Far From Human

Far From Human

A Vampire Novel by Paige Evans

Prologue

San Francisco, California

November, 2003

We're standing at the edge of the floor—the concrete part, not the glassy wooden new part that's used for training and training only (“No shoes!”). The training area is not as big as we would like it to be, but then again when you're forced to work in the basement of a small house you take what you can get, right?

Well, I said standing, but I'm not. Standing, that is. I'm sitting on the steps that lead up to the main level of the house, holding my arm tightly because I think I might have just broken something. Sometimes training can be brutal. One of the women—I'm not sure which one—is hovering over me, telling me (and their voice is distant) that I need to let them see my arm, so they can gauge the damage. I don't really care about the damage. All I care about is what's happening on that floor. I can't take my eyes away.

The man that's even now walking in a predatory circle around the center of the floor is named Donovan Kelley. You've probably never heard of him, and that's okay. I don't expect you to have heard of him. But he's kind of famous. In certain circles. He's what you'd call a trainer. It's pretty self-explanatory, really. He finds people—kids, really—from all over the country, sometimes the world, and trains them. You might ask in what. It's best if I don't tell you just yet. You might not believe me.

Donovan was actually my trainer, back in the day. Which wasn't really that long ago. I came out to California when I was eighteen. Donovan didn't find me so much as I was sent to him. By my dad. That's kind of a long story. Anyway, I trained with Donovan and now that I'm older I'm part of his little group. Outfit. Whatever the hell you call it. Is there even a name for it? A name for what we do?

Well, I guess there is, but once again, you wouldn't believe it.

Anyway, Donovan has been doing this for a long time. Training other people to be like him, to do what he does. He's probably in his forties now, but I wouldn't ask him. Let's just say, he's been around a lot longer than most people who do what he does. He's short for a man—5'7” or so—and wiry, which means he's fast. Fast is always good in his line of work. Our line of work. He's dark-complected, his hair and eyes the same shade of black. Strangely enough, the “California tan” looks good on him. And that's basically Donovan Kelley in a nutshell.

The girl standing in the center of the floor, watching Donovan warily as he makes his way around her, is Cassie Winterbourne. At fifteen, she's the youngest person Donovan has ever attempted to train. Or so he says. She's Greek-American—her dad met her mom while he was on vacation in Greece. And that's all she'll say about her parents, that, and the fact that they're dead. The reason they're dead is why people like Donovan and myself do what we do. She's got an uncle, apparently, who still lives in Greece, but she doesn't know how to get in touch with him, and she doesn't really want to. She's perfectly happy, she says, living here. Training. Learning to do what we do.

There are others, of course. Donovan and I aren't the only ones. In our little group—outfit, thing—alone, there are six others. Their names are not important at the moment, but just now that they're here now, gathered around me, some leaning against the wall, others joining me on the steps, as we watch what's about to go down on the training floor.

Donovan strikes quickly, so quickly that we hardly see it. Told you he's fast. Unfortunately, Cassie doesn't see it either, and she's taken by surprise when his leg sweeps her own out from beneath her, causing her to crash to the floor with a sickening sound as her head hits the wood. She pauses only for a moment, but a moment is always enough. As she scrambles to her feet, he grabs her, twisting her arm behind her back. A crack! is heard throughout the basement room. She screams, and as he lets go she runs across the floor, no longer worried about fighting him, just wanting to get away from him.

I want desperately to get up and help her, I really do, but it's something she has to do alone. The brutal beatings, the agony, the broken bones and bruises and blood—it's all something she has to do alone. I did. I survived. I know she can, too.

It's Elle that keeps bothering me, trying to get me to let go of my arm so that she can look at it, see whether or not I've really broken it. I wave her away with my hand, my eyes transfixed as Donovan takes off after Cassie, grabbing her and pulling her back towards the center of the training floor.

He shoves her, shoves her hard enough that she stumbles to the floor, her knees hitting the wood hard. She catches herself with one hand, cradling the other arm to her. She's crying, I can see that from my place on the stairs. I remember crying once, and only once. After the beating I got, I never cried during training again. And I know, that sounds harsh—brutal, cruel—but it's really not. Donovan making me cry during a training session is nothing compared to what could happen to me out there, in the real world. Training has to be brutal, otherwise we wouldn't be able to do our jobs.

Donovan kicks Cassie while she's down, literally. I hear ribs crack as his bare foot comes into contact with her side; she sinks to the floor, her face turning red from the pain. It's a sneaky, underhanded thing to do, and it's not Donovan. That's not how he would fight. He's all about his rules and honor. But he's not fighting as Donovan. He's fighting as the things we hate, the reason we risk our lives every fucking night. And they are sneaky, and they are underhanded, so it's only natural that Donovan would fight Cassie in such a manner. To make her understand. To prepare her.

The things we hate—the reason we do this—wouldn't care that she's only fifteen. They'd probably have more fun knowing that fact. Not that Donovan would ever let her go with us; she's so young, so incredibly young and that would be a fucking mistake. In that way, she's sort of lucky. She'll know more, be more experienced than I was when I was thrust out into the world and expected to just...do. At eighteen, there was no excuse. Fifteen's a whole other story entirely.

I bite my lip worriedly as Donovan grabs a handful of Cassie's long, straight brown hair, twisting it around his hand and using it like a rope to pull her to her feet. Crying out, she brings her elbow back, making contact with his groin. He grunts and lets go of her, but otherwise shows no pain. I swear, he isn't fucking human. I don't think any of them really are. Maybe I'm not, either, if I can do what they do, and do it so well.

Thought the pain in her side must make it excruciatingly painful for her, she whirls around, bringing up her long, slender leg in a move that I recognize. I taught it to her. The force of the kick should be enough to dislocate Donovan's jaw if she does it properly, but she's already injured as it is and so her aim isn't what it should be. She misses, and he grabs her foot, causing her to lose her balance and crash once again to the floor.

What can I say to make this seem less awful? It's end-of-the-week training. We all go one-on-one with Donovan at the end of the week, just to make sure we can still handle ourselves. He's better than all of us, naturally, but as long as we can all hold our own against him, there's no worries. I have a hard time believing that fragile, fifteen-year-old Cassie is going to hold her own against Donovan. But I have been spending a lot of time with her, working with her. She's not bad. And as long as she can take care of herself, Donovan says she can stay. She can continue to train.

Please, God—let her kick his ass.

From her position on the floor, she wraps her leg around Donovan's, their knees hooking together. She manages to pull the leg out from under him, and he falls to the floor, barely catching himself, his hands outstretched. They push themselves to their feet at the same time. Standing now, they simply look at each other. I can't see Donovan's face, but Cassie's is set in a glare. I wonder why he doesn't just call this one. He's obviously going to win; she'll never stay down, but she'll never be able to make him stay down, either. God, we could be here all fucking night. Both of them are too stubborn for their own good.

And suddenly Donovan looks over to where the seven of us are standing, watching the display. He nods, an action so small I almost don't see. He's not nodding to me, so who...? My question is answered as the guys step forward. There are four men, and four women in our...whatever the hell we are. The men, sans Donovan, are: Nick Crow, native Kentuckian, a real blonde-haired, blue-eyed bastard; Jay McMahon, a man so quiet and kind it's impossible to see how the fuck he ended up with the likes of us; and Seth Palladino, the baby of the group before Cassie came along. Seth's just a plucky kid, barely nineteen, and he's too enthusiastic about his new job, if you ask me.

