by A. K. Koonce
He holds the door open for all of us as we walk through. He takes one look back outside, his eyes shifting, making sure everything is as it should be, and closes the door the best he can.
We stand in a small laundry room that feels a little cramped with the four of us inside. I’m about to explore the surrounding rooms when I hear a screeching noise and almost jump out of my skin. It stops me in my tracks. I turn quickly to find Forty-four picking up the washing machine and placing it in front of the wrecked door. I swallow, again, thinking about the lethal strength he hides just under the surface.
My mother roams from room to room with a flashlight like she’s searching for something. As far as I can tell, scurrying mice is all she finds. She and Forty-four meet in what was once the kitchen. A large wooden table sits in the center of the room.
I follow Ky into the room just in time to see Forty-four fling the few objects off the table. Glass and metal scatter to the floor as he exits the room in his usual silent manner. As if nothing happened.
My body stills and the urge to run away sinks into every anxious nerve in my body. Ky, too, seems on edge from the outburst, but he doesn’t say anything. He just casually moves closer to my mother and then stands in a dominant stance at her side. She seems unaware that Ky or myself are in the room at all. She starts wiping down the dusty table with an old rag like we’re preparing for a family dinner. Once that task is finished, she starts searching every drawer and cabinet. There is a mission here, one that myself and Ky are not aware of.
“What are you looking for?” I ask, still standing in the doorway of the kitchen.
My mother doesn’t glance up from her search in the cabinet. Ky just shakes his head and leans against the wall like he’s growing impatient with the task my mother has solely taken charge of.
I backtrack through the house looking for Forty-four. The blinds are open and the moon lets in white light in strips across the floor. It’s quieter the deeper into the house I go, away from my frantic mother. The darkness is starting to feel eerie when I open a door that has steep, wooden stairs leading down into dense shadows, so dark I cannot see the bottom.
“Forty-four?” I whisper, like I’m afraid to wake the essence of the lives that once lived here.
I’m just about to close the chilling door when I hear a noise of something falling to the floor close to the bottom of the stairs. I look back into the house. I can still hear my mother quickly opening and closing drawers in the adjacent room. Ripper stands at my feet looking down the stairs and then back at me. Like he, too, is unsure of what lies below us.
I take a few steps into what must be the basement. It’s colder here. Dampness fills the air. I look back to see if Ripper is following me, but he stays at the top of the stairs looking down at me with a whine.
“Coward,” I whisper up to him.
I take a few more steps down, the boards creaking beneath my hesitant steps. My eyes have adjusted slightly to the lack of light, but I can’t make out anything more than a foot in front of me. Straining my eyes, I can now see the bottom of the stairs just a few feet down.
“Forty-four?” I whisper again. I don’t know why I even bother; he can’t answer me.
I stand on the last step, deciding then and there I will not walk into the unknown shadows. I can’t follow what I cannot see. I pause as I hear a footstep, and my heart pounds frantically. I turn to leave when a cold hand touches my wrist, just light enough to send a shiver up my arm.
I let out a scream and stumble on my step. A strong arm braces around my waist before I can fall. I almost scream again when I see Forty-four’s beautiful face in the shallow moonlight and my breath catches at the sight of him standing on the step below me.
The moon cuts across his face in angles, making his skin look porcelain. His eyes swallow up the bits of light, seeming metallic and powerful. His shining eyes roam over my face, realizing there was fear there, but now catching every changing emotion I reveal to him. I try to hide any thoughts that are racing through my mind by offering a small smile. His half smirk seems to tell me I’m not very good at lying. Not like my mother.
His arm is still around my waist and I’m hyper aware of his fingers flexing into my hip. The feeling is both painful and pleasant.
I finally glance down at my own hand which I initially raised to push whatever monster was reaching out for me. It’s now nestled comfortably against his solid chest. Making a home for itself between us.
