All The Queen’s Men

Wren.

Another town, another gig in a smoky dive, another name to cross off my list. At least two such names were regulars at The Sundowner Bar. One happened to be sitting at a booth. He was already drunk before I opened the show. That would make things easier when the time came.

I sang, but the lyrics were on autopilot. Good thing, too, considering how my mind swirled with memories, repeating its own chorus: They killed your mother. Show no mercy.

It helped to repeat the facts to myself so emotion didn’t jack up my plans: Rusty Grimes, Rt. 2 Box 295, Silversage, Alabama. Age forty-two, weight approximately 310 lbs. Carries a 44 Magnum with Remington hollow-point silver-tipped bullets.

Torn vinyl seats made a squeaky fart noise every time Rusty shifted or got up to take a piss. This redneck smelled like sour pickles and gun grease. But they all shared the same subtle scent of rotten fish and old blood – they certainly had enough blood on their hands, figuratively speaking.

Rusty’s phone buzzed, the ring tone some power-to-the-rednecks Toby Keith bullshit. He picked it up, put it to his ear. I homed in on the conversation between songs:

“Yeah, what?”

A woman answered. “Where you at?” She had a phlegmy voice that sounded like a three-packs-a-day kinda gal.

Sometimes having a super sense of hearing was more curse than gift.

“Just stopped for a drink. What d’ya need?”

“You drunk?”

“Naw.”

Liar and murderer. Quite the resume.

“Can you get some Taco Bell? I want one o’ them big chicken burritas.”

“Yeah, okay, what for the kids?”

So he had reproduced. I couldn’t imagine who would want to see him naked. She must have been hideous.

“McDonald’s nuggets, large fry, apple pies.”

“All right. Ya got dranks?”

“Yeah, got some Meller Yellers.”

“Okay.” He put down the phone, chugged down the rest of his Coors, then belched and wiped his mouth with his sleeve.

Well. The man had a family. They didn’t know he wouldn’t be coming home tonight. A twinge of guilt plucked at my eye and made it twitch. In another second, the moment passed. My mother had a child too. And she’d been the only family I ever had.

They killed your mother. Show no mercy.

No matter how badly I wanted to fly off that stage and rip his head off, I had to be patient. There could be no witnesses. I just wished my damn wig wasn’t so scratchy and hot. It had looked much better on the mannequin head - a black chin-length bob that went well with my Southern grunge act. The brown suede high-heeled boots weren’t my favorite, but they worked with the half denim, half calico patchwork skirt. The shirt was a favorite, a long-sleeved tight black hooded pullover with thumb cuffs. Black eye shadow, falsies, brown contact lenses, and dark red lipstick completed the illusion.

My band consisted of me, my Fender Stratocaster electric guitar, and whatever backup musicians I could afford to hire locally. In the tiny write-ups in newspaper entertainment sections, they said things like, “Melody Songsmith’s voice is an eclectic mix between Janis Joplin and Bonnie Raitt – gritty, bluesy, and unapologetic.” I’m not sure about that, but I often performed their songs and got totally lost in them.

Tonight’s crowd-pleaser was the Joplin hit, “Me and Bobby McGee.” I rocked out to the high-energy chorus, fingers tapping to the beat on the mic. My body shimmied, shook, and swung uncontrollably to the music like a woman possessed by a rock-n-roll demon. My voice resonated through the speakers, mouth open wide, eyes squeezed shut. We brought it home – the kind of finale that conjured up goose pimples on anyone who paid attention.

Applause rang out as the final notes faded. Rusty lifted his Coors bottle high in the air and hooted his appreciation. I grinned at him, perhaps a little too long. He went quiet, his smile sinking into a tight-lipped expression of leery confusion. I liked making them squirm a bit. Made it all the more satisfying.

Some idiot yelled, “Play some Skynyrd!”

Never fails.

