“If you’re hungry, there’s food in your dish,” I told him when he shifted restlessly, a cue that he wanted a treat. I wasn’t surprised when he left my hand and flew out the window headed for the roof. More than once I’d suspected he understood me when I talked to him. I read that crows very intelligent and Harper had gotten a good dose of my power when I’d healed him. Who knew what other affects it had on animals?
I left the window open for him and sat down at my laptop to check out the online activity. Today was the second time I’d used troll bile to purchase medicine for Remy and I was paranoid as hell that someone would trace it back to me and especially to Remy. It was the main reason I dealt only with Malloy. For all his crafty ways, Malloy was very discreet about his business. In his line of work he had to be if he didn’t want to end up gutted in an alley.
The message boards were busy. There was no mention of troll bile but another thread caught my eye – one about vampire activity in Portland. Vampires were the most common topic discussed on the boards and there were always tons of posts about vampire sightings though it was pretty easy to distinguish the real deal from the hype. I’d never seen a vampire but I knew plenty about them, mostly learned from Remy, and my education had taught me that Hollywood and fiction writers have absolutely no clue.
Vampires usually keep to large cities where their hunting can be camouflaged by the higher crime rate. They live in covens and like to hunt in small packs and, while they are mostly active at night, mature vamps can handle exposure to daylight as long as it is not direct sunlight and not for long periods. Younger vamps, those less than a hundred years old, not strong enough to withstand even a minute of daylight. Most vamps, young and old, wouldn’t risk the chance of meeting the sun so they stay hidden during the day.
And there are no solitary vamps wandering the earth with tortured souls waiting to be saved by true love. Vampires are pure evil and their only redeeming quality is that they can be killed with the right weapons. Unfortunately, if a human gets close enough to see a vampire in the flesh, chances are they will not survive to talk about it.
The posting about Portland caught my attention because Portland was a little over an hour from New Hastings, and I used to live there with my dad. There usually wasn’t that much talk about the Portland area because its population was not big enough to hide unusual activity. So when I read that four teenage girls, aged seventeen and eighteen, had disappeared in the last two weeks, a chill went through me. All the girls were reported as suspected runaways, though they had taken nothing with them and none of their friends believed they would run away. None of the girls knew each other and the police had no leads. The poster said it looked like a vampire was at work in the area.
Bile rose in my throat. Vampires take great pleasure in torturing their victims before they drain them. And what they leave behind… A shudder passed through me as an image came unbidden to my mind. I closed my eyes but the scene had been seared into my brain.
I gritted my teeth and waited for the old fear and pain to pass. At times like this I wanted nothing more than to climb into bed and hide under my covers. But I didn’t. If there were vampires in Maine, I had to know.
The rest of the thread did not offer any more information other than the girls had all disappeared at night. The user who had started the thread was a regular on the site, and we talked often. He really knew his stuff so I pinged him and asked for a private chat. Within minutes he popped up in a separate window.
Wulfman: Sup PG. Been a while.
PixieGirl: Yeah been busy. Reading your post. Vamps in Portland?
Wulfman: According to my sources. Weird though. Not their usual scene.
PixieGirl: Wonder what brings them back to Portland.
Wulfman: Back? What do you know?
Pause.
PixieGirl: Knew someone killed by vamps ten years ago.
Wulfman: Wow. I never knew. Sorry.
PixieGirl: You remember any activity back then?
Wulfman: I wasn’t on the scene then. I can check my sources and get back to you.
PixieGirl: Thanks.
Wulfman: It would help if I had the name of your friend who died.
Long pause.
Wulfman: Still there?
PixieGirl: Yeah… his name was Daniel Grey.
The sparrow twitched
restlessly in my hands so I opened them and watched him take flight, his newly healed wing moving like it had never been broken. I giggled as he circled my head happily a few times then flew up to perch on a branch above me.
“I hope you’re more careful next you see that old tom cat,” I told him as I stood and brushed dirt off my jeans. I pulled on my mittens and set off across the small park at the end of our street. The sky was heavy with gray clouds and I could smell snow in the air. If we got enough snow this time, Daddy promised to take me sledding. My pace picked up and I hurried home.
I could hear our neighbor’s basset hound, Charlie, baying from halfway down the street and I wondered what had upset him. Charlie was old and he didn’t even bark at squirrels or cats anymore. When I reached our neighbor’s house I walked around to their backyard to see what Charlie was making so much noise about. It surprised me to find him straining at his wire run, barking and howling at my backyard. Something about the way his hackles were raised made the hair on the back of my neck stand up.
I ran back out to the street and up the walkway to our front door. “Daddy, I think there’s something wrong with Charlie,” I called, opening the door. I tossed my mittens and cap on the bench in the hallway. “Daddy?” I called again.
No answer.
Where is he?
The house was filled with the aroma of pot roast so he had to be here. He would never leave with the stove on.
Something did not feel right. Then I felt the cold draft coming down the hallway. He must have gone out back to see why Charlie was barking and left the door open. I shook my head. He was always scolding me for doing that.