His fingers tense into my hip again like he’s considering moving me closer to him when he clears his throat with what might be a low growl. His eyes shift down before his arm drops harshly away from me. I nearly fall again, not realizing how much I was leaning on him. His jaw ticks as he looks into the darkness below us, and I’m suddenly aware of how cold it is again.
“Sorry,” he says quietly with a pained expression in his eyes even before the chip in his neck shocks him.
He passes hurriedly by me, not looking back, and I’m left feeling off balance as I trail after him.
Once we reach the top of the stairs my eyes widen at the strange glowing sword that hangs in his hand, the hand he hadn’t wrapped around me. My skin tingles at the thought, and I take another severe breath to try to focus on my surroundings.
Ky glances from me to the weapon in Forty-four’s hand before walking across the room, centering himself in the kitchen, just in front of my mother. His dirty boots scatter mud across the tile floor, but no one seems to notice. Ky stands as a divide between my mother and Forty-four. He isn’t a match for Forty-four, something I’m sure he knows, but it’s clear he would protect my mother with all that he has.
My mother glances up from the floor where she’s almost fully crawled in a corner cabinet. Her eyes also land on the sword Forty-four carries, but a different look lights her face.
“You found it. Oh, thank god!” She’s full-blown smiling now at the hybrid who alone could be a weapon, as her eyes take in the blade at his side. “I thought we might be here all night looking for it. I guess it’s not really something you keep with the paring knives is it?” She laughs nervously; the sound is clipped and awkward. Her odd behavior becomes more and more out of place by the minute. She takes the sword from his hand, and her eyes trace over the blade slowly.
Ky has set up a few lanterns in the kitchen, and, as my mother shines her flashlight on the sword, it illuminates the room. Fragments of light reflect off the strange blade, casting drifting shadows around the room. With the extra lighting, I can now see the peculiar sword that so obviously wasn’t welded by human hands.
She turns the beautiful sword over in the streak of light, letting the fragments of light on the wall push and sway against the shadows. The sword is made of a crystal-like material cut into a blade and the hilt is a shining dark metal. Pulsing down the center of the blade is a deep red color that appears to bleed out into the crystal-like edges.
Forty-four watches her inspect the weapon before he waves a hand at the table he cleared moments earlier. Ky steps aside reluctantly for him to pass, and my mother follows. She looks peculiar holding the unearthly sword at her side. It appears heavy, yet she doesn’t let it strain her posture.
The table groans under Forty-fours weight as he pushes himself onto the tabletop. He sits at the edge of it, as if it’s just another casual evening here. He bites his lip and looks my mother up and down before settling his gaze on the sword in her hand. He takes an audible breath before he lies down on the wooden table. The table creaks under his weight as he shifts into a comfortable spot on his back.
Ky and I step closer. My breathing picks up with whatever the two of them might be getting ready to do. Did Forty-four lead us here to kill him? He gave my mother the sword. And now he lies before her as an angel ready to accept judgment. A sacrificial-like setting. Why?
My mother flutters around the kitchen, the sword at her side. She’s like a warrior housewife, ready to make a batch of brownies or slice open a hybrid. She brings over
the two lanterns Ky found, placing one on each side of Forty-four’s head.
I’m not sure what she’s doing, what any of us are doing. He looks into the yellow light and then into my eyes. His face is illuminated, again angelic, and his brows dip with concern and determination. He takes a deep breath before looking away from the light, from me, toward the wall.
Is he afraid? I would be. Death brings a heaviness into my thoughts. The mere word settles into me, into my lungs and bones, and pulls at my soul like the mention of it might wrench me from existence altogether.
I’m just starting to understand him, and he’s going to leave voluntarily. I thought he was so strong, powerful. I didn’t think he would willingly be put down like this. This is where our journey ends? Maybe the compound intended to do far worse. Anger replaces my sadness as Shaw’s thin, sneering face flashes in my mind.
“Hold him down, Ky,” my mother instructs.
