by Sara Beaman
A few minutes later, Adam appears. His knife is out.
Where’s Aya? I ask.
He sits down next to me on the couch. “Downstairs.”
So why don’t you want to go back to Julian’s estate?
“The reasons I gave didn’t convince you?”
I mean, sort of, but... I shrug. You don’t seem to like the Wardens that much.
“That’s fair.”
Do you trust them?
His mouth flattens.
You don’t.
“I trust them more than I trust Julian,” he mutters.
Why?
He looks at the door to the basement. “I wish this was something I could talk about right now.”
You think Aya is listening?
“Yes.”
Why do you care?
“If she fails to cooperate with us, things could go very badly.”
Still. I don’t get it. If you don’t trust the Wardens, what are you trying to accomplish by going to Red Hook?
“It’s the only thing I can think to do to keep the head away from Mirabel,” he says. “And right now that’s more important to me than anything else.”
I nod slowly, not entirely satisfied.
“You should take the blood,” he insists. “We can talk about this more later.”
Fine.
He cuts into his wrist with the knife. I reach for his hand and bring the wound to my lips.
///
I’m late to work again. It’s already nine-fifteen by the time I sit down at my desk. Making sure to keep my back to the surveillance camera in the corner of my office, I take my laptop out from my beat-up old backpack and place it in front of me. I hunch my shoulders forward, pretending to look through the bag as I remove the pinback button over the lens and switch the camera on. I turn the zoom up as far as it’ll go and hang the bag on a hook behind me.
This is going to be a bad day. I’m already having trouble focusing; I’m surprised I even remembered to take the button off and start recording. I open my laptop and turn it on. Spira has tacked some proprietary programs on to the operating system that makes it take a long time to boot up. It’s all I can do not to fall asleep while waiting.
My mind wanders.
I snap out of my reverie some time later and look at the clock in the corner of the computer screen.
Six-thirty P.M.
My neck hurts and my hands feel sore, like I’ve been typing all day, but I don’t remember any of it. Of course I don’t remember any of it. Just another one of those days, I guess. But this one I got on video.
I put the laptop back in my bag and replace the button. The camera has shut down already. I guess its battery died hours ago.
By eight-fifteen I’m at the library, taking the camera out of my backpack and plugging its cable into the port. My heart pounds with a mixture of triumph and terror as I pull up the video editing software. I glance around anxiously as the video imports. They might already know what I’ve done. They could be coming for me right now. The Spira Secret Police could emerge from the shadows at any moment to Taser me and take me away to a subterranean prison cell.
The video finishes importing. I put on my headphones, open the video file and start watching.
My setup seems to have worked. I can see most of the laptop screen from this angle, and I can make out a few of my own facial expressions. I watch myself watching the boot up sequence for a minute or so before I hit fast-forward. A half-hour’s worth of footage goes by before I finally look up and get to work.
I stop, rewind, hit play.
Video Kate opens an instant messaging system and logs in. She enters the name “NyghtWynd” and a starred-out password into the provided field. A list of contacts appears, along with her chosen icon: a cringe-inducing illustration of a fairy or an elf or some other spritely humanoid thing after a binge at Hot Topic. I groan at the sight, chagrined.
Video Kate opens a chat with another user, someone named Argonaught. I can vaguely remember this name from one of my past assignments. From what I recall, he runs a forum that the people at Spira were asking me to try and infiltrate before I started having memory problems. Apparently I’ve gained his trust, since now he’s willing to talk to me one-on-one.
It’s sickening. None of the resistance I put up has meant anything. Here I am doing exactly what I railed against so hard and for so long.
I watch as NyghtWynd—me—and Argonaught start talking. At first, our conversation consists of the inane banter of online strangers, awkward and reserved, but before long it gets interesting. I start hitting the pause button every few seconds, transcribing our conversation in a spiral notebook. I scribble down each line as quickly as I can manage, looking over my shoulder minute by minute.
NyghtWynd: So why did you decide to start the forums, anyway?
Argonaught: Well... it’s a personal story.
NyghtWynd: I’d really like to hear it...
Argonaught: Look, I don’t know you that well. I don’t know.
NyghtWynd: I promise I’ll keep anything you tell me confidential. I’ll never tell anyone.
Argonaught: That’s not it. I don’t care if you tell everyone you know. I just don’t want you asking questions. I keep getting emails from skeptics who want to debunk my research... I just don’t feel like playing those games right now. I’m tired of it.
NyghtWynd: I would never do that. I believe that what you write on your website is true.
NyghtWynd: Also... I think I might have had a personal encounter of my own. I’m not sure about it, but... I think you’re right, I think vampires really do exist.
Argonaught: Do you watch a lot of TV?
NyghtWynd: Not really. I’m always too busy with work. Why?
Argonaught: Stop watching it altogether. And don’t go to movies, don’t listen to the radio. That’s how they suppress the memories. Through mass media. That’s why you’re confused about what happened to you.
NyghtWynd: Who is “they”?
Argonaught: Vampires.
Argonaught: They do exist. It’s not just a theory.