As I realize what Donovan is doing rage boils up inside me. “What the fuck—?” I snarl, attempting to stand, but a pair of hands on my shoulders pushes me back into a sitting position.

“He knows what he's doing,” says a voice. Elle. Why is she always so fucking calm? She's like the patient mother that always knows what to say to just sort everyone's shit out.

I suppose I should tell you about the other three women in the group, considering I've damn near told you about everyone else.

Elle's full name is Elle Harris, and like I've already said, she's one of those calm motherly types that always manages to make you feel good no matter what's wrong with you. The next one is Cassandra Black. I know, right? Cassandra, Cassie. Don't worry, we've always called Cassandra “Sandy,” anyway. And last, but not least, there's Vann. Vann Anderson. Half-Swedish, half-Brazilian, amazingly beautiful, amazingly terrifying. She's like Donovan, if he was female.

And damned if all three of them don't hold me in place, making sure I can't go fuck up whatever crazy shit Donovan is planning. I swear to God, if he does anything to truly harm that girl, I will kill him. Or at least, attempt to shoot at him, before everyone else in the room kills me.

The four of them circle around Cassie; she eyes them warily. God, it's scarily accurate, because those things would attack in packs, always in packs, never alone. They gang up on poor unsuspecting people and it's always in packs.

I am seething from my spot on the stairs. What the hell? I thought this was supposed to be a one-on-one exercise. He's involved half the fucking team! He never even did that kind of shit to me, not even when I made him so angry that he'd turn his back on me and I'd have to leave the training floor, my head hanging in shame.

But still, that's nothing compared to this, nothing compared to having the guys gang up on her like that, and what the hell are they thinking, anyway? What the fuck do they think this will accomplish?

The four of them rush at her, all at once, and she screams as she narrowly dodges Seth. But then Donovan grabs her waist, hauling her up into the air. She thrashes her legs violently; Nick attempts to grab them, and the heel of her foot connects with his nose. I see a spray of blood, and then Nick is gone, hovering near the edge of the floor as he attempts to reset his now-broken nose, blood simply pouring over his fingers.

Donovan is still holding onto Cassie's waist, determined not to let her go no matter how much she flails and kicks and screams. Seth makes another rush at her, this time to subdue her legs as Nick had tried to. She manages to get her legs over his shoulders, clamping her knees around his neck. My eyes widen, recognizing another move I've taught her. A simple twist of her hips, and she'll break his neck like it's a fucking twig. The fight sort of pauses, and Cassie releases Seth, kicking him in the chest instead. He stumbles backwards, falling near Nick. They're both out of the game now, if it could even be called that.

Only Jay and Donovan are left. Cassie reaches up, scratches Donovan's face, too near his eye for comfort, I guess, because he drops her to the floor. She tries to crawl away, and Jay grabs her. I can tell he doesn't really want to—he's such a sweet guy and why the hell is he getting mixed up in this? What have we done to him? She manages to trip him; he falls to the floor and she crawls over him, punching him square in the nose before looking up to see Donovan reaching for her. With a snarl, she claws his face again. I can see blood welling up on his cheek even from where I'm sitting.

I don't have to tell you that those things we hate won't respond to clawing, no matter how much blood you draw. They'd probably enjoy it. No, she's never going to win against Donovan if she keeps carrying on like that. Not like she had much of a chance anyway. He's determined not to let her win. He's determined to make her lose; determined to see her fail in general. And I want to fucking know why. He was never this hard on me; he doesn't even treat Seth like that, and for the longest time he absolutely hated Seth. He still doesn't like him much.

She lashes out at Donovan again, going to punch him, but he grabs her fist and it's a wasted effort. He squeezes her hand, forces her back onto her knees, and when he lets go, she simply falls to the floor, exhausted. I can hear her crying from here.

Everyone's extremely quiet; the only sound is the slight hiccuping sobs coming from Cassie's thin form. One by one, people pass me on their way upstairs. Donovan is the last one. I can't look at him. I can't help but wonder why he's so fucking hard on Cassie. Does he just dislike her that much? What has she done to him?

Sighing, I stand up—and hey, my arm moves, so it must not be broken—and make my way over to her. I kneel on the blood-stained floor beside her, rubbing circles on her back. I don't ask her if she's okay, she wouldn't respond to that. As I've already mentioned, she's stubborn as hell. “Lemme see,” I say instead, talking about her injuries, particularly her arm and side.

“It doesn't matter,” she says, her voice so low I almost can't hear her.

“It fuckin' does matter,” I tell her, “if you're hurt.”

Resignedly, she sits up. Her eyes are red and puffy, and her tears have made trails down her face. Carefully I inspect her arm. Not broken, but I should probably get a sling from upstairs when we leave. Without waiting for her permission I lift her shirt to look at her ribs. Already a purple and black bruise is forming where Donovan's foot connected, but again, I don't think anything's broken. My rage is quelled...somewhat.

I stand, and offer my hand. She doesn't take it, just kind of sits there, staring off into God-knows-where. “I hate him,” she says quietly, her voice cold.

I just shake my head. “We've all felt like that at some point,” I try to reassure her. “It gets better.”

“When?” she questions, looking up at me, eyes flashing. “When does it get better? I've been here for six fucking months and all I've done is stay cooped up in either your apartment or this fucking basement, and get the shit beat out of me.”

I want to chide her for her language, but now really isn't the best time, and besides, who am I to lecture someone about language, of all things?

“I know it's not like how you thought it would be,” I say carefully, not wanting to set off the bomb that is Cassie. “But this is what it takes. You wanted revenge, Cassie, and this is what you have to do if you want to kill them.”

She shakes her head. “I thought it would be all wooden stakes and holy water, you know? Crosses and shit like that.”

“This isn't a movie, Cassie.”

“That's obvious. If this were a movie, I'd have kicked his ass.”

That's right, she probably would have. If this were a movie, and not real life.

“I just want to slay some fucking vampires!” she bursts out suddenly. “When does the training end?!”

Sighing, I reach down and grad the wrist of her uninjured arm, pulling her to her feet. “Try asking that question in a few years, kiddo, because Donovan is never going to let a fifteen-year-old go out hunting vampires.”

She snatches her arm away from me and folds them angrily across her chest. I scowl, and start walking away. Christ, was I ever that moody when I was fifteen? No wonder my dad shipped me off to California the first chance he got.

Okay, that wasn't accurate, or fair. I'm just kind of angry—at Cassie, at Donovan, at the guys in general for going along with his stupid...whatever the hell that was, and at Elle, Vann, and Sandy, for not putting a stop to it, for not letting me put a stop to it. I could have ended that shit real quick.

I don't look to see if Cassie follows me, but I know she is because I can hear her loud, angst-filled footsteps trudging up the stairs behind me. She can be such a...teenager sometimes.