Ky moves with a limp, his metal leg clicking on the tile floor. The running must have pained him more than he lets on. And yet he remains as stoic as ever, despite his wavering gait.
He does as he is told and grips Forty-four’s biceps, holding him to the table. Ky’s arms flex, putting weight into his grip. Forty-four doesn’t fight or even look at any of us. All I can think is that Shaw damaged him this badly that he’s just lying down and accepting death. And my mother is so afraid of what Forty-four might endure at the compound that she’s willing to kill him.
The calmness of the situation forces itself on me. I should just let him be. Accept his acceptance. I swallow and look away from the table, trying to clear my mind. I blink and release a heavy, shaking breath. I want to help. To save this broken hybrid. But I can’t. I can’t.
So I do the only thing I can do. I walk around the table, near the wall he faces and stand close with my hands resting on the table. Forty-four’s eyes are closed, but I know he knows I’m here. As my mother carefully lifts the blade I take another weak breath, trying to get air into my constricting lungs. It’s not enough. There isn’t enough air in this tiny wreck of a home. I breathe again, still not finding oxygen in the air, but trying anyway.
I watch as my mother angles Forty-four’s face farther away, exposing his neck. His neck is so strained for a moment I think I can see a pulse. Out of panic, I take Forty-four’s hand in mine, trying to comfort him and myself.
At the touch of my palm against his, he opens his eyes to look up at me from the table. I stare into his pale gray eyes, thinking this might be the last time I see the beautiful hybrid look at me. The last time I stare into those capturing, intense eyes. His brows lower in confusion and his thumb begins tracing circles against the back of my hand. I take another small, useless breath.
With slow precision, my mother rakes the crystal blade across his throat. A thin trickle of blood escapes before his skin closes and heals immediately.
My mother huffs and lowers the blade in frustration. She releases Forty-four’s head and he slowly looks at her. His eyes glare at her from under thick, dark lashes.
“Sorry, let me try again,” she says to him.
Forty-four sighs like his murder is a real inconvenience to him, but turns his head back toward the wall. His thumb never stops its busy work at the back of my hand.
My jaw is still hanging open. I’m looking from my mother to Forty-four, trying to take in the insanity surrounding me. I lick my lips and try to remain passively at his side. He deserves someone who isn’t a sobbing mess to be at his side. Even if it’s the first time someone like me might be here for him. Even if it’s the last time.
My mother takes a determined breath and raises the blade again. Again, with patient and careful execution, she strokes the blade over his angled throat. And again the blood trickles and the shallow wound closes.
Forty-four exhales loudly in annoyance before rising to a sitting position on the table, letting go of and leaving my hand behind.
“Let me try one more time,” my mother says calmly. “It’s not as easy as it looks,” she says defensively, trying to sell her murdering abilities.
I want to scream at her to stop this. Instead, I patiently wait in silence for whatever she thinks is best.
I once read it was near impossible to kill a vampire and their offspring are just as difficult. It can be done, but not by a mortal blade. Which must be why the blade at present is being used. He’s healing so quickly we might have to find another way to kill him. The casual thought sinks into my mind, and I shudder at how dark my thinking has become.
Forty-four shakes his head at my mother as if he’s tired of the death game they’re playing. He holds out his hand for the weapon. His posture is perfectly straight, and his eyes are hard as they stare at her. Waiting. She swallows and looks away before handing him the sword.
He tilts his head back from one side to the other, clearly trying to release the stress that’s tensed his muscles for the past several hours. Possibly his whole life.
In his sitting position, his shadow is cast against the wall and the blade sends slivers of light into his shadow as he raises it against the dim lamp. A memory of a childhood story enters my mind, of a boy whose shadow was somehow severed from his body. A happy, carefree character. If only it were that simple. If only this blade had the ability to sever the dark heaviness that follows this hybrid around.
He takes a deep breath. All eyes watching him. Then quickly but carefully he slices the blade across his own neck.