In the booth adjoining Rusty, another man sipped a whiskey sour he’d been nursing for the last hour and a half. He looked like the real straight-laced type, broad-shouldered, dressed in a white shirt and navy blue tie, his black blazer draped casually over the back of the booth. Basically the kind of guy you’d find in a big city bar, not this podunk metal-sided excuse for a nightclub. As soon as my eyes met his, he focused on his smartphone. It had been a recurring pattern all night. Something was up. Didn’t matter. I had a mission, and I wasn’t about to stop until I eliminated every nasty-ass redneck murderer who’d killed my mother.

I turned to the only temporary musician I could afford tonight, a doughboy bass guitarist with Willie Nelson braids named Keith.

“Every Breath You Take,” I said.

“Huh? The Police song?”

“Yeah. Just follow along.”

He shrugged. “You’re the boss.”

I always ended hunting nights with this song, whether the mark was in attendance or not. Very cliché, I know, but hey, it’s a classic. It sounded especially haunting with a slow tempo and breathy lyrics. As I sang, Rusty got fidgety.

His phone buzzed again. He picked it up and stared at the screen, flicked his eyes toward me, and then texted something. His drunken red cheeks paled. The text probably read something like this: Ted’s dead. Lost his head. Get the hell out of there. Or maybe his wife had sent him a picture of her cooter. I’m sure it would have had the same effect.

As I sang the final verses, Rusty took a wad of cash from his raggedy wallet with a trembling hand. He slapped the cash on the table with his receipt, eyes darting around like a nervous prey animal, and stood up.

The guy in the other booth stood, too, tossed some cash on the table, and slipped into his blazer. His eyes met mine once again, lingering a heartbeat longer than they should have. Then he headed for the door. I hoped he just thought I was super good-looking or super freaky. Otherwise, he could complicate things.

As I sang the last verse, Rusty went for the back exit. We wrapped up the song. People clapped and hollered. A fat, wannabe cowboy with a bolero and man nipples showing through his white shirt threw two twenties on the stage. I snatched them up, winked at him, and gave half to Keith.

I set the mike in the stand. “Be right back. Gotta hit the ladies’ room.”

“Okay. Uh…” Keith scratched his chest and averted his eyes.

That was one of the bad parts about not having your own band. Trust issues were inevitable.

“You’ll get your forty percent of the cover. Just give me a sec, okay? I’ll leave my guitar here as collateral.”

“Thanks, Melody.”

Cowboy Wannabe wasn’t done with me apparently. He whistled. “Aw, come on, can’t I at least see some titties? I’ll throw in a hundred for a handy.”

I stuck the twenty in my bra and gave him the middle finger.

“Dumb bitch!” He hurled his beer bottle at me. It hit my knee and splattered the cheap brew all over my skirt.

He would seriously regret that. My eye twitched. I stopped the bottle from rolling off the stage with my boot and stepped down on the glass until it shattered. He started laughing. I swooped down and grabbed him by the collar, lifting him until the toes of his boots barely touched the floor. He went dead quiet, his eyes as big as saucers.

I peered straight into them, letting the natural growl of my voice emerge as I whispered, “What’s your name?”

“R-Ricky.”

“Do you have a death wish, Ricky?”

“N-No, uh, I’m sorry.”

“That’s right. You’re a real sorry excuse for a human.”

“Wh-What are you?”

“Wanna find out?” My canines started to elongate, but then I realized this little exchange had attracted too many sets of eyes. The bouncer was headed toward us. I tossed Ricky on a table. “He’s all yours.”

“Yeah, okay, no problem,” the bouncer said, hand hovering over the Taser on his belt.

Shit, I’d wasted too much time already. Trying to keep my pace at an acceptable speed, I ran down the back hall and out the back door. Standing still for a moment, I tried to catch Rusty’s scent. Flies swarmed around the dumpster which stank of rotten potatoes, cigarette butts, and a confusing mess of human nastiness.

Letting my natural speed take over, I zipped out of the alley and into the parking lot of a nearby school, where I melted into the darkness behind a big poplar tree to avoid the security lights. I picked up Rusty’s scent, but it was too faint to tell which direction he’d gone. I couldn’t let him get away, not this time. Luckily, I’d been in disguise, but someone had tipped him off. It was only a matter of time before they discovered my true identity. Not that it mattered much. I had no family left to protect, nothing left to lose.