Reaching the top of the stairs, we emerge into the kitchen, which is thankfully empty. I don't know where everyone's gone off to, but it's a good thing I don't have to see any of them right now. I think I'm going to be pissed over this whole thing for a while.

“Stay here,” I tell Cassie, and head off towards the bathroom to find a sling for her arm. When I open the door to the bathroom, though, I see that someone is already in there, so I turn to leave.

“Hey,” Nick says, sticking his foot between the door and the wall so that I can't close it.

I really don't want to talk to you right now, I think, but what I say is, “How's your nose?”

He looks in the mirror, touching in gingerly. “I'll live,” he mutters. Then he glances at me, and he must not like what he sees in my expression, because he pulls me into the bathroom, pushing the door shut behind me. “Have you seen Donovan yet?” he asks, as if he can automatically tell what's wrong with me. I hate that.

“No,” I say tersely. Nor do I plan to, really. I might say something I regret, and then I might be out of a job. And that wouldn't be good at all, considering I'm too fucked up to try and hold a normal job.

“Listen, Kayla...” Nick starts, rubbing the back of his neck. I hold up a hand to stop him.

“Just...don't,” I say. “I'm still pretty pissed at you. I mean, you ganged up on her like a bunch of schoolyard bullies. She's young...she can't...” I don't know what I'm trying to say, so I let my sentence trail off.

“Whoa,” he says, concern in his gray eyes. “You're really upset, aren't ya?”

“Yes, I'm fucking upset, Nick,” I hiss. “Because she's upset. She doesn't understand why Donovan's so hard on her.”

“He just doesn't wanna see her get killed, is all,” Nick says, in his Southern drawl that usually I find charming but now does nothing to make me feel better.

I don't know when he put his arm around my shoulder, but I let myself be guided to his side. I rest my face against his chest, mostly because he's so much taller than my tiny, 5'2” frame that I can't exactly put my face on his shoulder, can I? “Did Donovan ever treat you that way?” I ask him.

Nick chuckles. “Hell, that son of a bitch hated me.”

I groan. “I think he hates everyone.”

“Doesn't hate you,” Nick tells me, and there's something in his voice that I don't know, don't want to know. I look up at him, and his blue eyes are staring into my brown ones and suddenly the floor drops out from underneath my feet as his lips press against mine. It takes much longer than it should for me to rub my thumb across the base of my ring finger and feel the thin band there. My ring. God, my ring.

I push away from Nick. “Damn it,” I hiss.

“Is somethin' wrong?” he asks, confused.

I wave my hand in front of his face, the diamond sparkling in the light. “My ring, jackass,” I say. “You know, Brandon? My fiancée.”

“Oh.” Nick's expression darkens considerably. “Yeah. How is B.J., these days?” His voice has a definite malicious undertone.

"Brandon is fine,” I snap. Honestly, I do not need this right now. I just wanted a fucking sling for Cassie's arm, so how did I get myself into this mess?

And that, children, is the story of my life.

“Are you...happy?”

Whoa. I was so not expecting that question. But it's a good question, I guess. Am I happy? Am I really, truly, happy, now that I've made my decision?

The truth is, I don't know.

Would I tell Nick that? Never. I can barely admit it to myself.

“Well...yeah,” I say finally, because if I stay silent he could take that as a “no.” And I'm definitely not not happy. I just don't know if I am happy. “I mean, Brandon's normal.”

“Normal,” Nick scoffs, like it's a bad thing. “And that's all you care about, Kayla? Bein' normal?”

What does he want me to say? “I...fuck, I don't know, Nick. Damn, I do not need this from you right now!”

I shove roughly past him, going to the bathroom closet where all the medical supplies are kept. In our line of work—which I'm sure you've figured out by now is vampire slaying—it's always handy to keep medical supplies lying about. I grab a sling for Cassie's arm and then leave the bathroom, slamming the door behind me. A moment later it opens again and Nick steps out, but I ignore him, taking the sling back into the kitchen. Cassie sees me come in, and a moment later spots Nick walking down the hall.

“It took you a really long time to get that sling,” she says knowingly, then frowns. “I don't see why you are so determined to marry that Brandon guy, when it's obvious you still have it for Nick.”

I roll my eyes; that's just what I need. A fifteen-year-old trying to talk to me about my relationship problems.

“Shut up, Cassie,” I mutter, grabbing her arm.

“Holy hell!” she cries. “That hurts!”

“Yeah, well, that's what you get for not minding your own business.”

I manage to get Cassie's arm into the sling with minimal complaints from Cassie herself; but she's fifteen, when is she not going to complain about something, right?

We leave the house quickly, before I can see anyone, because I'd probably give whoever it was a piece of my mind, even if it was Elle or Jay, who I consider to be the most innocent in all of this. Because Elle's...Elle, and Jay acted like he was uncomfortable with what Donovan pulled earlier.

It's not until we're halfway home, to my apartment that's like, thirty minutes away, that I notice Cassie is crying. Fucking shit. What the hell am I supposed to do with a crying teenager? I'm not exactly “in tune” with my emotional side. I'm more likely to kill something than reveal what I'm feeling, so how the hell do I deal with this? God, I would make a terrible parent. I am making a terrible parent, because let's face it, for all points and purposes, she's my daughter now. I'm not her legal guardian, no, but as far as the government is concerned, she doesn't exist anymore. She's a runaway, and besides, even if I could register to be her legal guardian, I wouldn't. I should probably stay as far away from the government as possible.

“Are you...?” I start to ask if she's all right. Honestly, I don't know what to do. Why is she crying? I know she's upset about the Donovan thing, but...emotions, really? You're going to make me deal with emotions, Cassie? Anger is really the only emotion I do well, you know that.

“I'm fine,” she says, wiping her eyes. “I just...I want to know why...”

I nod. Ah, here we go. The Donovan conversation. I was expecting it, of course, and I guess today's weirdness was the last straw. Not that I can blame her. If he'd had the guys gang up on me like that, I probably would have shot him. Not even kidding.

“Oh, sweetie,” I say, not taking my eyes off the road because fuck, when did all the crazy-ass drivers migrate to San Francisco? “I know it's hard to understand what Donovan does sometimes, but—”

“Donovan?” Cassie scrunches her nose. “I know why Donovan does crazy shit. He's an asshole.”

My first thought is, That girl is spending way too much time at my place, and my second thought, which I voice aloud, is, “Then what the hell are we talking about?”

“Seth,” she answers, as if it's the most obvious fucking thing.

I frown. “What does Seth have to do with anything?”

With my peripheral vision I can see Cassie roll her eyes dramatically. “You are so clueless,” she says, her face turning pink.

God, sometimes I really do feel like her fucking mother or something. We certainly get on about as well as mothers and daughters do.

And suddenly it hits me. Cassie has a crush on Seth. Oh, that's cute, but totally not an option. First of all, he's nineteen, and she's fifteen. Call me old-fashioned, but I think that's a bit too much of an age gap where teenagers are concerned. Dear God, please tell me it's just some sort of hero-worship crush or something, because she can't like him, like, really like him, not when he does what he does. Not when he slays vampires and there's a very good chance that he'll be killed, a very good chance we could all be killed.

