Hawk

by Abigail Graham

“I’m good.”

  He puts his hand on my back. He’s pushy. I look over at his eyes again. Out there in the world he’s someone important. Sometimes I hate important people.

  They forget their mortality, as if packing enough money in your bank account can buy time to make up for those eighty-hour weeks. As if the couple grand he carries in his wallet will buy me off when I’ve got my knee on his chest and I’m slicing open…

  I shudder.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Sherman.”

  I look him in the eye.

  “Go home, Sherman.” The name comes to me. “Vera is lonely. You’re fifty-six years old,” how I know that I have no idea, “you’re in good health and you have a wife who loves you. It’s not too late.”

  He blinks a few times. Then he leaves. He might go home, he might not. I can’t make myself care.

  I keep telling myself that one of these times I’ll say to the guy “These are not the droids you’re looking for” but my sense of humor went away along with everything else.

  I turn back to the drink and swirl the dregs around in the glass. I prop my chin on my fist and wait. I desperately need to find a guy looking for someone to take advantage of. They have to deserve it.

  The next two are the same. I blow them off. The intimacy of the deep gaze sickens me so I do it the old fashioned way, with the cold shoulder.

  Then the suitor comes. Like poor Sherman he doesn’t belong here, but he doesn’t belong here in an unnerving, predatory way. This guy is different. He’s holding a drink but he hasn’t had any. He’s looking around like he expects to get jumped, watching all the corners, checking the exits.

  He looks me over three times before he moves to the bar, circling me like a shark when there’s blood in the water. I watch him in the long mirror behind the bar. His reflection is blurred.

  The glass must be dirty.

  He’s about six two, narrow in the way of a guy that leads a sedentary lifestyle but takes care of himself and works hard on staying in shape. His clothes are all tailored, his belt and shoes alligator, and he’s wearing an Omega. When I spot the watch something stirs, deep down, something fluttery and scratchy waking up in my belly. When he sits down next to me the feeling grows. It’s heady, intoxicating. I forget to pick up my drink.

  “Hi.”

  “Hi,” I say, and I blink. He has a lean face, not model handsome but, I don’t know, endearing. He wears glasses, by the little marks on his nose, but doesn’t have them on now. His hair is a sandy blonde and when I see his hands I decide they belong to a doctor, for no particular reason. He touches my wrist and I’m aware of pressure and heat and the texture of his fingertips, but it’s as dead as any other touch, just an awareness.

  Except it isn’t. I don’t stop him or pull my hand away.

  “You don’t look like you belong in a place like this.”

  I don’t belong anywhere with the living.

  “I guess not.”

  “Are you upset about something?”

  I flinch. He says it like he already knows the answer.

  This has to end. This man is kind. I don’t dare meet his eyes. I don’t want to feel that.

  “Go away.”

  I take my hand away and prop my chin on it. I might go thirsty tonight. I’d rather take the risk than hurt someone undeserving.

  He’s not leaving. He’s not giving up.

  “You look upset.”

  A tiny part of me wants to tell him. Tell him all of it. Of course I’m upset. I’m a corpse, I have every reason to be upset. I don’t. I turn away even more.

  I catch the motion out of the corner of my eye. He passes his hand over my drink. A flicker passes through his face and I can’t read it. I turn back and taste my drink.

  He’s put something in it.

  “Why don’t we get out of here?”

  I squeeze the glass and stop myself before I crush it. This is worse than usual. I feel betrayed. I’m angry and I want to savor it. Feeling something is precious, even if it’s hate. If you crawl through the desert and find a drink of water, who cares if the water’s warm?

  I down the rest of the drink and slip off my stool and think. This guy is probably not going to have a dingy apartment. This might be a mistake. I should go, but I can’t. I have to have this one.

  Then I look over and see his face and hate myself for what I’m going to do to him, even though I now know he deserves it. Something is off about this, something wrong. My instincts are starting to scream at me to leave, hole up somewhere for the day and come back to the hunt tomorrow night.

