by Amy Cross
"No," I reply, trying to stay calm, "I just..." Suddenly I realize that Abby was there earlier tonight. I have a distinct memory of seeing her running toward me. The rest is kind of a blur, but something doesn't feel right. "What happened?" I ask, placing a hand on my side and feeling a sliver of pain from my broken ribs. "The last thing I remember -"
"You were attacked," she says, still staring straight at me. "There were three of them. Fortunately, you managed to get away."
"How?" I ask cautiously.
She pauses. "Don't you remember?"
I shake my head.
She continues to stare at me, almost as if she's trying to work out whether or not she believes me. Her usual confident bluster is gone, replaced by an expression of concern, maybe even fear.
"So this is your place?" I ask, trying to play for time. There's something about Abby right now that's really setting me on edge, as if I'm seeing a new side of her. "How did I..." I pause, aware that her eyes have been fixed on me for a couple of minutes now and I don't think she's even blinked once. I wish I could work out exactly what's changed, but I can't shake the feeling that she's studying me. This must be how a rabbit feels when it hears something moving in the long grass and turns to find itself face to face with a wolf.
"Are you hungry?" she asks suddenly. "Do you want a drink?"
"I'm good, thanks," I reply. "I should probably get going."
"No," she says firmly. "Stay for a while. I need to ask you something. Come through to the kitchen." Turning, she walks through to the next room.
Figuring I need to get a better idea of what's really happening, I follow her find that she's pouring us a couple of glasses of wine. I can't help looking at her eyes, waiting in vain for her to blink. Right now, she seems almost inhuman.
"Tell me what you remember," she says calmly.
I stare at her.
"It's important," she continues. "You might have concussion, or worse. I need to know that your memory is functioning properly."
"The last thing I remember," I say after a moment, "is being attacked by a bunch of dark figures in the parking lot." I pause, feeling as if this whole situation is insane. "I tried to fight back," I continue eventually, "but they managed to get my gun off me, and eventually..." I pause again, as I recall the moment when I actually thought I was going to die. Maybe I'm imagining the whole thing, but I swear to God, one of the figures had fangs instead of normal teeth. Still, that can't be right. It just can't. "I didn't fight them off," I say eventually. "I didn't do anything. You did."
"Did I?" she asks, setting a glass of wine on the counter next to me. She smiles. "You were pretty badly hurt. I would have taken you to the hospital, but your injuries were quite severe and I didn't think it'd be a good idea to let those butchers loose on you. So I brought you here instead, and I managed to patch you up." She takes a sip of wine. "Don't worry," she adds. "I don't bite. I never bite."
"Thanks for the help," I say, still trying to get the measure of her. For a moment, I feel as if I remember something else. Abby was fighting the men who attacked me, and she was crushing them.
"What?" she asks, with her unblinking eyes fixed on me again. "Do you remember something else?"
"Who's this?" I ask, picking up a framed photo from the counter. The woman in the photo doesn't look much like Abby, but she has sad eyes and a smile that seems forced.
"That's my mother," she says. "It's the only photo I have of her." She pauses. "Her name was Sophie Hart."
"You took your mother's surname?" I ask.
She nods.
"Not your father's?"
"I don't know if he had a surname," she replies.
I stare at the photo of the woman. "Is she..."
"She's dead."
"I'm sorry."
"It's okay," she replies. "It's... It's really okay. I don't need her."
"What about your father?" I ask.
She opens her mouth to reply, but something seems to be stopping her. "My father was complicated. So was my mother. Together, they were..." She pauses again. "They're in a better place now. They're together."
"What was his name?"
"It doesn't matter." She takes another sip from her glass of wine. "Patrick," she says eventually. "His name was Patrick. He's dead too."
"I'm sorry," I say again. "I didn't realize..." As a cold shiver runs through my body, I realize I'm starting to remember something else from tonight: I have a vivid image of Abby grabbing me and snarling straight into my face, before throwing me across the parking lot. I take a deep breath, trying to work out what really happened, but I can't shake that picture in my mind of Abby hissing at me. I guess maybe I do have some kind of concussion.