Of course, Cassie doesn't just stop with the “clueless” comment. Now that she's gotten her teeth into the subject, she's not going to let it go. “I mean, of course you're clueless,” she says matter-of-factly. “Just look at you and Nick.”

My eyes narrow, but I don't look at her. Wouldn't want to have a wreck before I can get her out of this car and whip her ass. “I really don't think you should be talking about things you don't understand,” I snap, and I don't mean to be snappy, but at the same time I kind of do because she really shouldn't be talking about this.

“Kayla,” she says flatly, “you're like, seriously retarded. I know the only reason you're marrying B.J. is because you have some normal fetish.”

Well when you say it like that... “It's perfectly reasonable for me to want a normal life, Cassie. I would like to at least try at normal before I end up getting killed. That's why I'm retiring.”

Oh yeah, I totally forgot to mention that part. Another reason why we're keeping Cassie around is because I want out. And Donovan's not happy—hell, none of them are happy—but life sucks, sometimes, you know? I'm tired of all the vampires and shit and I just want to be normal. Brandon is normal. Brandon is safe. I can have that normal life with him, a moderately sized home and two-point-five kids and I would drive them to soccer practice and he would work at a job where business suits are required and everything would be absolutely perfect.

So I'm retiring, and I'm marrying Brandon, and Cassie is going to take my place on the team, and that is that. Everything is going to be perfect.

I hope.

Cassie scoffs, flipping some brown hair over her shoulder. “I don't see why,” she says. “You love being a vampire slayer, Kay. And you're so not over Nick.”

And she's got it all wrong, only she thinks she's right because she's fifteen and God, don't all fifteen-year-olds think they're right about every fucking thing?

Cassie doesn't understand the concept behind “fuck buddies,” which is all Nick and I are, really. I mean, I'm definitely not in love with him, and as far as I know, he's not in love with me. And we've had some good times, yeah, and Nick is extremely attractive, yeah, but so not lovable. I don't think any of us are, really, so it still surprises me when I think about the night that Brandon proposed because really, he wants to be married to me, of all people?

“There's nothing to be over,” I mutter darkly, and at least she knows by the tone of my voice to drop the subject. We spend the rest of the drive home in peaceful silence.

My apartment's not really in the best part of town, but the neighbors are nice and don't ask questions about my late hours and the fact that one day I randomly had a teenage girl living with me. Also, the rent's low, and wouldn't you know it, vampire slaying doesn't really pay all that well. Not a big market for it, you see, considering most people don't know they exist. Vampires, that is. Or slayers either, really.

Cassie goes immediately to the couch and sits down. It's the equivalent of shutting herself up in her bedroom because technically, since my apartment only has one bedroom and it's mine, the living room is Cassie's bedroom. She sleeps on the couch, and I know, I probably should have given her the bedroom, but it wasn't exactly my choice to have her live with me, you know? It just sort of happened. Not that I'd pawn her off on someone else. I'm sort of stuck with her and besides, it's kind of nice having her around. At least now I don't have to wash all the dishes by myself.

I flip on the television and move into the kitchen, which is really the same room as the living room; the only thing separating the two is the fact that the floor of the living room is ugly brown carpet, and the floor of the kitchen is ugly brown tile.

Opening cabinets, I find that there's really nothing to eat in this place. I hardly ever go grocery shopping; it's a wonder how Cassie and I haven't starved to death yet. “How do you feel about take-out?” I call over the din of the television.

“As long as it's Thai,” she calls back. I groan.

“Cassie, the Thai place doesn't bring the food to you. I'd have to go get it,” I whine. Yes, I'm not above whining. I just got here damn it; I don't want to get back out tonight.

“But I'm really craving Thai,” Cassie says, looking down at her arm. Damn it, she's going to guilt trip me, and double damn it, I'm going to fall for it.

“...Fine,” I snap, grabbing the phone off the wall. How did it ever get to the point where I can't say no to her? Worst fake mother ever.

On the drive over to the Thai place, I reflect on a lot of things. I usually do that when I'm driving—as long as I'm not too busy watching out for crazy-ass drivers, which there seem to be a lot of lately. Tonight I'm thinking about Cassie, and Donovan, and why does he treat her so terribly? Nick says it's because he doesn't want to see her get killed but is that really it? I mean, come on. That's a bit of a stretch. I'd like to believe Donovan doesn't want to see any of us get killed. Maybe he's hard on her because she's not like us? What I mean to say is, vampire slaying is kind of...hereditary, as weird as that sounds. You either have it, or you don't. And we don't know if Cassie has it. She wants to, God, does she want to. I mean, vampires killed her parents. I'd want revenge, too. But we don't know anything about her family. Was one of her parents a vampire slayer? Both of them? Would she even know if they were?

Yeah, I can understand that Donovan might have his reasons, but that's not an excuse for him to be such a dick.

There's a huge mirror behind the counter at the Thai place. I mean, huge—it takes up the entire wall length-wise, and as for the width, it goes from the ceiling to about waist-high. Honestly, why do they need such a large mirror? I usually try to avoid mirrors, not because I'm one of those people who dislike their own reflection. It's just that mirrors usually reveal things I'd rather not see. Normal people don't realize what mirrors truly reflect back at them. Good thing I'm not normal, right?

Standing in line, waiting for them to bring my bag of food over to me, I can't help but look at the mirror. I stare back at myself, frowning. I'm still wearing my tank-top and athletic pants from earlier, with just a leather jacket thrown over it all. I didn't feel like changing when I left the apartment. My hair, which I inherited from my mother, is the same color of red-orange you'd see during a sunset. My skin is too pale, I'm too short—I see a hundred things I would correct about my appearance if I could. But everyone feels that way at some point, right?

Finally, a take-out bag with the name “Atrelic” written in black marker on it makes its way over to me. I swear, it took me a million years on the phone with them to explain the spelling. Is it really that difficult? Spell it like it sounds, people. Then again, they're not from this country, so I suppose they'd have trouble with spelling it like it sounds. Gah, I should just shut up.

An adorable little Thai man, whose probably in his seventies, hands the bag to me with a smile. I hand my money to him, and as he turns around to get my change, I catch sight of him in the mirror. I freeze. The reflection is...off. That's the only way I can describe it. The little old man looks like a corpse, and when he looks up and sees my reflection, sees that I'm staring, he flashes me a smile. Fangs. The adorable little Thai man is a vampire. A very old one, because he hides it well. If it wasn't for that damned mirror, I'd never have known. When he turns back to me he looks completely human. Scary. I can't return his smile with the same enthusiasm I had a moment ago.

“Have a good night,” he says, in perfect English. I guess it would be perfect, considering he's probably had a long time to practice the language and all. I just nod and hurry away. As I go back to my car, I think to myself, What would Donovan have done? What would any of them have done? It doesn't take me long to come to a conclusion. They would have stuck around until dawn, and when the little man closed up shop, they would have put a stake in his heart. Well, not literally. Stakes are so old-fashioned. They would have put a UV bullet in his brain, that's what they would have done. The frown I've been wearing for the past five minutes deepens. Why would they have killed him? Simply because he's a vampire. But he's not doing anything wrong; he's just running an ethnic restaurant. The last time I checked, that wasn't illegal, even by slayer standards.

