by Lizzy Ford
Doodling in the notebook he supplied, I tune out, once more considering the horrific prospect that someday, someone might think to put me in charge of something. I’d be a terrible leader, but I often have the strange feeling that these three men are trying to prepare me to become one, despite my unsuitability.
Or … maybe being a Kingmaker is a type of leader. I always thought we were more like historians or advisors, not actual leaders. But if our duty is somewhat to choose a Community leader, then it makes sense we have a leadership role, however temporary.
I draw a box around the giant words I’ve written in the center of my notebook.
One to love
One to lead
One to fear
I’m pretty fucked. I love them all, want to put them all in charge of the Community, and fear none of them and all of them simultaneously. What’s worse: my father’s involvement, which appears at times to run counter to the wishes of the Book of Secrets, leaves me at a loss as to whether or not I’m supposed to do what the Book says. If I can find a way not to exile a clan, I’ll definitely take that path.
Restless with my thoughts, needing to know more, I text Myca a note about where I’m going, then get up and leave.
I’m headed home. I feel stable enough not to eat anyone I meet, and I need a break from the boring meeting that’s giving me too much time and space to think.
He responds with a smiley face, and I snort. Who knew a vampire could be nice?
I leave the building located downtown and catch the bus back towards my father’s. I pass Tristan’s pharmaceutical company as I go, and a pang of yearning robs me of breath. I’m apparently not supposed to see the other candidates during the active days of my trial, or I’d stop to make sure he’s okay after what Myca revealed about him killing his fae for the mess I caused.
I know he’s not okay. He feels too deeply, and recalling what he went through when we were together is enough for tears to prick my eyes. Would he even want to see me?
Depressed by the idea of his rejection and pain, I sink back into the seat and stare at the sign above the bus driver’s head, not registering it.
Ben and Tristan both have reasons to despise me. I don’t blame them, and I still don’t understand how Ben could show up at my house before Myca’s week and offer to be a friend. In truth, it was like sprinkling salt into a wound that hasn’t healed. How can he want to be a friend when I was so stupid during my first trial?
I don’t know why Myca wants to know about him, or why I’m not willing to tell him anything except, well …
I fucked up with Ben. Not just with revealing the illegal activity in his company, or drawing the ire of his ex, but because I judged him so harshly. I belittled him for doing what he had to in order to be the leader his people need and treated him similarly to how he claimed most clans treat his wolves: as animals incapable of real reason.
A lot of what I know now is because of Tristan, from feeling what he goes through as a leader and realizing Ben, too, experiences the heartache inherent in his position. Being with Ben on my first trial was an eye opener in so many ways, like standing before a mirror and being forced to see the real me for the first time, a shock I still haven’t recovered from.
When I reach my father’s house, I enter and sigh. Every time I return, it seems smaller, dingier, less pleasant.
“Fucking rich candidates,” I mutter.
I check the books in the library first. Nothing will budge. I don’t expect them too but am still disappointed. So I go to the living area and find my notebook and iPad. Putting on Buffy again, I sit down and watch the footage of my father’s last night once more.
Why are there five shadows? Why does that seem relevant, even if I’ve witnessed firsthand what happened that night?
I watch the footage until the pain of losing Daddy settles into me and then grab the notebook and begin to try to draw the creepy wolf from my dream. It’s hard to capture it, and I close my eyes to focus on the weird dreamy image once more. The only thing I can really remember about it in great detail is its empty eyes and how it faded and turned into shadows.
My thoughts drift to the dream of my mother, and I sigh. God, she was beautiful. I inherited some of her features but not the ones that made her so striking, she could stop traffic with a look. I wish I’d known her better, but I have no desire to meet my grandmother or anyone else in the zombie family.
Myca swears the dreams are memories.
But why these memories and why now? To date, nothing that’s happened during the trials has been without cause or purpose. I have to assume I’m missing something. But what?
“Scary shadow wolf, bitchy Grandma, Daddy’s death.” I write elements of the three dreams down in my notebook and stare at them. “Talk to me, you assholes!”
My phone vibrates, and I pick it up with a sigh. Myca’s texted.
Headed offsite to resolve a dispute. You okay on your own for 3-4 hours?
He really is a nice guy.
I hate him for it, for not being the candidate I can write off or despise. I’ve fucked up the lives of two others. What will I do to mess up his?
Good. I text back. I scroll through my contacts. Ben deleted everyone but his information and that of his driver when the trials started. I have those two, Tristan and Myca and that’s it.
I tap Tristan’s name, tempted to message him, even knowing he can’t respond until my time with Myca is up. To my surprise, I see a message from him I missed.
There were only four of us that night, he wrote late on the night before the first day of my trial with Myca. I had asked him and Ben both last week why there were five shadows and only four people who entered the bar the night my father died.
I’m disappointed by the confirmation and lack of insight but pleased he responded. His initial answer was the infuriating I can’t tell you that. Maybe they can tell me more once their trial weeks are up. Ben revealed my father was the one who told them all about my favorite ice cream and movie, facts he didn’t share during our week together.