"What?" she asks. "What are you remembering now?"
"Nothing," I say quickly.
"Are you sure?"
I nod.
"It's okay," she continues. "If you remember something, you can let me know. It's possible that your mind is replaying false memories in order to fill in the gaps. It's quite a common phenomenon, actually. The human brain hates empty spaces, so it tends to fill those spaces with whatever it can conjure up."
I stare at her.
"You believe me, don't you?" she asks.
I nod.
"You suffered a concussion," she adds, reaching over and taking the wine glass from my hand. "You shouldn't drink."
"I'm fine," I tell her.
"Still," she adds, pouring the wine away, "better to be safe. You wouldn't want to get sick from drinking this stuff, would you?" She smiles awkwardly, and there's a palpable sense of relief in her voice. It's almost as if she was worried that I was going to remember what really happened. I can't help but watch as she runs the tap to rinse the last of the wine away, and although I keep telling myself that I'm imagining things, I'm certain that there's something very unusual about the way Abby's treating me.
"You should probably sleep here tonight," she continues. "I'd like to keep an eye on you."
"What about the parking lot?" I ask. "I need to file a report -"
"I took care of it," she says.
"You did?"
"I did."
"I'll still have to -"
"No," she says firmly. "When I say I took care of it, I mean I... took care of it. No-one knows. I removed all the evidence. It's better that way."
"What about the men who attacked me?" I ask.
"Gone."
"Gone?"
"Don't worry about it."
"I have to worry about it," I reply. "It's my job to worry about it. Three men attack me in a parking lot, and you think I can just forget that it happened?"
"I'm going to sort it out," she continues. "I'd prefer it if you didn't get in the way. The bodies have been disposed of, there's no blood down there, and the surveillance tapes mysteriously developed a fault. The only giveaway is that there's a dent in the side of your car, but I'm sure you can deal with that."
"You're going to sort it out?" I say, shocked by her matter-of-fact approach to the whole mess. After a moment, I'm struck by another strong image in my mind: Abby with her mouth open, displaying a pair of sharp fangs. "I just..." I continue, before pausing again. Whatever's going on here, I need to go away and get my head straight. "I just need to get home," I say eventually. "Do you mind? I feel fine, and I need to get some rest before tomorrow."
"You have a concussion," she replies. "You -"
"I'm fine," I say firmly. "If I get any more symptoms, I'll go straight to the hospital. I just need to keep working. I can't afford to sit around waiting to get better. Whoever's responsible for the bodies we found the other day, they're not gonna sit around waiting for me to perk up, are they? I'll be fine, I swear. You've already done more than enough."
She stares at me for a moment. "Fine," she says eventually, clearly a little doubtful. "I can't exactly hold you here against your will, can I? Just promise me you'll get in touch if you have any problems. Even the slightest symptom could be a sign of trouble.
The first twenty-four hours are the most dangerous. After that, you should be okay, but it's still dangerous."
"Of course," I reply, already making my way through to the front door. "I promise."
"If you have any questions at all," she continues, following me, "you can just drop by or call. Okay?" She reaches past me and unlocks the door, before pulling it open. "If there's anything you want to talk about, don't hesitate to get in touch. Anything at all. I can't stress that enough. I can help you. I attended to you after the incident, so I'm really the best person for you to speak to."
"I'm fine," I say, stepping out into the corridor. "Thanks for all your work, but I really need to get going."
"Are you sure you don't want to stay?" she asks as I hurry toward the elevators. "We can catch up tomorrow! We need to work out what to do next! This isn't over!"
"Sure!" I shout back, even though I have no intention of seeing her tomorrow or any other day. Right now, I feel as if I need to get the hell away from her.