The squeal of metal sliding against metal drew my attention to the school’s playground. Wind blew the swings haphazardly from side to side. Glancing around to ensure no one was watching, I dashed over to them and held the two cold chains of a swing in my hands, letting the rusted links press into my palms. Indulging my memory for a moment, I sat in the seat, closed my eyes, and pictured another time and place.

The moon spilled silvery light over a playground just like this in some other town. Mama and I both swung, higher and higher. I thought we might fly off into the starry sky if we got high enough. Our laughter mingled together like the harmony of birdsong at twilight. And in those moments, we were simply Bronwen and Wren. Mother and daughter. We loved playing outside, even on a frigid winter’s night like that one. Snow crunched beneath our boots as we raced one another to the slide. The cold never bothered me. I complained about wearing a coat, but Mama had insisted.

“Wren, what will people think, if they see you with no coat? They’ll know you’re not human.”

We ducked behind a snow drift when headlights illuminated the night. It was all a game back then.

“Stay out of sight,” she said, “and if you can’t, blend in. Be one of them. Never show anyone what you really are.”

“What am I, Mama?”

I’ll never forget how sparkling white her teeth were when she smiled. “You’re special, my Wren, very special. One day you will know just how special you are.”

As the memory faded, I swung higher and higher, until yellow light shone through my eyelids. My eyes popped open. Headlights, dissected by the hexagonal wire pattern of the chain-link fence, nearly blinded me. I squinted and gripped the swing chains so tightly they hurt as the truck barreled toward me.

I let my teeth fully emerge and stood up in the swing, which still swooped back and forth like a trapeze. Gun metal glinted in the security lights. Rusty popped off a shot as he raced by me on the road. The bullet clinked as it ricocheted off the swing set and cut a fiery streak across my ankle.

No time for a damage assessment. Using the momentum of the swing at its highest point, I launched myself straight at the truck and landed in the bed. I plunged my fist through the back glass and caught Rusty around the throat, nails digging in to get a good hold. He slammed on the brakes. But I held tight, bracing myself against the metal frame of the truck bed.

Rusty made a gurgling sound as the truck fishtailed and skidded to a jerky stop. I dragged him through the back glass and into the truck bed, crashing him down onto the floor. Crouching over him, I stared straight into his eyes, those same eyes that had flashed with wicked glee as he’d kicked my mother in the ribs and laughed as she writhed under the mesh of a silver net.

He stretched his hand in vain to reach the gun that had clattered into the truck bed with him. I knocked it away. That’s when I noticed the tattoo on his arm - it looked like some kind of stick man with a diamond shaped body. Every single one of the killers had the same mark. It had to be some kind of gang symbol. Blood spurted from his neck where my nails had pierced his artery. It gurgled in his throat. He spat it out, straight into my face.

I laughed and licked my lips. “Hi, Rusty, remember me?”

His voice was bubbly and wet as he tried to speak. “Who are you?”

“I’m Wren. But you can call me Karma. She’s a real bitch, isn’t she?”

My fangs fully emerged. I plunged them into his neck and gulped down his blood as he keened pitifully like a deer caught in the jaws of a wolf. I drank until death throes wracked his body with involuntary spasms. I drank until my lips felt the last faint beat of his heart.

Sitting up, I closed my eyes and let my head fall back to relish the taste of another name crossed off my list. Then I swallowed down the final mouthful of thick, hot blood and let it settle in the pit of my stomach before wiping my mouth with my sleeve. Black clothes did a lot to hide a good night’s meal.

The tiniest shuffling noise in the shadow of the poplar tree grabbed my attention. My eyes popped open, and I could smell him – the spicy cologne, a whiff of whiskey sour, new leather shoes.

In a flash, I zoomed in, being sure to crunch some gravel on the ground with my boot before I bounded up into the tree branches. Just as I expected, the well-dressed man from the bar rushed around the trunk and into the glow of the security lights, gun ready. He scanned the area quickly, and as soon as he turned and looked up, I grinned and pounced, knocking him onto his back. The gun went off and blew off a chunk of the concrete sign that read Silversage Elementary School.