My doorbell rings, and I jerk, surprised by the sound. I smell the human through the door before I reach it and peek through the peephole, not about to answer it, if it’s the drug dealer I might owe money.
It’s the mailman with a certified letter, which is even worse. I’m behind on a few bills and squint in an attempt to determine who the letter might be from.
I drop back onto my heels. The mailman slides a sorry-we-missed-you card through the mail slot, and I pick it up to check the return address.
It’s from my father.
I wrench the door open. “Hey!” I call to the man, who has reached the sidewalk. “Sorry. I’m here.”
“Leslie Kingmaker?” he glances at the letter.
“Yep!”
“Sign here, please.”
I trot down the stairs to him and eagerly sign for the letter, hoping my father has revealed something new, now that I know he was working with the candidates. “Thanks!”
Eyes on the familiar handwriting, I’m so excited, I stumble over a step and barely catch myself on the railing. I haul myself back up and start to walk again.
And then I stop and stare at my feet.
“Five shadows,” I murmur.
My grandmother looked at my feet, too, in the dream.
“No way.” I blink and then wipe my eyes.
I have two shadows, one where it should be from the angle of the sun, and the second stretching in the opposite direction.
Returning to the interior of the house, I grab my phone and walk back outside with it.
The shadows remain.
No one has to tell me this isn’t normal. I take a picture of the dual shadows and then retreat to the couch with my phone. Something my father said in Myca’s memory clicks.
… protect Leslie from what she is until the time comes when she needs to know.
What if he meant I’m more than a Kingmaker? Or … Kingmakers are more than shape shifters
who choose the leaders of the Community? Another note I read in the Book of Secrets bubbles from the depths of my mind. The Book claims the Kingmaker clan was created alongside the curse two thousand years ago, and that no one knew if we were originally a different clan or from scratch brand new.
Why do I have two shadows? I text this message to all three candidates, fully expecting no one to respond.
Playing the footage from Daddy’s last night, I study the fifth shadow, between my father and Tristan, who follows him, to the best of my ability given the grainy footage.
Daddy has two shadows. I have two shadows.
I set the phone aside and open the letter. Or … try to. It’s not a concrete block like the other books, but apparently, the deal I made with Myca extends to any other letters that suddenly appear. I can’t open the damn envelope. It’s like trying to tear rubber. With a growl of anger, I stand and go to the study, flinging it into the room with an angry flourish.
My eyes fall to the desk, and I consider pulling the charms out of their trunk. Without knowing anything else about them, it’s useless to play with them. I return to the couch and check the phone.
No messages.
“No surprise,” I mutter and flip to my photos.
I spend a minute studying the curse charms before swiping to the picture of the shadows.
“What the …?” I zoom in, stare, and then lower the phone.
What I took a picture of, and what I see now, are two different things.
But it can’t be real.
I leave the house for the front porch once more and stare down at the shadow that shouldn’t be there. I take a picture of it then open my photos app.
The shadow doesn’t appear to be a shadow in the pictures. It’s … wings.
I definitely can’t fly, and neither could my father, to my knowledge. So what the hell does this mean?
I take several more photos and then sit down on the top step to study them. In every shot, the unnatural shadow appears to be a pair of wings. No matter what angle I’m standing in or what direction I face or where the sun is. The wings are identical.
“This is just weird,” I say, frowning, and snap a picture of my extra shadow while sitting down. “Still wings.” Irritated, I lock the screen and gaze out at the quiet neighborhood. The difference between today and three days ago, when I was ready to eat the next human I saw, is incredible.
My phone buzzes, and I check it.
We’ll talk, Myca has responded.
“But will you tell me anything useful?” I challenge without responding. Although, if he won’t, maybe the Blood Rite will. Maybe it’s time I’m specific and ask to see what happened two thousand years ago.
I rub my face, wanting to throw my phone but not about to. I text him a quick ok and then return to the photos, unable to look away from the bizarre set of wings I can’t see – but which appear in my shadow.
I flip to the photo of the curse charms – and gasp.
One of them has two shadows, too. I never knew to look before. Dashing to my feet, I push the door open and then pause, confused.
Blood.
The smell is coming from inside the house – and it’s human.
“Orange cranberry muffins?” Puzzled, I step inside and sniff.
Definitely human.
Who the hell is in my house, and why is she or he bleeding? I’m salivating but don’t feel the urge to pounce on anyone. The curse charms forgotten, I start down the hall.
I leave the front door cracked, in case I have to make a quick escape, and creep as quietly as possible across old wooden flooring that groans under the weight of a vacuum. The scent emanates from my kitchen. I hear nothing, sense nothing other than the blood.
Reaching the doorway to the kitchen, I freeze.
“Barry?”
His still form is in the middle of my kitchen, and a pool of blood surrounds him. He’s not moving and dressed in the same clothing he wore last night.