  We leave the club. I walk with him. It’s late, now, fewer people on the street.

  “I’m parked on the next block, in a lot,” he says, and squeezes my hand.

  I drift along with him. The parking lot is half empty, surrounded by barbed wire that glows under harsh high pressure sodium lamps. The attendant’s booth is empty, closed up. There’s a big white van parked in the corner, away from the lights. He starts leading me to it.

  His hand tugs mine when I stop.

  “Come on, honey.”

  Something familiar in his tone. I’ve had enough. I don’t like this. I pull away.

  His hand grips mine. Hard. I can’t pull loose, and I shriek in panic and really pull, but he still holds on. I give him a shove that should rip his arm out of his socket, but he doesn’t let go. He’s got my other arm and he picks me up off the ground and I kick my feet and thrash. I throw my head back and hear a thump when the back of my skull hits his nose. That makes him let go. I shake loose and bolt.

  Two steps later a sledgehammer hits me in the back. That’s what it feels like, before fire rips through my body and I go down. My limbs won’t do what I tell them to and I’m shaking, my arms and legs writhing around out of my control.

  My bones creak as every muscle in my body clenches all at once. When he rolls me over and pulls the taser barbs out of my back I realize what happened. He stuffs it back in his suit pocket and picks me up from the ground, gingerly, like a newlywed. He holds me in his arms so my head falls against his chest.

  Oh God.

  He carries me back to the van and throws me over his shoulder, fireman style. I can’t move, just stare at my arms dangling towards the ground as he yanks the van doors open and gingerly lowers me to the floor, cradling my head with his hand. He tucks me inside the bag, pulling it up around me before he grasps the zipper and drags the world away.

  I’m in a body bag.

  Chapter Two

  During the trip, the sun rises. I can’t see it but I can feel it. There’s a moment of awareness and in my mind’s eye I see the cleansing light sweeping over everything, pushing the dark back into tiny corners and low places, and then my consciousness gutters out and I’m gone.

  No time at all passes between the coming of sleep and waking up. My eyes pop open and I lay there disoriented, trying to adjust to my surroundings. I feel something I rarely experience anymore, fatigue. My muscles are actually sore, and I feel like I could actually willingly go to sleep if I close my eyes. Normally I’d have no trouble moving but it feels like there’s bags of sand piled on my chest as I try to sit up.

  When I do and I get a look at my surroundings, I want to laugh. At least I’m not being dissected. I half expected a lab, either clean and modern and made of stainless steel and latex or some creepy old mansion’s basement, all stone and bubbling beakers and a hunchback.

  What I get is a library, the personal study of someone with money. The books climb the walls on all four sides, broken only by a huge hearth and a set of gigantic, shuttered windows behind the ornate desk. There’s a pair of chairs facing the dead fire and someone is sitting in one, reading a book.

  A book claps closed and the occupant stands up. It’s the guy from last night, in the same clothes. He looks tired. There’s bags under his eyes and red marks on his cheeks that might be the tracks of tears, but I’m sure I’m just making that up.

 
Standing up is even harder than sitting. I’m wobbly on my feet, and my head swims when I move. When I take a step I feel like I’m going to fall down. I move towards him, not sure what I mean to do when I get there. He watches, and sighs softly as I run head first into an invisible wall. I feel it with a brush of my hand, then reach out and touch it. I can see my skin flatten against the gentle curve, liked pressing against glass, and look down.

  The floor is carpeted but where I’m standing there’s a circle of bare stone. Deep channels cut across the surface in a pattern I don’t recognize. The lines form many symbols, most prominently a five pointed star, the kind I used to fill my notebooks with when I was a bored little girl in… I blink a few times. The memory is gone before I realize it’s coming back. I choke it down. Nothing is worse than those random flashes, reminders that I used to be a human. Almost nothing.

  Something is going to go bad here. I can feel it coming.

  “What is this?”

  “It’s a magic circle. A Greater Circle of Binding, to be exact.”

  I snort. “There’s no such thing as magic.”