You see, this shit is why I'm retiring. Vampire slayers and their fucking politics. Their, dare I say, fanaticism. Not that every group of people doesn't have their fanatics, but you have to admit, fanatic vampire slayers are pretty fucking dangerous.

I make it back to the apartment in record time, which is good, because I'm absolutely starving and having to sit in the car closed up with the smell of Thai cooking isn't helping.

The elevator I take up to the fourth floor of my building is old and rickety and I always have this fear that it's going to just crash down into the basement and that's how I'm going to die. Not because a vampire killed me, but because of a fucking outdated elevator.

It's not until the elevator doors open to reveal the fourth floor that I realize something is terribly wrong.

I step carefully into the hallway. My skin is crawling. I know something is here, or something has been here recently, that doesn't belong. The air smells stale and sharp—snakes slithering over old coins. And I know that fucking smell, that feeling in the air that makes the strongest of people want to curl up in a ball and cry. But just because I know it doesn't mean I've ever gotten used to it.

Vampires.

And not the restaurant-owning, sort of innocent kind of vampire, either. The evil, they-definitely-didn't-show-up-for-a-simple-friendly-visit kind of vampire.

I drop the bag of food to the floor; there are more important things on my mind than Thai take-out right now. Looking around to make sure none of my unsuspecting neighbors are lurking around, I reach around to my bag, my hand slipping under the leather jacket and clasping around the gun that is riding in a holster on my lower back. Yeah, I also forgot to mention earlier that I never go anywhere without a gun, at least. Bringing the gun around, I aim down the hallway, holding the weapon in a steady two-handed grip. Steeling myself, I start off towards my apartment. And I know this makes me a bad person, but as I walk, I can't help but pray that it's one of the neighbors. Not that I'd like for my neighbors to be hurt. Perhaps one of them is a human servant and I'm simply overreacting?

Please, God, let that be it. The alternative is too awful.

Of course, there are a million reasons why vampires could be here. None of them are reasons that I really like. I mean, I suppose it could be another vampire assassin. I'm not an idiot; I know there's a price on my head. The master vamp here, on the few occasions I've had the misfortune of running into him, hasn't been very subtle about that fact. For some strange reason, he wants me. Vampires wanting humans is a very serious business, and there are only two ways the San Fran's master will take me—dead, or his. And I guess he'll just have to kill me, because I will never belong to a vampire.

Yes, let's hope it's another vampire assassin. There have been plenty of them who've attacked me, hoping to kill me and collect the reward. All of those encounters, I'm happy to report, have ended with the assassins turning to ash.

Of course, I can't be that lucky.

I reach the apartment and the bottom drops out of my stomach. The door is cracked open. So the creatures—and I say that because now, besides vampire, I can smell other things, other non-human things—were foot soldiers, not very old or not very bright. Possibly both. And now I know that the vampires weren't after me. They were after...I can't bring myself to think it.

I don't understand. We were so careful! No one was supposed to know where she was, no one was supposed to know she even existed! But somehow...somehow the vampires found out. I can't believe it.

Finally reaching my door, I creep up to it and flatten myself against the wall on the hinged side. I hold my gun to my chest, hoping to God or whoever will listen that I don't have to use it. There's some part of me—some small, stupid part—that hopes Cassie just stepped out and forgot to close the door all the way. That, I can handle. But even as the thought crosses my mind, I know it isn't true. The stench of vampires and whatever else is so great that it can't possibly be true.

Slowly I reach out and press my hand against the door, pushing it open. It makes an annoying creaking sound—stupid fucking old door. Why do all doors make that creaking sound when you least want them to? Just as I expect, nothing jumps out at me. Nothing starts attacking me, or shooting at me. The apartment is empty. No vampires. No Cassie. Damn. Walking in, I switch on the light, and immediately discover that Cassie did not go without a fight. Atta girl. The apartment is in fucking shambles. Shirking off my jacket, I slip my gun back into its holster and get my cell phone out of my jacket pocket. I'm worried so much about Cassie that I could scream, but panicking will get me nowhere.

I call Donovan. He's the last person I want to talk to but fuck, he's the only one that can help me. Usually Donovan picks up on the first ring but I guess because it's me he waits until the third—making me worry that he's not going to pick up—before answering. “Talk to me.”

“They've taken Cassie,” I say, my tone clipped, not because I'm still angry (although I am) but because it's all I can get out because I'm in danger of screaming if I keep opening my mouth.

“We're on our way,” he says, and hangs up. I recognize that tone of voice—he's slipped into business mode. No matter what happened today, he'll come, and he'll be ready to help Cassie, because that's just what Donovan does.

There's nothing I can do until they get here besides try and straighten up the apartment. That's definitely easier said than done. The couch is in two fucking halves; what the hell was going on while I was away? Oh, God—while I was away... If I hadn't left, this probably wouldn't have happened. Cassie would still be here and I could have killed whoever it was and...

No! I can't let myself think like that. Won't let myself think like that.

It looks like someone has put a foot through my television, and the weapons that were hanging on the wall earlier—just for show, why the hell would I put my real weapons on display like that?—are strewn along the floor. Was someone fooled by them, or did Cassie have to resort to using fake weapons to beat off her attackers? I shudder, thinking what the fifteen-year-old went through, what she's still going through.

I jump and let out a small shriek when my phone starts ringing. House phone, not cell phone. I'm hardly ever jumpy like that but, you know, having your child (she's practically my child) kidnapped can do that to you. I take a deep breath, giving myself a minute to calm down, before I answer the call. “Atrelic residence.”

“Hey, babe! Glad I caught you at home.”

I resist the urge to sigh. Brandon Jacob Brooks—Brandon to me but B.J. to everyone else—is my ticket out of this business. Why he wants to marry me, I have no fucking idea, but I'm glad he does. And it's not like I don't care about him. I do, really, but...like Nick said earlier, am I happy with him? I dunno, but when I'm out there living a normal life and not having to worry about vampires, I bet I'll be pretty damn happy. Still, I really can't deal with Brandon right now. The thing about it is, he doesn't know I'm a vampire slayer, and I intend to keep it that way.

“Hey, Brandon.”

“What's wrong? You don't sound so hot.”

What do I do? Do I tell him, about everything? It's not like I can exactly explain my current situation. “Well, you see, Brandon, you know that girl I'm taking care of, Cassie? She's been kidnapped by vampires who are probably using her as bait so they can kill me. Are we still going to the movies on Saturday?” Yeah, because that's so going to work.

“Oh, nothing. I just have a bit of a migraine. I was just going to bed, actually. Can I call you tomorrow?”

Yeah, I know—I'm a terrible person.

“Sure, babe. Just get some rest. Love you.”

“Love you, too,” I say, and hang up.

Just after I throw my phone down on half of my sad-looking couch my door opens. In a flash my gun is back out, aimed towards the door. I relax a little when I see it's only Donovan. He walks in, his gun drawn, and the others file in behind him.

Nick lets out a low whistle as his eyes sweep the room. “Didn't go without a fight, did she?” he asks.