NyghtWynd: How did you find out about all them?
Argonaught: I learned of the undead about fifteen years ago. I’ve been doing research ever since.
NyghtWynd: The undead? So there are undead things other than vampires
Argonaught: More like two kinds of bloodsuckers.
Argonaught: The ones we call vampires are almost like people. They can blend in shockingly well with humans. They don’t really look dead, although their skin is cold and they don’t need to breathe. They have human-like personalities as well, but they all have sociopathic or psychopathic tendencies. The urge to kill.
Argonaught: Then there are ghouls. They’re more like zombies. They’re not slow and lumbering, but they don’t think. They can’t talk or be reasoned with. All they do is kill.
Argonaught: Ghouls can run around in broad daylight. But for some reason vampires can’t.
NyghtWynd: Were you attacked by one?
Argonaught: No. I’m fortunate enough to have never been attacked by a vampire or a ghoul.
Argonaught: My story is stranger than that.
Argonaught: It all started when my brother hung himself, in the summer of 1992. His fiancée had just died, and he must have taken it really hard. He didn’t even leave a note.
NyghtWynd: Oh my God. That’s horrible. I’m so sorry...
Argonaught: It’s all right. It was a long time ago.
Argonaught: His funeral was closed-casket. He was an organ donor.
NyghtWynd: I see.
Argonaught: The day after the funeral, his research assistant went to pick up some of his stuff from work.
Argonaught: His office had been picked clean. Someone had taken everything over the weekend.
Argonaught: We looked through the security tapes taken by campus surveillance cameras during those 48 hours, but they were all blank.
NyghtWynd: That’s really
bizarre!
Argonaught: That’s not even the beginning.
Argonaught: Later that night, he called his apartment.
NyghtWynd: Wait. You mean your dead brother called?
Argonaught: Yes.
Argonaught: His fiancée’s mom was the one who picked up the phone. She was in their place, putting their stuff in order.
Argonaught: We sound alike, so she thought it was me, doing a crank call for God knows what reason. She called me right away to yell at me, but of course I had no idea what she was talking about.
Argonaught: We couldn’t figure out who had done it, and we didn’t really want to think about it. We tried to forget it.
NyghtWynd: I don’t blame you.
Argonaught: But a week later one of his ex-girlfriends found me at work. She said she’d gotten a call from my brother too. He’d been talking like he didn’t even know he was dead.
NyghtWynd: What did she do?
Argonaught: She didn’t want to believe him either, but after a few days I guess her curiosity got the best of her. She traced the call and called him back.
NyghtWynd: Did he pick up?
Argonaught: Only once. The first time she called.
NyghtWynd: I’m not trying to be skeptical, and I do believe you, but... I mean, how did she know it was really him? Couldn’t it have been someone who sounded a lot like him?
Argonaught: No. She said she asked him something only he would know, and he answered correctly.
NyghtWynd: What did she ask?
Argonaught: She never told me.
Argonaught: She tried calling back a bunch of times, but she never got through again.
Argonaught: She was so shaken up about it that she flew up North to find me and tell me her story.
Argonaught: I don’t know if I would have believed her if we hadn’t gotten that other call from my brother, but when I put the two stories together it seemed like too much to ignore.
NyghtWynd: What happened next?
Argonaught: She wanted to dig up his casket and open it.
Argonaught: But we couldn’t get permission. Even though I was executor of his estate. It didn’t matter.
NyghtWynd: So you couldn’t do it?
Argonaught: No, we did. We dug it up ourselves. We both ended up getting arrested.
NyghtWynd: Oh my God...
Argonaught: But we did it. I don’t know how the two of us managed to do it in one night, even back then. Neither of us was young. I guess we were determined.
NyghtWynd: What did you find?
Argonaught: There was no corpse inside. Only a CPR dummy made of rubber and plastic.
NyghtWynd: Holy shit! What did you do?
Argonaught: We didn’t know what to do. The police started an investigation, but nothing came of it.
Argonaught: Before you get it in your head that he faked his death or something, don’t. I was the one who found his body in the first place. So don’t ask me about that.
NyghtWynd: I’m so sorry. That’s really awful...
Argonaught: I’m not trying to make you feel bad.
Argonaught: It’s just that whenever I tell anyone this story, that’s what everyone wants to think. That he wasn’t really dead in the first place.
NyghtWynd: I’m sure it’s hard for people to understand when they haven’t had any experiences of this kind themselves...
Argonaught: Whatever.
Argonaught: In any case, his ex left a few days later. I kept in touch with her for the next few months. She kept looking for him the entire time. She figured out what town he’d called from and was trying to go from there.
NyghtWynd: Did she ever find him?
Argonaught: I don’t know. I don’t think so. Three months after she visited me, she stopped calling.
NyghtWynd: What happened to her?
Argonaught: I hadn't heard from her for a few weeks, so I tried to call her myself. By that time she’d already gone missing. I talked to her son on the phone. He said the last time he’d seen her, she was on her way to meet with someone downtown about the case.
NyghtWynd: Who?