  “Said the vampire,” he sighs.

  “That’s different.”

  He moves closer to the circle’s edge and I step back, backing my way across until I hit the other side, another invisible barrier. Or the same, I suppose, running around.

  “How is it different?”

  “I have a disease.” I don’t sound very confident.

  “You don’t know anything about yourself, do you?”

  I keep still, fighting the impulse to shake my head. I’m not giving him anything.

  “Where are we? What do you want with me?”

  “We’re in my home and it’s complicated.”

  “Complicated how?”

  He sighs and looks down at his hands. “You wouldn’t understand half of what I had to say.”

  “I’m not stupid.”

  “No, you’re not. You’re as smart as you are…” he trails off.

  I swallow. “Last night, you… what are you?”

  “My name is Michael. Yours is Christine.”

  “How do you know that?”

  He reaches in his pocket and pulls out a creased square of paper. Then it hits me. He has my picture.

  In a blind, shrieking fury, I throw myself at him. I hit the wall and push against it, clawing the air.

  “That’s mine. Give it back!”

  He unfolds it and shows it to me.

  “Who are they?”

  “I don’t know. That’s me.”

  “The other one?”

  “I told you, I don’t know.”

  “What’s your last name?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Where were you born?”

  “I don’t know!” I shriek, stamping my foot. “Give me my picture back.”

  He folds it and puts it in his pocket.

  “I might if you can behave.”

  “Behave? Fuck you,” I snarl.

  “I need you to listen to me.”

  There’s a sadness in his voice, and it matches his eyes. He really does have striking eyes, big puppy dog baby blues, the kind that swallow you up when you stare at them. Except when I lock my gaze on his I just get static and an eerie sense of familiarity. Like deja-vu.

  I step back from the edge of the circle, warily. I’m so tired. From what happened last night, I don’t think I could defend myself if he came after me. It feels like I’m swimming in lead.

  “Is this is about revenge?”

  “No. It’s about justice.”

  He walks behind the desk. I eye him as he moves to the windows and opens the shutters. For a moment I don’t understand what I’m seeing. It’s as alien as a rose in a field of snow. By the time I comprehend, the beam of sunlight has already swept across the room and engulfed me.

  I throw myself back in a screaming mass, but the sounds come out choked, agony flaring through me as I cough out a cloud of ash. Thin trails of smoke waft up from my fingers and I can feel the heat building up behind my eyes as I burn from the inside. My bones are glowing red hot, the heat charring through the flesh around them.

  “Stop it,” I choke, “Stop it, please, stop…”

  He swings the shutters closed but it’s too late. I’m burning. He rushes to the edge of the circle, maybe a little too fast, stops.

  “You need to feed.”

  “What do you want from me?”

  He draws something from his pocket. It’s a band of links made out of dark metal. He tosses it into the circle.

  “Put it on.”

  I pick it up. I’m burning. I can taste the ash in my mouth. When I hold it in my hands I realize what it is. A collar. The metal is greasy, and I could swear it moves under my fingers, like it’s breathing. Like it’s alive.

  If this doesn’t stop I’m going to die, die the true death that spirals down into oblivion. Those words float from the back of my head, but they’re not mine. I lift the collar to my throat and it moves on its own with a sudden viper quickness, slipping around my neck. It clasps with a solid latching sound and tightens, squeezing my throat, the pointed corners of the links digging into my skin.

  The burning doesn’t stop. I cough and a puff of ash falls out of my mouth. My skin has tightened around my bones. I can feel them starting to cut through. I’m dying.

  “Here.”

  The blood pack lands in front of me with a solid thump. It’s from a hospital, a plastic bag used for transfusions. I grab it and bite into it, ripping the cap off the stem. When I gulp it down I want to throw it back up, but it doesn’t reach my stomach. It’s cold, and blood is even worse cold than it is when it’s warm.

  Whatever dependence I have on the lifeblood of human beings, it doesn’t spare me from one of the most noticeable effects of swallowing blood. It’s an emetic. It induces vomiting.