Once I'm safely in the elevator and making my way down to the lobby, I finally allow myself to relax. I haven't even begun to make sense of the past few hours, but there's clearly something very strange about Abigail Hart and I'd rather keep well away from her. Right now, I feel like I need a big drink, and I need to get my head straight. I know what I saw tonight, but I also know what's possible, and the last thing I want to do is make a fool of myself. Still, one thing's clear: someone tried to kill me, and it doesn't take a genius to work out that my current case is probably the cause. Someone somewhere is going to great lengths to make it seem as if vampires exist. They don't, though. They can't. Despite everything that happened to me ten years ago, I refuse to believe that vampires could possibly be real.
Abby Hart
Damn it, that was stupid! What the hell's wrong with me? Seriously, it's almost as if I've got a death wish. I should have killed him. No, even better: I should have let him die back in the parking lot. Why the hell did I go to all that effort to resuscitate him, and then let him go when he clearly knows what I am?
Walking through to the kitchen, I pour myself a glass of wine and try to calm down. The past twenty-four hours have been a total disaster. When I came to New York, I had some kind of misguided belief that I could make amends for my past actions. I've killed a lot of people over the years, including members of my own family, and I'm desperate to somehow make up for all my mistakes. Still, I'm clearly going the wrong way about it. I could tell from the look in his eyes that Mark Gregory remembers more than he admitted, and there are clearly far too many loose ends that need to be tied up. I can't shake the feeling that when I let him walk out of here, I made a huge mistake. If I'm going to have to kill him anyway, I should just get it over with as fast as possible.
Spotting the photo of my mother over on the counter, I grab it and stare at her face for a moment before throwing the damn thing at the wall. As it smashes and drops to the floor, I feel my anger starting to build once again before I manage to push it back down. Taking a sip of wine, I walk over and pick up the photo from beneath the pile of glass. Why did I tell Mark about her? Why did I feel that unfamiliar urge to talk to another person about my life? I swear to God, if he'd stayed, I might have ended up telling him everything. What the hell is wrong with me? I should be killing him, not opening up to him.
Heading through to the other room, I open a desk drawer and pull out a second photo. Sitting on the kitchen floor, I stare at the image of Shelley. I can still remember the feeling of her flesh in my mouth, and the taste of her blood. Sometimes I think that if I could go back in time and change one thing, and bring one person back to life, it'd be Shelley. Not my mother or my father, or my uncle, or my adoptive parents. I'd bring Shelley back, because her death was my fault. When I killed her, I basically killed the last person I could talk to. She'd know what to do right now. She'd be able to help me. As it is, I'm completely alone, and it's entirely my fault. Sometimes, I relive those final moments when I'm dreaming, feeling her flesh being ripped apart by my teeth.
"Cheers," I say, making eye contact with the photo before downing the rest of the wine. Before I kill Mark Gregory, I'm going to need a little extra courage.
Mark Gregory
"Where's Duffield?" I shout as I barge through the double doors that lead into our office.
"Talking to someone up top," replies the woman at the desk, eying me with suspicion. "You okay, Mark? You look..." She pauses, before finally a faint smile crosses her lips. "Rough night? Rough date?"
"Has anyone been asking for me?" I continue.
"What was her name?"
"Answer the question."
"I don't think so."
"This is important. Has anyone come to the office or called or even mentioned me?"
"No. Why?" She pauses. "Is something wrong? No offense, but you look like a mess."
I open my mouth to reply, but at the last minute I realize I can't tell her a damn thing. What am I supposed to say? That I was attacked in the basement by vampires, and another vampire - who just happens to work in the same building - came and rescued me, and then she also attacked me but she had a change of heart and saved my life, and I woke up in her apartment? I probably already seem like a raving maniac, and the last thing I need is to be carted off for a psych evaluation.
"If anyone asks for me," I say eventually, "tell them I'm out of the office for the day, okay?"
"Okay."
"And if anyone unusual or..." I pause, trying to work out how to phrase this. I feel as if all the old certainties of my world are starting to twist and warp, and I no longer know what's real. Maybe I'm losing my mind after all. "If anyone unfamiliar seems keen to find me," I continue eventually, "give them the runaround and then let me know once they're gone. Call my cellphone. Just don't give them any information that might help them, okay?"
