how she operates, but so far no one has proven as much.” He removes his glasses and rubs his eyes. “Honestly, Kate, it’s possible that somewhere in the back of your mind you know much more about Mirabel than the rest of us do.”