  So once I’ve drained the pack dry, I start trying to throw up. It goes on for minutes, but at least I’m not coughing up my own ash from being cremated alive from the inside out. I flop down on my side, exhausted.

  He kneels at the edge of the circle and presses his thumb to it, and whispers a word. There’s an audible little snap and I can feel the wall going away, but I’m in no position to do anything about it. I try to shake loose as he touches my arm and pulls me first to sit, then to stand, my head propped on his shoulder. His jugular is pulsing inches away from my teeth. Instinctively I move, and the collar clamps down on my throat.

  Choking, I pull at it, but it’s so tight I can’t even get my fingers under it. It’s crushing my neck.

  “Stop,” he says, “Clear your head. Christine, calm. Listen to my voice.”

  I do as he says. The collar loosens, then loosens more. It still digs into my skin.

  He’s already picked me up. He’s carrying me. Out of the library, down a hall.

  “How am I awake in the day?” I manage to choke out.

  “Magic.”

  “I don’t believe in magic.”

  “I don’t believe in faeries. Yet here we are.”

  “You made Tinkerbell sad.”

  There’s a tiny stumble in his gait, and his throat tightens.

  “Yeah. I guess so.”

  The door is already open. He passes a bookcase and a small sitting area, and the room’s own fireplace, and lays me on a four-poster bed. I settle into the mattress and sleep pulls at me.

  “No. Stay awake.”

  I look at him.

  “Why are you doing this to me?”

  Tenderly, he brushes the loose hair out of my eyes.

  “You’ll understand in the end. Trust me.”

  “No.”

  He pulls away, then leans forward, looking into my eyes. Something about the jut of his jaw, the way he’s positioned, I think he might lean down and touch his lips to my forehead, but he stops.

  “I’m going to put you to sleep now. There will be instructions there on the table when you wake up. Do as you’re told. S
tay in this room. If you try to leave, the collar will stop you. The rest of the house is not sunproofed, so it’s not safe for you. Look over there.”

  I looked past his shoulder to a door.

  “You have your own bathroom. I want you to clean up. There’s some things for you to wear.”

  “What? Why?”

  He puts his fingertips on my forehead as he stands up.

  “I can’t tell you anymore now. Hush.”

  His voice is soft, gentle, at odds with the way he was before. This guy is either crazy or has a split personality, and if he really puts me to sleep I’m going to be at his mercy, but I really can’t move.

  “Somnare,” he whispers, “Somnare vampiris.”

  Sleep.

  Wake.

  My eyes snap open and I sit bolt upright, half expecting that I just woke from the first dream I’ve ever had, but I’m still in the bedroom. I can move freely, no fatigue, no feeling I’m about to pass out. The collar is still on my neck and when I tug at it, it tightens and slithers in my grasp, undulating against my skin. No reason to feel that any more than I need to. The window is shuttered from the outside, but I don’t need to look to know it’s night, and later in the night than it should be.

  I laugh softly to myself. I haven’t overslept since I was in school.

  Stone still, I hold onto that feeling. A memory of a memory, it dances out of reach and fades from my mind before I can get ahold of it and I choke back a sob. I can’t do this. I don’t want to remember.

  There’s a sticky note on the table.

  1. Take a shower.

  2. Get dressed.

  3. Wait for me.

  I stare at the note and crumple it, but there’s a pulse from the collar, as if it knows I’m being defiant.

  “Alright, alright,” I mutter.

  A horrifying idea bubbles up in my head when I make my way to the bathroom. My new owner wants to play dress-up with his pet.

  No.

  His doll.

  I have to stop to catch my breath, even though I’m not breathing. I turn on the water. Might as well turn it all the way up. Either way it just feels hot, it doesn’t hurt. I get under it and stand there, trying to remember how to bathe properly. I end up scrubbing my hands with the bar of soap and frothing shampoo in my hair before I stand there until the hot water sweeps it all out. Feeling no relief, I turn off the water and step out.