"Is someone after you?" she asks.
Nearby, a door swings open and Duffield comes storming through, clearly pissed off. When he sees me, he stops and stares for a moment, and finally he smiles. "What happened to you? Bad hooker?"
"I need to -"
"Forget it," he replies. "There are bigger fish that need frying this morning. We need to talk." He grabs me by the arm and slowly ushers me toward the next room. "You heard any gossip since you got in?"
"I've got a problem," I tell him.
"Who doesn't?"
As soon as we're in his office, he pushes the door shut and ushers me over to the window.
"What happened to your face?" he asks, even though it's clear he's just making small-talk. "You look like you got into a fight"
"I did."
"With who?"
"Doesn't matter."
"You make 'em regret it?"
"Sure."
"I don't want to alarm you," he says, keeping his voice uncharacteristically low. I don't think I've ever heard Duffield whisper, and it's kind of troubling. "This is just a heads-up, okay? There might be some questions about that Clare Stamler girl. I know I can usually deal with any messes that might arise, but I just wanted to warn you that I might not be able to sweep things away as neatly as I hoped. At least, not as quickly."
"What kind of questions?"
He smiles awkwardly. "Turns out her mother's not just a lawyer, she's some big-shot human rights lawyer from up in Boston, and she got wind of what happened, and unfortunately she knows the system. She knows every fucking block, every fucking rule and law and protocol. Apparently she's been on the phone constantly for the past few hours, screaming at everyone in the fucking building and demanding to know why we let her daughter back out on the streets. Every time I try to block off any questions, she knows exactly how to push on through. She's got the fucking system licked." He sighs. "Just my fucking luck, huh? I come across one of the few fucking people who can actually smell bullshit. She's like my equal, or my fucking nemesis. I don't know whether to be pissed off or turned on."
"So what?" I stare at him. "Just say it was
a processing error."
"Yeah," he mutters, but there's clearly something else bothering him, even if he won't directly spit it out. I know Steven Duffield well enough to see immediately when there's a problem.
"What?" I ask after a moment. "What aren't you telling me?"
"Nothing," he replies. "It's all totally above board. I'm just trying to let you know that there might be questions, so we should probably get our stories straight."
"What stories?"
He holds his hands up in mock surrender. "Don't shoot the messenger. I'm just giving you advance warning that there might be questions."
"There's no story to get straight," I tell him. "She was a junkie, we brought her in to talk about a specific case, and then she left. I get that her mother's pissed off, but what else could we have done?" I wait for him to reply, but he still seems very uncomfortable. "I have things to do," I say eventually. "Important things. I'm going to be out for most of the day, so you can deal with your own bullshit for once."
"Is this about the case?" he asks. "I've gotta tell you, Mark, right now it looks like we've got nothing apart from a bunch of dead bodies in a lab."
"I'm working on a lead," I tell him.
"A lead?"
I nod, hoping he won't push too much.
"Like what?"
"Like..." For a moment, I consider letting Duffield in on the events of the past twenty-four hours. "Just a few ideas," I say eventually. "Let me run through them first before I bring them up, okay? You know what it's like. I don't want to look like an idiot. There are just some aspects of the case that are turning out to be a little unconventional, and I want to be sure of myself before I start running my mouth off."
"You're freaking me out," he replies. "I can see it in your eyes. Something's bugging you." He leans a little closer. "It's okay. You can tell me. What are you working on? Come on, you can trust me. How long have we been working together? You think I'm gonna cause problems?"
I pause for a moment. "I'll tell you," I say finally, "as soon as you tell me why you're really worried about the Clare Stamler situation. And don't give me that bullshit about her mother causing trouble, because I know there's something else going on, and I swear to God, I'm not gonna let you drag me down on this one. If you've been up to your old tricks, you can sort it out without my help." I wait for a reply, and it's immediately clear that there's no way he can tell me the truth.