I pinned down his arms as I straddled him. “Somebody brought the big guns, I see.” My fangs emerged again.

When I dove in for his neck, he yelled, “Wait. I can help you!”

I paused just a hair’s breadth from his racing pulse. He smelled even more interesting up close, like lemons and lavender. A smell I could savor for hours. Blinking myself back to reality, I raised my head and looked into his eyes. They were wide, full of fear, but also with an odd sense of finality, as though he were ready to die. As though he had nothing left to lose. Like me.

“What do you mean, you can help me?” I quickly glanced around us, making sure he hadn’t brought reinforcements. We seemed to be all alone on the vacant schoolyard.

“You’re looking for the ones who killed your mother, right? So am I.”

I had to laugh at that. “Pray tell, why would you be looking for them, and why would you care...” Leaning in close, I added, “human?”

“Detective Zac Palmer. I’m investigating a crime ring involving vampire clans. I think they’re responsible for your mother’s death. I’ll need someone like you to help me get information.”

I really had to laugh then. “What are you talking about? Vampire clans? There was my mother, and there’s me. That’s hardly a clan.”

He raised an eyebrow, looking truly dumbfounded. “You don’t know?”

“Know what? Are you telling me there are more like me? More…vampires?”

One side of his mouth slanted up in an amused grin. “Oh honey, did you really think you’re the only one?”

Ashe.

It was while standing in the elevator of a fancy hotel in the city of Brightwell, with blood trickling between my fingers onto the shiny wooden floor, that I truly realized the definition of Fucked. Capitalized, outlined in red, spotlighted, and placed on a pedestal—Fucked.

My streak of luck was continuing in the same vein as the past several minutes. Some practical joker had pressed almost all the buttons in the elevator so it would stop on every floor.

Hilarious.

Standing in one place was easier than descending the forty-eight floors of stairs, though, and after this next stop, I had six more until freedom. But with the stake wound in my side and the bloodbath I’d just walked away from, that first taste of freedom would likely be just as sour as my stomach, which rode too high in my throat.

The elevator door opened on a couple that had fused themselves together at the lips. The woman—hardly more than a girl—wore a blue-sequined dress that barely went past her hips, and the guy wore a business suit several sizes too big. A wall of perfume, alcohol, and the coppery sweet smell of type O blood followed them inside.

The door closed, and we started down to the next floor.

I pressed myself into the corner, covering the puddle of blood with my shiny black oxfords, so they wouldn’t see my face or the blood streaming to the floor. Most of it was mine, at least I was pretty sure, but I wore a black tux, so who the hell really knew. It was hard to remember everything that had just happened, but the Fucked part of it had carved into the backs of my eyelids with vivid detail. Replaying again and again in case I needed a reminder.

Wrong. It had gone all wrong.

The door opened, and I smashed my thumb to the close button. It did, much too slowly.

The guy came up for air long enough to say, “Lobby.”

“Uh-huh.” I glanced at the five glowing buttons on the wall panel, thinking maybe it would be easier to roll myself down the stairs instead. But I’d been stabbed, and my good ol’ speedy healing was taking its sweet-ass time. I’d wait for it to kick in, save my strength, and then haul balls…somewhere. A train station. Six feet under. Anywhere other than here.

“Lobby,” he said again.

“Got it covered, man.”

The guy wrenched away from his girl’s mouth. “Lobby, put the fangs away, babe.”

Wait. Lobby? The girl’s name was Lobby?

“I smell vampire blood,” she said to him, and then turned to me, her fangs bared over her red-painted bottom lip. She must have worn that all-day lipstick like Jessica wore. Otherwise, her boyfriend would be wearing it now.

The elevator opened again. I jabbed the close button. Again.

Well, there was no denying it since anyone of the vampire persuasion could smell it, but I thought I’d try anyway. “Oh, it’s nothing. My girlfriend just got a little excited…I guess.”