Chapter Five
Asher Xavier
I gasp at the sight of his crimson blood trailing down his skin. The color’s darker than I expected and stains his shirt instantly. It continues flowing down his chest and arms. Endlessly flowing.
He clenches his teeth together and seethes out short breaths against the pain, his chest heaving for air. I want to reach for him. Help him in some way. But I remain immobile—a statue among the living. And the dying.
Ky pushes him back down on the table as my mother skitters close to him with something small in her hand. Ripper whines and prances back and forth at our feet, anxiously walking as if the little dog is confused. He paces below us, and I find myself relating to the small dog’s reaction.
My mother wipes quickly at the flowing wound on Forty-four’s neck, her head bent close to the gushing blood. After a minute, she loosens a breath and nods to Forty-four with a nervous smile. When she leans back from the chaos, I see in her hand a pair of tweezers and in the tweezers a small square metal chip.
Forty-four leaps from the table and takes long strides into the next room, the laundry room. His hand is gripping his neck and his blood runs between his fingers, a bit slower now but still streaming over his hands.
He brings in his backpack. His blood is smeared all over the bag’s handle. And now that I’m looking around, his blood is everywhere. It trails the room with little bloody paw prints and large shoe prints mapping the area. It covers the counter he’s now standing near. It covers the table that my hands are still flat against. I lift my palms and find they are red as well. My astounded eyes stare at my stained hands in disbelief as Forty-four continues sorting through the bag.
Forty-four clears his throat, and I slowly look up at him. He’s stopped holding his neck and only an insignificant wound remains there.
He grasps the now red squirrel tightly in his hand. The animal is alarmed and sticky with blood. Around the squirming animal’s neck is the chip. It’s tied tightly there with a bit of string.
Forty-four hands the restless animal to Ky. “Take him back to the forest,” he says in a hoarse voice and then walks away, his boots echoing through the house.
Ky nods sternly, reflecting the soldier he once was. He takes one long look at my mother, like he’s telling her something before he walks out of the room. I hear the washer scrape against the floor, and then the door quietly closes behind him. The room is silent again.
Forty-four comes back from the other room with what seems like a pair of clippers in his
hands. He sticks his hand into the side of his mouth feeling around at the back of his jaw. I look away already aware of where this is going. After a few seconds, I hear the snapping sound of metal and then again as he clips wires on each side of his jaw. I look back at him as he removes the wires from his mouth, flinging the thin metal to the ground. He opens and closes his mouth over and over again.
My mother leaves the room, probably to watch out the back door until Ky returns. I find myself staring blankly at Forty-four as he paces the kitchen. It’s dark and the room isn’t very big, but he is making it his purpose to do something as simple as carefully walking the length of the room. Again. And again. And again.
He stops pacing when he realizes I’m staring at him. I look down at my hands that I still have half raised with my bloody palms face up.
He stands there across the room from me. He looks from my eyes to my hands and then back again. Several times, before slowly walking toward me.
He opens his bag on the tile floor and brings out a bottle of water and a rag. When he’s just in front of me, he takes one of my stained hands and leads me to a wooden chair. He sits me down. I’m compliant. Vacant. Like this house.
He stares up at me from where he kneels at my feet, assessing everything about me. My blank expression is reflected in his silver eyes. He wipes his hands on his dark pants and slowly raises his hand to my chin. He tilts my face gently down to look at him. “I’m sorry.”
It’s the second time he’s said that to me. This time without pain.
“You can speak freely now,” I whisper. I try to laugh, to find some emotion, but only a faulty breath escapes my lips.
He smiles up at me, but, like my own, it’s only a half-smile. He takes the water bottle and spills water onto the towel. After it’s soaked through, he takes my hand in his and removes my old bandage from yesterday. Yesterday. It seems like much more time has passed since I unwillingly let him bandage my self-inflicted wound.