No one responds. How can we? Yeah, she put up a fight, but there are no ashes in here, no corpses. Obviously she didn't fight well enough. And whose fault is that? Donovan's, because he wasn't hard enough on her? Or mine, because I was too soft? Hell, I don't even want to think about that.

“So, how are we gonna get her back?” Seth asks. I can't help but hate the excited edge to his voice—he's ready to go after the vampires, guns blazing. Yeah, he's definitely not going to last long in this business. And that's a terrible thing to think, but it's true, which is what makes it so terrible.

“The vampires will ransom her,” Donovan says smoothly. He's so calm, so assured of himself. He knows he's right. I know he's right.

“How can you be sure?”

As soon as the words are out of Seth's mouth, the phone rings.

All of us turn towards the phone, all of us knowing, but none of us wanting to believe, what's on the line. Steeling myself, I reach for it and click the answer button, but wait a moment before bringing it up to my ear. “H-Hello?” I rasp. For some reason my voice has quit working.

“Hello, monster slayer.”

My blood freezes in my veins. I'd recognize that voice anywhere.

Chills run down my spine. That voice belongs to Mikhail, San Francisco's master vampire. He was sixteen or seventeen when he was turned, and he should be an awkward teen, but over a thousand years of being alive changes a lot about someone, I guess.

“Where have you taken her, Mikhail?” I ask, and I hate the amount of pleading that's in my voice, but it can't be helped. I don't know what I'd do if something happened to Cassie. I've grown too attached to her.

“You remember where my resting place is, monster slayer?” his old voice asks. Sometimes, he can sound like the child he's supposed to be, but other times, when he's not wasting so much magic to make himself appear so beautiful, you can catch the age in him. It's most evident in his voice. Not that I pay that close attention to him.

“How could I forget?” I say, just because I love pissing people off, I guess. “I've hunted your people there.”

Piece of advice. If you ever want to piss off a master vampire—and I mean, really piss them off—just remind them that you've killed some of their vampires. That always gets them ticked.

And I can tell Mikhail's pissed because his voice drops several degrees and when he speaks next, the words are clipped, icy: “If you want to see the girl again, you'll come here, and you'll come alone.” He hangs up before I can say anything else, before if I can ask if she's okay or beg for some kind of sign that she's not already dead. And of course, I know it's a trap, it has to be, but still, I can't leave her there with those monsters. I have to go there.

They're all staring at me as I turn, phone still gripped in my hand. “They've...he's...She's at his resting place,” I say. It's all I need to say. I can see the wheels turning in Donovan's mind. He's deciding what to do. Please don't say I can't go, please don't say I can't...

“I will go after her, along with Vann, Elle, Sandy, and Nick,” he says, and I can feel the protest bubbling up in my throat. “Jay and Seth will stay here with Kayla.”

“No!” I say before I can help myself. I know better than to argue with Donovan, but still, he can't! He just can't do this. “Mikhail said for me to come alone, Donovan—if he senses you, Cassie's as good as—”

“You are too emotionally involved!” Donovan snaps. I recoil from him; I rarely ever get to the brunt of his anger like that. “The state you're in, if you go, not only will you get Cassie killed, but you risk your own life, too!”

I look away from him. I know he's right. I know. But I can't stay here, not when the vampires have got Cassie. God, she's probably so scared. I can't even begin to imagine, don't want to...

“Please,” I say, my voice strained. “I have to go, Donovan.”

Donovan just stares at me. I can tell he's about to say no, about to refuse me, but then Vann puts a hand on his arm. He glances quickly at her. “She deserves to go, Donovan,” Vann says, in her quiet but powerful voice. I can see Donovan melting already; he can't refuse Vann for anything and I wonder vaguely if they're still together, or if they were even together to begin with. Just because two people are sleeping together, it doesn't mean they're together, right?

And I thought vampires were confusing.

-

Mikhail's resting place is located just outside San Fran, in an old, abandoned warehouse beside a busy freeway. Call me crazy, but if I was a master vampire with over one thousand years of accumulated wealth and power, I would pick a better resting place than an old warehouse.

There are two guards standing at the entrance of the warehouse and the eight of us pile out of our vehicles, weapons drawn, ready for a fight, but the guards just sneer like they were expecting us to be here and they are not impressed by us. “The master has instructed us to let you inside,” one of the guards, the shorter of the two, says. Guards at the door, waiting for us? That can't be good. It's like Mikhail is mocking us without even being present.

The guards let us inside, and immediately we meet two more, so laden down with weapons it's a wonder they can move at all. They motion for us to move past them, I guess so they can watch and kill us in case we do something weird. I swear, I'll never understand non-humans. As we move forward, one of them stares at me like I'm a fucking piece of meat. I have the urge to pull out my gun and put a bullet in his face. I don't. We need to take care of Mikhail first, and get the fuck out of here. The humanoid guards can be killed later.

The vampires have been doing some redecorating inside the warehouse. It's now divided into sections by large cardboard walls and sheets of plastic. Since there are no doors to any of the “rooms,” I catch sight of things I would rather not see. Torture. Feeding. Death. I can't wait to get out of here. This place gives me the fucking creeps.

It seems like we walk through cardboard tunnels for hours but finally we reach the back of the warehouse. At first glance, this space seems untouched, but then I spot it. The square of wood in the middle of the concrete floor. A trapdoor. One of the guards goes to it and pulls it open, motioning for us to come forward. Donovan goes down first, disappearing much too quickly. He's followed by Vann, then Seth, Elle, Sandy, Jay, and Nick. Suddenly I'm all alone. The guards both glare at me and I crawl into that black space. The guards bring up the rear, pulling the door closed behind them. We are plunged into complete darkness. It's a straight shot down, with only a rickety, old metal ladder to keep us from falling to our deaths. Climbing down that thing in the dark is one of the most difficult things I can ever remember doing. I have to go slowly so that I can find where my foot needs to go before descending anymore, and I almost get kicked in the face several times by the guard above me, who's doing the same thing.

It comes to a point where my foot reaches down, and I don't feel another wrung of the ladder. I emit a small squeak. “It's a bit of a drop,” comes Nick's voice out of the darkness. I feel his hands on my hips, and I let go, trusting him to bring me safely to the ground. Once my feet hit something solid, Nick hugs me to him. I can admit it: even though I'm supposed to be this big, bag vampire slayer, completely darkness—we're talking absolute pitch-blackness, here—makes me uneasy.

I feel someone, or something, rather, push past us, and then a light turns on up ahead. One of the guards has moved to the front of the group and has pulled out a flashlight. Behind us, the other guard turns on another light.

I should have known right away that Mikhail wouldn't put his coffin in someplace as unguarded as a warehouse. Why risk it when you can just build catacombs underneath the city and hide the entrance in someplace like this, right?

The tunnels under the warehouse are cold and damp. The continuous noise of dripping water follows us all the way through, and every once in a while I catch the squeak of a rat running away from the light. Strange this is, though, that as we go farther into the catacombs, the tunnels get cleaner, dryer. Eventually we ascend a little stone staircase with metal rails, and find ourselves in a clean, dry stone tunnel, with torches mounted on the walls. This new tunnel isn't very long, and in no time we find ourselves in front of a heavy wooden door.