The doors finally closed, and we sank another floor lower.

The guy nodded, seeming to know exactly what I was talking about. Hell, I didn’t know what I was talking about. The blood was streaming from my side, not my dick, but since I was still turned toward the corner, no one could see that.

“Been there, dude. Been. There.” He snapped his jaws into his girl’s face, and her fangs slipped back into her pouting mouth. “You headed out to buy her a pint to ward off her hunger so she can take you again, huh?”

“Yeah…” Sure. Whatever got him to shut up. I needed to think about my next few steps, not some nonexistent girlfriend biting my cock off. Or trying to gnaw her way through my side, for that matter.

The girl’s tongue poked from her lips as she eyed me up and down. If a purr had an expression, that would be it. “I bet it was the tux.”

“Hey, I have a tux, Loddy,” the guy said.

Oh. Loddy, not Lobby. It was hard to hear over the roar of my conscience. How had it gone so wrong in that penthouse?

“Really?” She touched his chest and arched into him. “Well, I guess we know what me and my fangs will be doing when you wear it.”

This was a riveting conversation, so much so that once the elevator doors began to close, I slipped through them to leave them to it. Without me.

Behind me, the guy whistled as the elevator began to close. “Man, she really got him good. Look at all that blood.”

On the way to the stairs, I fished out my throw-away phone and typed out another quick text. Staircase 1-3 too. And then: And a promotion to co-managers.

They knew to be thorough yet discreet, even while cleaning up the bloodstains in a crowded elevator. They’d have to be speedy too. I trusted it would get done.

Silence met me when I burst through the staircase door. The stairs were empty. Thank you, Vampire Jesus. I swept down them as fast as I could, holding tight to my side. The leakage seemed less now. Apparently my vampire healing took its sweet time when the stake had broken through ribs and had cut through at least one lung. Just a tad more brutal than my usual paper cut. But I still had blood caked all over my hand, so I bunched my fingers up into my sleeve cuff as I opened the lobby door.

Now to get past hotel security before being spott—too late.

The old vampire in a tan uniform locked eyes with me from his high wooden desk to the left, a phone pressed to his ear.

Shit. My organs, long past their prime, curled inward on themselves under his flinty stare. In my research of the building, I thought I’d read that he was a retired Queen’s Knight from the Northern Vampire Clan. He looked it, too, with his box-like haircut and so much chest that he had no neck.

I gave him a casual nod as I passed, all innocence and charm like my usual self, my ears picking up the voice on the other end of the line.

“…and then there was this swirl of different colors in all sorts of patterns, and then I walked inside of it. I woke up after that, fell back asleep, and the dream picked up after that. Am I going crazy?”

Yes. Seemed like the guard had been caught up in someone’s long-winded dream description, also known as the fifth circle of hell. At least it sounded like he’d be there a while.

I pushed through the glass doors into the night before I could hear his reply, then cut to the right down the sidewalk, speeding my pace just slightly. Inside, I wanted to run. But where? Not to my apartment surrounded by nosy neighbors, at least not yet. I needed a change of clothes, a little more cash than I had in my wallet, and then out of this city, maybe out of the Southern Clan. For good.

A nondescript white van pulled up across the street, and Ben and Joe hopped out, my clean-up crew. And co-managers as of tonight. They wore tuxes as well, their cleaning equipment discreetly tucked away in their pockets. Their gazes skated right past me. Good men. Even better employees. They hadn’t asked any questions about why I needed their cleaning services tonight.

The air smelled heavy, weighed down by violent-looking rainclouds. Taxis and limos lined both sides of the busy street, the city lights glistening on their polished surfaces. They’d take me anywhere, but they had cameras installed. Then again, so did the hotel. Unlike in books and movies, vampires actually showed up on cameras and in mirrors. It fucking sucked. I’d ridden downtown in a taxi, but it had dropped me off about seven blocks away in front of another hotel brimming with men in tuxes and fancy women draped on their arms.

Not my usual scene—none of this was, especially the blood on my hands—but I faked it until I made it. Just like I had my entire life.