Argonaught: A reporter. They told her they could help her with her research.
NyghtWynd: Do you think she was kidnapped? Could she still be alive
Argonaught: No.
Argonaught: I know she’s not.
NyghtWynd: How do you know?
There is a long pause.
Argonaught: Because the police found her body four weeks later.
Argonaught: She’d been completely exsanguinated.
///
The vision fades.
Adam’s hand drops down onto the space between us on the couch. He stares forward, eyes unfocused, and takes a few ragged, slow breaths.
There is no question in my mind: Argonaught spoke of him, the death of his Elena. Argonaught was his brother. And I delivered that account to Mirabel—I put that information in her lap—I put his brother in mortal danger—
“That wasn’t you,” he says. He takes off his glasses and brings his hands to his face.
But it was me. I did that.
He doesn’t reply. Through the gaps in his fingers I can see him squeeze his eyes shut. He is totally still, totally silent. Crying.
You didn’t know...
He shakes his head, inhales through his nose, wipes at his eyes. “About Elena? No...”
God, Adam, I’m so sorry.
“It had nothing to do with you.”
He stands up and starts to walk away. I scramble to my feet, grabbing his hand.
“Kate...”
I wrap my arms around his shoulders and bury my face in his back. His shirt smells like detergent. I feel like crying too, even though I never knew Elena, never knew his brother, and really I barely know him. God. He hung himself? He must have been in pain worse than I can even imagine.
I feel his ribs expand and contract as he sighs.
“It’s not your fault,” he insists.
That doesn’t mean I don’t care, I tell him. I do care. I care about you.
He turns to face me and forces a smile. It makes him look worse. Without really thinking, I put my hands on the sides of his face, taking him in for a moment—his tired grey eyes, the faint slicks of tears down his cheeks, his lips. It’s true. I do care about him. I don’t care what Haruko told me about him. I don’t care that it’s weird. I care about him.
Before I can stop myself, I’m kissing him on the mouth, putting my hands through his hair, pulling him close. I almost expect him to pull away again, but then his arms circle my waist; his tongue finds mine. I don’t care that it’s cold. I don’t care that he’s dead. I go up on my toes, pressing my chest against his, my hips against his. I grab his shirt and pull him down to the couch, wanting him on top of me. I don’t care if it’s too soon.
But then he pulls away. He looks over my head at something behind us and shudders.
I turn around.
Aya is standing in the foyer, staring at us wide-eyed, blushing furiously.
Adam stands up. “What is it?”
“It’s five minutes to dawn,” she says.
“Jesus Christ,” he mutters. “All right. Thank you. I’ll be down in a minute.”
She turns and goes back down into the basement.
He scrapes a hand against his eyes and takes a deep breath. “Shit. I’m sorry.”
I’m blushing. Why am I blushing? It’s fine. Don’t worry about it.
He nods. “I should go...”
Adam... are you okay?
He blinks. He opens his mouth, then closes it again. He forces another smile.
So that’s a no.
“I’ll be fine. Get some rest. I’ll see you after nightfall.”
I nod, looking down into my lap. He puts a hand on my shoulder.
“I care about you too, Kate,” he says.
He walks to the basement door and starts his descent. I watch him go until I can’t see him anymore. I lie down on
the couch, on my side, curl into the fetal position, and try to think about what just happened—not what happened five years ago, and not what’s going to happen tomorrow.
As my nervous excitement fades, just before I fall asleep, I think of Mirabel.
And I think of murder.
24
A Dream of Revelation
{Adam}
I woke up in a storage closet, lying prone on cold concrete. Face-down on the floor next to me was a woman wearing a simple black shift and no shoes, her brown hair obscuring her features. At the nape of her neck, right below her hairline, was a brand, an icon seared into her flesh: a golden spiral, the spira mirabilis.
I gently nudged her shoulder, trying to wake her. Her skin was as cold as mine. I shook her more forcefully, praying she was only dead in the same sense I was. She didn’t respond. I rolled her onto her back, still hoping she might only be catatonic, but judging from the stiffness of her limbs and the smell, she was truly and permanently gone.
I could feel Mirabel’s aura on the corpse, as if her blood lay cold in the woman’s veins. I covered my face with my hands, trying to make sense of what I’d seen. How much of it had been a delusion?
I felt nauseated. Everyone had tried to warn me about her, and I’d ignored them, and made myself party to whatever happened to this woman.
I stood, opened the door to the closet, and stooped to pick up the poor woman’s corpse from the ground. I carried her out into the hallway and started wandering in the general direction of the study. Only hours ago I was running from that very same place, desperate to get away from Julian, sure that he was about to murder me. Had Mirabel induced that panic, or had I come to it of my own accord? Probably it was a combination of the two.
Perhaps Julian was a murderer. Perhaps he was even trying to kill me. I couldn’t bring myself to care any longer. If that’s what he wanted, he’d probably get it whether or not I ran.
Not a minute passed before Aya rounded a corner and ran up to me, worry etched into her face.
“Adam! Oh, my God, where have you been? I’ve been looking for you for almost a day!”