“The Master says you all must stay here,” says one of the guards. “Except you. You are to come with me.”

He's pointing at me, and I can see for the first time that his hand, while humanoid in nature, does not have a normal human skin tone. His skin is light green, and I can't see his face or any other part of him, really, because of the mask and heavy black clothing he wears, but I know he's something unsavory, something you wouldn't want to meet alone in a dark alley.

I start to step forward, but Donovan moves in front of me. What the hell are you doing? I think, but it's not like I can ask him that aloud. We have to seem like we're cohesive, a unit. We can't go around questioning each other.

“Where she goes, we all go,” Donovan tells the guards, and again he sounds so sure of himself, so confident, that it's hard to imagine anyone telling him “no.”

But the guards are not impressed by Donovan; they're either not impressed or they just don't give a fuck. One of them smirks. “Then the little one dies,” he says, and I can feel my heart start to flutter as a mixture of relief and panic bubbles up in me. Thank God, she's not already dead. But one wrong move, and they'll kill her like that. Without warning. Without giving us—giving me—a chance. I can't let that happen.

Reluctantly, Donovan rejoins the group and I step forward. The guard that has stayed silent throughout this whole thing takes my arm, and then the heavy wooden door is being opened and I'm being shoved inside. The door shuts with finality behind us, locking the rest of the team out there in the tunnels.

The room I'm in now is a large, circular stone chamber with a high domed ceiling, and I know we're not anywhere near the warehouse anymore. The warehouse is familiar to me, I've hunted there. But this place...it's strange and foreign and I don't like being in strange places because that usually means that whatever I'm fighting has a home court advantage. I don't like that.

My gaze sweeps the room and I count thirty coffins easily, all raised on pedestals of different heights around the room, probably denoting rank. I don't have to be told what those coffins are; I know already. They belong to the Court—think medieval times, when kings and queens had courts full of subjects. Yeah, just like that. The Court are the most important vampires in the city, next to the master, of course. Other lower-level vampires don't live with the master. That's an honor, a privilege. Directly across the room from me there's a large throne—no kidding, an honest-to-fucking-God throne. And on that throne sits San Francisco's master vampire.

Mikhail.

If he was human, I might think he was handsome. He's tall, with sparkling blue eyes and blonde curls. He's very slender, having been killed around the age of sixteen or seventeen, before he got the chance to build any serious muscle. Handsome he might have been, but when I look at him, all I see is a monster.

“Kayla, how wonderful of you to drop by,” Mikhail says, and his voice makes my skin crawl. “Cassiopeia was just providing us with some entertainment.”

The twenty or so other vampires standing around the room all smirk as my gaze follows Mikhail's, falling in the center of the room. My blood runs cold. Lying there, bruised and battered and covered in blood, is Cassie. Cassiopeia Winterbourne, my ward, my daughter. I pray that at least some of the blood that covers her isn't her own, but how can it not be? Her clothes are soaked in it. Her hair is matted with it. It stains her pale skin. If it's all hers, I can't see how she's still possibly alive, but she is, because at the mention of my name, she pushes herself up onto her elbows and her eyes lock with mine. She gives me a pleading look, and it breaks my heart.

Before I even realize what I'm doing, my gun is up, my aim centered between Mikhail's eyes. “Let her go,” I demand.

Mikhail laughs, the sound reminding me of a snake for some reason. “Silly girl,” he chastises. “Go ahead, try to kill me. You will never make it from this chamber alive.”

And damn him, he's right. Even if I manage to put a bullet in him, manage to by some miracle kill him, the other vampires in the room will rip Cassie and I to shreds before we can even hope to escape.

“What do you want from me?” I snap, my voice thankfully sounding tougher than I feel at the moment. “What do I have to give in exchange for you to let Cassie go?”

Mikhail glances at me thoughtfully. I really don't like that look. “Take me up on my proposition,” he says.

The gun almost slips from my grip as my hands flex in shock. I feel Cassie's questioning gaze on me, but I don't dare look down at her. I should have known this is what Mikhail wanted. Remember how I said he wanted me? He wants me to become his human servant, is what that boils down to. I'd be at his beck and call, his snack whenever he wanted one. Yeah, no thanks. I'd rather be dead. Which I might be, here shortly.

“I'll never be your human slave,” I hiss.

He laughs at me again, the sound really grating my nerves this time. “One of these days, Kayla, you will change your mind,” he tells me, his tone confident. When I give him a stony look, his smile fades, leaving him looking slightly less beautiful than he did a second ago. “All right,” he says, and I can tell he's definitely not happy now. “I will make you a deal, Kayla.”

My grip on the gun tightens. Making deals with vampires is never a safe business. “I'm listening,” I say, though it's probably the last thing I should be saying right now. I don't care, though—I'm willing to do anything to get Cassie out of here alive, even if it means I don't. That is my first mistake.

Mikhail smiles, but this time it is cold and malicious, and makes me want to cry because he's so fucking terrifying when he wants to be. “If you and Cassiopeia can kill all of the lesser vampires in this room, I will let you leave with her, safely. You and the friends you brought along with you.”

I can practically feel the shock and resentment radiating from the other vampires in the room. Apparently they don't like being called “lesser vampires.” I know the term is an insult in the vampire world.

By this time Cassie has managed to pull herself up on her knees. She looks up at me pleadingly. “Don't take the deal,” she says, her voice raspy. “Just leave. We don't stand a chance against them.”

She's probably right, but I can't just give up. I can't just let these monsters win. And they are monsters. I know I said it wasn't all black-and-white earlier, but Mikhail is pure evil, he's proven that plenty of times, and I can't let him win this.

Well aware that Mikhail is watching me like a hawk, I go over to her, grabbing her arm and helping her to her feet. I pull the gun riding in the holster at the small of my back and press it into her hand; her fingers curl around it. I hope she's able to use it.

I look back to Mikhail just in time to see his lips curl upward in a sadistic parody of a smile. “Excellent,” he breaths, and then nods. A nod is never good.

The vampires standing around the room move forward. One comes right at me, and I pull a stake from my belt and stab him in the heart just as he reaches me. With an animal-like cry, he ashes, crumbling around me. Beside me, Cassie manages to shoot one, and just as it turns to ash another descends upon her from above. She screams. I turn just in time to put a bullet between his eyes. His ashes rain on her as I turn back to my own fight. Two more come at me, a male and a female. He's wielding a large knife, but I manage to kick it from his grasp and shoot him in the heart. Angered, her fangs flashing, the female vampire moves toward me, and she, too, ends up with a silver bullet in her.

A vampire grabs me from behind; I manage to whirl around in his arms and bring my knee up to connect with his groin. Even vampires can be hurt there, you know. As he stumbles back I draw my last remaining stake and plunge it into his forehead. He falls to his knees. He's too young to ash, but blood pours from around the wound and he falls face-first to the floor. He doesn't move after that.