I smelled it just before I reached the kitchen, a warm coppery scent that made my stomach lurch and my pulse quicken. A cry burst from me when I stepped inside and saw the spray of red across the white cupboards and the trail of blood that disappeared out through the open door.
Fear exploded in my chest. “Daddy!” I cried, running for the door. My boots skidded on the slick blood and I flailed as I fell through the doorway, landing hard on my hands and knees on the back step. My head came up and I saw the bloody steps, the broken railing and…
“No!” I crawled frantically toward the figure lying at the bottom of the steps, his favorite blue shirt shredded and bloody. I felt it then, the horrible pulling sensation of a life draining away. “No, Daddy, no!” I threw myself on him, begging him to stay with me as I poured my power into him until there was nothing left to give. It was not enough. His green eyes stared sightlessly at the grey sky as the first snowflakes touched his ravaged face.
“No!” I came awake with a cry and stared blindly in the dark with my heart thudding against my ribs. Reaching up a trembling hand, I swiped at the tears on my cheeks and pushed damp strands of hair out of my face. I lay there for several minutes as my heart rate returned to normal and the last vestiges of the dream left me.
The curtain fluttered, drawing my eyes to the pale light coming through the window. Far out in the bay a buoy clanged and closer to shore a sea otter whistled. Soothed by the familiar noises, I threw off my covers and went to push the window open wider, letting cold morning air fill the room. I took a deep calming breath of ocean air as I listened to the muted sounds of the bay and let myself think about the dream.
In the beginning the nightmare came every night, the same paralyzing dream that ripped me from sleep, screaming in terror. Time after time Nate tried to get me to tell him about the dream, to talk about what I’d been through, but to speak of the horror out loud and relive those moments was more than I could bear.
I’d seen the police reports. Our neighbor called in the disturbance and when the police responded they found me lying on top of my father’s body, both of us covered in snow. At first they thought I was dead too, until one of the policemen checked and found a pulse. I was rushed to the hospital, suffering from shock. The child psychologist who examined me later said I suffered from “severe psychological trauma from witnessing her father’s brutal murder”. She recommended a few weeks in a child psych ward.
Nate’s response: “Absolutely not.” My uncle knew something about post traumatic stress. He was twenty-three when he was hit by shrapnel in Bosnia that left him in a wheelchair. He said I needed to be with family and, since my grandmother was too ill to care for a child, he brought me here to live with him. I knew it wasn’t easy for him, a single man in a wheelchair suddenly faced with raising a traumatized kid. But he did it anyway and I loved him for it, though I could not find the words to tell him what it meant to me. Sometimes I thought of us as a pair of damaged bookends. We both had our flaws but we belonged together even if there was always something between us, keeping us apart.
My alarm clock said six o’clock so I knew it was useless trying to go back to sleep. Instead I drew the covers up over my bed and headed for the bathroom to get ready for school. I splashed cold water over my face and studied my pale complexion and my eyes that were still haunted by the lingering effects of the dream. I released a shuddering breath and started the shower.
What a way to start the week
.
* * *
“I heard her bike gang did it. He’s lucky he’s alive.”
“Seriously?”
“Yeah, I think Greg McCoy just got out of prison or something.”
“I had no idea she ran with such a hard crowd.”
“You guys are all way off base. I say she did it herself and knowing him, he deserved it.”
I glanced up from my book and the whispers died as the students at the surrounding tables suddenly found their lunch trays interesting. Resisting the urge to roll my eyes, I dabbed a French fry in ketchup and plopped it in my mouth. I should have been used to it by now. When you keep to yourself, people will fill in the details about your life themselves. But a bike gang? Really?
I looked at the end of my table where Jeffrey Crumb sat eating his hamburger and fries. Jeffrey gave me a lopsided smile, sharing in my amusement over the gossip before he bent over his own book again. Blond and painfully thin, Jeffrey was two years younger than me and he lived with his grandparents, one street over from me. I heard his mother was a serious drug addict who got pregnant at eighteen and Jeffrey was born with a bunch of health issues. He was pretty smart but small for his age and he found it hard to talk to other kids. We started sharing a table a few years ago because we both liked to read at lunch, even when Greg chose to sit with us. No one dared mess with Jeffrey after that, most likely because they were afraid I’d sic Greg on them. Greg might be gone now but it looked like some of his reputation had rubbed off on me. I didn’t mind if it kept people from bothering us.
I wondered how word got out about the fight because I knew Scott and Ryan would not tell anyone. I’d gotten a glimpse of Scott in second period Chemistry and I’d had to suppress a gasp at his black eyes and swollen nose. Apparently no one was buying his story about swerving his car to avoid hitting a deer, but how on earth had they connected his bruises to me?
I gave a mental shrug and went back to my well-worn copy of Jane Eyre. As long as they left me alone, they could think whatever they wanted.
The chair across from me scraped over the floor as someone pulled it out and sat down. I didn’t bother to look up. “Go away, I’m busy.”
A hand snaked out to grab one of my fries. When I didn’t object it reached for another one. I pushed the plate toward them. “Help yourself.”
“Hmm, I don’t see any bruised knuckles. What did you do, take a baseball bat to him?”