Without a second thought, I set my phone on the counter and drop to my knees in the mess. I roll him onto his side. He’s pale, his glassy gaze staring past me at the ceiling. I grimace at the sight of his shredded neck and fight back the urge to vomit at the gruesome damage done to him. The wound appears old, and blood is gummed up and drying. Except on the floor. It looks like someone drained his blood and then dumped it in my kitchen.
Who the hell would’ve done this? I’ve been out front for an hour and didn’t notice anything until I smelled his blood.
He’s long been dead, though. This didn’t happen in my kitchen.
“Oh, Barry,” I whisper. “I’m so sorry.” I frown and lower him to the ground gently.
How does a dead body just appear in my house?
There’s a second door at the rear of the house leading into a narrow alley, where the garbage cans are kept. Aware I can do nothing for Barry now, I stand and walk to the back door.
It’s closed – but the lock is broken. I open it and step onto the tiny landing above the stairs. The alley is silent and still.
“What the hell is going on?” I ask no one, baffled.
Whatever it is, I don’t know how to handle the situation. Myca will. Maybe this is a vampire rite of passage or their version of a prank or something, though I know he said killing to feed was strictly forbidden. I hope he has some idea about what to do with the body, too.
Disgusted by Barry’s blood, I stop in the laundry room to grab a towel and wipe off my hands before realizing I’ve tracked blood from the kitchen to the back door. It’s kind of gross but … I’m more concerned about the body in my kitchen.
The doorbell rings.
I freeze, my eyes going to Barry and then to the blood on my clothing. I’m in no shape to answer the door.
Too late I realize I didn’t close the door behind me. It creaks as someone pushes it open a couple of inches.
Shit. Mailman, neighbor, random stranger – I’m about to be in trouble if someone sees the blood, body or me standing in the middle of everything.
“Miss Kingmaker?”
“Just a minute,” I reply. I start towards the door, intending to close and lock it before the man on the other side sees anything.
It swings open, and I stop in the middle of the foyer, sucking in a deep breath. It’s then I notice who’s at my door.
“Miss Kingmaker, I’m Michel, and this is Antony. We’re from the police and internal security division.” The tall vampire says and steps into the doorway.
“Vampire police?” I ask curiously.
“Yes, ma’am.”
I want to laugh but am distinctly aware of their poor timing. Or perhaps … their perfect timing, considering there’s a dead human whose neck has been ripped out in my kitchen.
“I smell blood.” Antony doesn’t seem anywhere near as civil as the dark-haired Michel.
“You have company, Miss Kingmaker?” Michel asks, gazing at me intently.
Something’s very wrong with this scenario. I take a step back, unable to focus on the alarm going off in my mind when I’m faced with two vampires. “What’re you doing here?”
“We had an anonymous tip that a human was in danger at the house of a vampire. It’s against our code to kill a human while feeding,” Michel answers. “Mind if we have a look around?”
“Actually, yes, I do mind.” I glance over my shoulder at the phone that’s too close to the kitchen for me to grab without drawing attention to the pool of blood that’s crept close to the kitchen entry. “I think I should call Myca.”
“That’s a lot of blood for a normal feeding,” Antony says.
They both look down my clothing.
With a deep breath, I decide to go with the truth. “Okay. There’s a dead human in my kitchen. I … found the body,” I explain. “I don’t know how he got here.”
Antony breezes past me to the kitchen.
“Yeah,” he reports with regret in his voice. “Human. One of the club regulars.”
“
Maybe you should tell me what happened,” Michel says politely but with a sharp gaze.
My stomach is turning, as if my instincts are once more aware of my danger when my mind hasn’t yet figured it out.
I tell him most of the truth, that I was sitting on the front porch for an hour or so when I smelled blood.
He writes it down in a notebook, like a real police officer.
“You know him?” he asks when I’m done.
“Yeah. Barry. I met him last night at one of the dens,” I answer.
“If we test him, will we find your DNA on him?” Michel asks.
I start to answer and then stop. I slobbered all over the poor guy. “So do I get a vampire lawyer or something?” I ask instead.
The two exchange a look.
“I’m afraid you’ll have to come with us, Miss Kingmaker,” Michel says.
“To where?”
“To a holding facility, until the council can hear your case.”
Holding facility? Case? Is he serious? “You’re taking me to jail to await a trial?” I translate.
“Yes, ma’am,” he replies.
“Do I get a phone call?”
“After the trial.”
“It won’t take long. It never does.” Antony grabs my arms from behind and pushes me towards the front door.
I start to resist.
His fangs come out, and his gaze flashes dangerously.
“It’s easier if you come with us. We’ll alert Myca on your behalf,” Michel tells me.
He’s lying.
In fact, they both are. I just don’t know exactly about what. The instinct is barely a whisper, but it’s warning me something else is going on here.
I don’t have time to think about it and don’t trust my menial self-defense skills against two vampires. They take me to a waiting car and put me in the back, like a real criminal.
The backseat has no handles on the doors, and there’s a thick glass between me and them that prevents their discussion from reaching me.