I kept walking. Not two minutes after Ben and Joe had arrived, a police car took the corner about twenty feet ahead of me with a sharp turn. The sight of it kicked me in the gut and triggered an alarm through my head that sounded an awful lot like Ruuuuuunnn!

Its red and blue lights flashed, but it didn’t sound its siren. It squealed to a stop behind me, right in front of the hotel I’d just exited, drawing the stares of the well-dressed pedestrians strolling past.

I knew exactly what the police would find inside. I sped my pace a little more.

Clothes, cash… Where to go?

A sign on top of a cab on the next block caught my eye. Of course. Lynch’s Drugstore, the same one my sister worked at, whom, I might add, was part of the reason I was now booking it from that hotel.

Sirens wailed in the distance. A lot of them from the sound of it.

The drugstore was in the neighborhood, so I hurried while still giving off the vibe that I owned this whole street. That I hadn’t done anything wrong.

Which I hadn’t, I reminded myself, but that didn’t change a damn thing.

Women vampires and their personal DBDs—designated blood donors, aka “humans”—turned to stare, their lustful eyes attempting to snag mine. Some men turned to look too. I was drawing attention to myself because of my face, my body, but it couldn’t be helped. By the time they learned what I was walking away from, I’d be long gone.

From outside Lynch’s Drugstore, I peered in, but I didn’t see my sister behind the register. She was always working the nightshift, though, so I strode around to the far side of the building, hoping I’d catch her on her break. A fifteen minute one every four hours. Pretty good detail to know for someone who hadn’t spoken to her in six years.

There she was, my older sister, age thirty-two in human years. She leaned against the wall, one leg bent so her foot rested flat against the bricks. She wore jeans and a red work shirt tied into a side knot at her waist. Her long blonde ponytail fell down her shoulder and partially hid her face while she attempted to light the cigarette plugged into her mouth.

“Well, good thing you’re already dead, I guess,” I told her, coming to a stop a few feet away.

The flame caught and she took a drag, then turned toward me with a flicker of surprise in her orangish eyes through the puff of smoke. “Ashe?”

“Yeah.” I studied her then, seeing her once-broken nose gushing blood, the bruises on her face, all since healed. But it didn’t stop the fury, just as sharp and consuming as it had been six years ago. I shook with it. I wanted to go to that hotel penthouse I’d just left all over again.

She must’ve sensed the direction of my thoughts because she bowed her head, the ponytail on her shoulder hiding her face again. “Why are you here?”

She should’ve known. Or at least suspected. But she gave no sign that she did.

“I need your help,” I said. “Some money. A change of clothes if you got them.”

She snapped her head up, her eyes peeling back my layers, a look she’d mastered years ago when she thought I was lying to her about eating the last blood popsicle. “Why? And why do I smell blood on you?”

“It’s nothing.”

“Bullshit, Ashe. What did you do?”

She didn’t know. But the picture I had of her with that bastard vampire Devin was taken just days ago, even though I’d made her swear to never see him again after what he did to her. It was either never see him again, or I would end him right then and there. That was the choice I’d given her, because I’d so badly wanted to hurt him as badly as he’d hurt her.

“Did you cut your hair?” I demanded, my voice as sharp as an accusation.

She took another drag of her cigarette, eyeing me closely.

A siren wailed in the distance, far away yet much too close.

“Maybe you’ve splashed around in one too many cleaning chemicals for your company,” she said. “What’s your cleaning business called again?”

“Invite Us In Cleaners,” I said through gritted teeth. “Your hair, Jessica.”

“No, I didn’t cut my hair.”

But…she had. The photo I’d seen was of her—with him—but with longer hair. Was she lying to me? If she’d met with Devin six years after my threat on his life, I supposed she was capable of it. But if I told her anything, then I’d have to tell her all of it, and I didn’t know how to do that since I didn’t know everything myself. For at least the fifth time tonight, my head felt like it might explode.

A crack of thunder shook the ground, drowning out the siren, but still urging me to hurry.