I lifted my gaze to Roland Greene’s laughing blue eyes. He leaned toward me and his dark bangs fell over forehead. “So?” he asked, pushing his hair back. It was a useless gesture. I kept telling him he needed to cut it but he said the girls liked it that way. Based on the number of girls making cow eyes at him right now, he was probably right.
“So what?”
Roland snorted. “Don’t even go there. What happened?”
I picked up my Coke can and took a long swallow, debating whether or not to tell Roland the truth. He wouldn’t repeat it if I asked him not to, but there was no way he’d be able to hide his gloating and that would just confirm everyone’s suspicions. Scott wasn’t on his favorites list either.
“Hey, did you guys see Scott Foley’s face? I heard some gang beat him up.” Peter Kelly took the chair next to Roland, his cheeks flushed and his rusty hair sticking out at all angles as usual. His green eyes flashed as he leaned in and lowered his voice. “Of course that’s not half as interesting as the other story I heard.” He gave me a meaningful look.
I shook my head. “Sorry to disappoint –”
“Sara almost made him cry.”
My mouth fell open as I swung my head to stare at Jeffrey.
Roland smirked at me and slid his chair over next to Jeffrey. “Is that so? Why don’t you tell us about it?”
I shook my head. “You weren’t there, Jeffrey.”
“Ha! So you did do it.” Roland crowed.
Peter’s eyes widened. “You really beat up Scott Foley? How is that possible?”
“Hey!”
“No offense, Sara, but Scott is way bigger than you and… well you’re a girl.”
“Gee thanks for pointing that out.”
“She’s the best fighter I ever saw,” Jeffrey declared. “I was on the wharf and I saw it all. She was super fast too.”
Roland grinned wickedly and moved back across from me. “So now are you gonna tell us what happened?”
“I hit him. He hit me. We went our separate ways.”
“Nice try. We want details,” Peter said.
I took another sip of Coke, wondering how much I could tell them. “Scott was tormenting a cat.” I said in a low voice, not wanting to share with the whole cafeteria. “I overreacted a bit and hit him. There’s really not much to tell.”
“She kicked him in the privates too,” Jeffrey piped in loudly, making Roland and Peter wince. I heard snickers from the table closest to us.
Peter looked at my hands. “How is it you hit him hard enough to break his nose and your knuckles aren’t even red? And I don’t see any bruises on your face either.”
“You know I hardly ever bruise. Besides Scott barely touched me.”
And I have the world’s best first aid kit at home.
Roland shook his head. “I don’t know what it is with you and Scott. He always gets weird around you.” He chewed another fry. “He’s never going to live down getting his butt kicked by a girl. Sorry, Sara, but it’s true. I’d feel bad for him if he wasn’t such an ass.”
I could only shrug because I was not proud of what I’d done. It was true that I didn’t like Scott but I’d attacked him, not the other way around. And I knew, even if Scott didn’t, that it wasn’t exactly a fair fight.
I glanced at my watch. I still had about twenty minutes left before English but I had no desire to sit here and relive the whole Scott thing again. “Well boys, it’s been fun but I gotta run.”
“Wait.” Roland laid a hand over my book before I could take it. “Friday night Pete and me are going to hear Dylan’s new band play at the Attic. You want to come?”
I made a face. “Is he still doing that rap thing?”
“Nah his new band is more rock… kind of like Pearl Jam. They’re pretty good.”
“I don’t know.”
Roland tilted his head to one side and gave me a dimpled smile. “Come on. We haven’t hung out in ages.”
I rolled my eyes at him. “You know that doesn’t work on me, right? Besides, don’t you guys have camping or something this weekend?” For the last few years, Roland and Peter had been going on weekend outdoor trips with their cousins once a month. Their families were close and they did a lot of things together. Roland complained about having family always up in his business but I envied him. My dad and I were close like that before he died.
“We just got back.” Peter shook his head at Roland. “I can’t believe we were gone a whole weekend and she didn’t even notice.”
Roland put on a wounded expression. “That hurts.”
I grinned at their lame antics. “After a weekend in the woods, I’m surprised you don’t have a date lined up for Friday night already, Roland.”
“Sara, you know you’re the only girl for me.” He laid a hand over his heart. “I’m just passing time until you realize that.”
Out of the corner of my eye I saw two girls at a nearby table watching his display with equal expressions of jealousy and dismay. “Yeah okay. Cool it, Romeo,” I said, laughing. “Before you break every heart in here and start a lynch mob after me.”
“What?” he asked innocently.
I shook my head because I knew Roland was not as clueless about his effect on the opposite sex as he let on. Girls had started chasing him around long before he began to notice them. Then he went through a growth spurt in eight grade and bam – instant heartthrob. His casual disregard for rules added just enough bad boy to his image to make the entire female student body lust after him. I couldn’t fault a guy for having good genes but I often thought Roland was a little insensitive where girls were concerned. He dated a girl a few times and as soon as she started to get serious, he ended it. He was always nice about it, which probably made it even worse for them. Whenever I said anything about it, he argued that no one’s heart gets broken after two dates. But I’d seen the pining faces more than once. I love my friend but he is an idiot when it comes to matters of the heart.