“Invite Us In.” Jessica shook her head while lightning split across the sky. “Why not Spic n’ Fang Cleaners?”

“Jessica—”

“Type A+ Cleaners and then in parenthesis”—she punched the air with her cigarette in an arc—“But We Like Other Blood Types Too?”

“Damn it, no—”

“I could’ve come up with something way better.” She laughed. “We’ll Lick Your Walls For You Cleaners.”

“He’s dead.” I said it in a way that snapped each sound between us and then seemed to bulldoze their meaning into her all at once.

Her color, already at a bare minimum, washed from her face. She sagged against the wall, a puddle with bones.

“You?” Hardly a whisper.

I squeezed my eyes shut. She didn’t know. Somehow, she didn’t know that she’d been in a picture with Devin taken a few days ago, staring right at him and smiling. Now, she looked older than she did that night he’d beat her. Not older physically, but something had shifted behind her eyes. A hardness that hadn’t been in that picture, but was here now, six years later.

That hadn’t been her in the picture. Or somehow it was her and she didn’t remember? The photo had the date printed right at the bottom.

It made no sense, but I didn’t have time to unravel it right then.

I opened my eyes again. “I just need some clothes and some money. I’ll pay you back.”

She fished out her keys from her jeans pocket and chucked them at my head. I caught them midair, having had a lot of practice from childhood when she got pissed at me.

“Good,” she said, her voice full of bite and then looked away, dismissing me. “Money’s in a plastic bag taped to the inside of the toilet tank. Edgar may or may not let you leave with it.”

Fair enough. Edgar was her pet iguana she’d had for twelve years. I backed away. My time here was done.

Jessica’s apartment building was nearby, right over the line in a street a few blocks down that separated the tuxedo part of Brightwell from the slums. Her building couldn’t decide what color it wanted to be, its gray and white and yellow and tan foundation easy to spot in the darkening night. She lived on the ground floor with window planters at each of her windows filled with bright flowers and a welcome mat outside her front door when no one else had one.

I let myself in and quickly locked the door behind me. It was dark inside, the sheer curtains drawn. It smelled warm and clean, not like my apartment a few blocks down. I cleaned at work, not at home.

I made my way through the living room to the hallway, noting the framed, life-like drawings she’d done sitting on the bookshelves and lamp tables along the way. Our parents, long since moved to the Northern Vampire Clan, one of me in my Night League baseball uniform, another of me flipping her off.

Even though it had seemed she’d pushed me away these last six years without a single word, seeing these drawings felt like a kick to the chest. Before that night six years ago, we’d never been particularly close since we didn’t have much in common. I never knew she’d done drawings of me, so I must’ve annoyed her enough to make some kind of impression. Not going to lie—it felt good.

A faint scratching sounded from somewhere on my way down the hallway. Edgar, probably. I found the money in the toilet tank, taking only what I thought I would need, washed the dried blood from my hands, then strode toward Jessica’s closet in her bedroom. Of course we weren’t the same size, but as long as I could fit into a shirt and sweatpants or something, I’d make do. Hell, I’d even settle for something pink or lacy.

I was relieved when I didn’t have to.

After I changed into oversized sweatpants and a gray Brightwell East High P.E. Dept. shirt, I found a bag to stuff my bloodied tux in and then hurried back down the hallway.

More scratching came, almost like a rustling in a distinct, rhythmic pattern.

My steps toward the front door slowed, my flesh slinking back the way I came.

I knew that sound. Not Edgar. Not raindrops. Not yet.

Footsteps through dead grass right outside the sheer-curtained living room window.

No. No.

I dropped to the ground right before a white spotlight as bright and shocking as the sun blasted through the window. Seconds later, the front door burst open. Voices shouted at me to do fifty things at once.

Fucked. Capitalized, outlined in red, literally spotlighted, and placed on a pedestal—Fucked.

Had Jessica called the police on me? Had she been lying and that really had been her in the photo with Devin?

“Hands in the air where I can see them!”

Because she only knew half the story.

“Now!”

Yes, I’d gone to the hotel to kill him.

But he was already dead.