A female vampire flies at me, eyes flashing, fingers curled and slashing at me like claws. It's now that I remember the machete at my back, its sheath hidden under my shirt, the hilt concealed by my flame-red hair. I draw the weapon and slice at her with it; she falls to the ground but does not stop. Blood gushes from the wound, and I lash at her again, but she side-steps me and the blade barely nicks her thigh. I sense another vamp's presence behind me and I turn quickly, pumping a UV bullet into his skull. When I turn back the female vampire is right there, and I take her by surprise, bringing my machete across her neck. Her head rolls and comes to a stop at the base of Mikhail's throne. I cannot being to describe to you the enraged look he gives me.

I blink and he's gone, utilizing that super-human speed all vampires seem to have. I whirl around, paranoid he's about to attack me himself at any moment. But when my gaze lands on Cassie, I stop completely. Her eyes are big as dinner plates and shining with what I can only say is pure terror, and it's no mystery why. Mikhail's got her, his arms wrapped around her and pinning her own arms to her sides. The gun I gave her is a smashed-up coil of metal at her feet. She closes her eyes and whimpers as his tongue darts out and licks up some blood oozing from a cut above her eye.

I told you making deals with vampires is a risky business. I know now that Mikhail had no intention of letting us leave. He just told us that so he could have some more entertainment at our expense. He knew that in Cassie's weak state, she'd only be able to kill a few of the vampires, and the younger ones, at that. He also knew that I was—am—too emotionally unstable to cut my way through twenty vampires, some of whom are over five hundred years old. No, he never planned on letting us live. Watching us fight with the other vampires was like playing with his food before mealtime.

The only reason he's toying with Cassie now instead of later is because I've gone and made him mad, madder than he was earlier. That vampire I just decapitated was Eva, one of his favorites. And now I've killed her and he's extremely pissed at me. What else is new, really?

“My, my, what shall you do, Kayla?” he asks, his tone mocking. I take a step forward, and his grip on Cassie tightens. “Now, now, don't make any sudden movements, or I'll be forced to do something rash.” He looks away from me, his eyes settling on the quivering girl in his arms. “She's very pretty,” he says, like it's some sort of great compliment. “She'd make a beautiful vampire, would she not?”

Cassie's eyes widen even more, if that's possible, at his words. She looks at me with pleading so intense I'm surprised it doesn't knock me over. I know how much she hates vampires—she's an orphan because of them. I don't know all of the details, but I do know that she blames herself. She was over at a friend's house at the time, and she blames herself because she wasn't there. But how could a twelve-year-old girl stop a bunch of renegade vampires, honestly?

And just because I know how much she hates vampires doesn't mean I'm happy with what I see in her eyes, what I know she's asking me to do. I'm not even sure if I can do what she's asking me to do. With her eyes, she's begging me to kill her, and I'm not sure I'm strong enough to do it.

I mean, killing vampires is one thing, but killing Cassie? That's something else entirely. Can I really do it? Put a bullet in her brain, end her life when I've come to care about her so much?

“You're struggling, Kayla,” Mikhail hisses, pulling me from my thoughts. He gestures to someone I can't see and before I know it, a vampire is rushing at me. I attempt to shoot but before I can land a bullet the vampire punches me in the jaw. Pain explodes like fireworks in my head as I fall to the floor. I scramble to my hands and knees and attempt to get up, failing because I'm so dizzy. I can hear snickering at my efforts.

Mikhail's hand travels up Cassie's body in a gesture that purely sexual and I feel bile rise in my throat. I regain some of my balance back and make it to my feet before a tall, black-haired vampire grabs me, pinning me against him. I realize suddenly that I was better off lying on the floor. From this position, pinned with nowhere to go against this vampire, I have a clear view of everything Mikhail is doing to Cassie, and God, I wish I didn't. I wish I didn't have to see this. Does that make me selfish?

Mikhail's hand, with his slender fingers and long, glass-like nails, makes it way over Cassie's breast and up to her throat. He curls his fingers around her neck and rakes his nails across it, not slitting her throat but drawing enough blood to count. She's crying as he turns her to face him. I'm at a sort of sideways angle from them, and I can still see everything. He leans forward, pressing his mouth to the cut that's producing the most blood. He rakes his tongue across the thin red lines and she cringes away from him, but he follows her movements, lapping up the blood like some sick, morbid cat.

And suddenly I know what he's going to do, I know and I pray that he doesn't but it's just no use. And though I'm silently begging for him to hypnotize her—do anything so she doesn't feel the pain of it—he simply rears back, his fangs flashing in the torchlight, and then sinks his teeth into the soft flesh of her throat. He clamps down, and when he pulls his head back again, he brings flesh with him. He rips Cassie's throat out, and there's nothing I can do about it.

I scream. It starts as a low moan in my throat but soon turns to a full-fledged, you'd-hear-it-in-an-old-horror-movie scream. Cassie falls to the ground in front of me, blood gushing from the wound in her throat, coating the entire front of her body and Mikhail as well. Her blood drips down from his chin and lips to his once-white shirt; it's dyed almost completely red now.

Before I know what's happening, Mikhail is in front of me, in all his bloody glory. The vampire at my back releases me, and I rush at Mikhail with everything I have. My only thought is to kill him. I don't care how. I don't care if I die doing it. Just as long as I take him with me.

I don't even remember having my gun, but I must have because he knocks it easily from my hands and then grabs my outstretched arms, twisting me around and pulling me back against him. Before I can think much of anything about the current position I'm in, his fangs sink into my neck, mixing Cassie's blood with mine. I scream again, pain and anguish and a million other emotions I can't describe—don't even want to think about—filling me.

How could I be so stupid? I should have waited until it was daylight. I might have been killing a vamp-ized Cassie, but it would have been better than this. There's no hope for any of us now. Mikhail and the surviving vampires could go after the others once I'm dead. They'll never make it out alive now. And it's all my f—

Suddenly Mikhail's fangs are gone from my throat. I fall to the floor, too weak to keep myself up, to even move. I don't know what's going on, but I can hear chaos around me. Screams and gunfire. I don't even have enough energy to react when I'm picked up and violently slung over someone's shoulder. All I can think of is Cassie. Dead. Gone. Mikhail—it's all his fault. He fucking killed her. He fucking took her away from us, from me.

I hope someone puts a bullet in his head for me.

-

I don't even recall the escape from the warehouse. All I know is one minute I'm being thrown over someone's shoulder, and the next, I'm in the backseat of what looks like Donovan's vehicle. When I look up the first thing I see is Nick, so I'm assuming my head is in his lap. He's got a cloth pressed against the side of my neck. Great, am I still bleeding?

We're driving away from the warehouse at a break-neck speed, and as we turn onto the freeway, I can see why. Through the window, I see fire. Lots of it. The warehouse is in shambles. A bomb? They set off a bomb? Well, at least that will take care of whatever things they didn't manage to kill, right? And I have to wonder, is Mikhail in there? Is he dead? What about... I can't bring myself to think her name. Did they leave her in there?

Elle's head appears on the other side of the backseat. Why is she sitting in the trunk space? “The holy water's ready,” she reports. Oh. Oh. Holy water. Great. I find myself wishing Elle hadn't been ordained, because I know what I'm about to go through, and it isn't pleasant.

Nick prods my shoulder. “Turn onto your side,” he instructs. I know I have no choice but to obey. I move, uncomfortably because the seat is small, so that I'm lying on my side, staring at the back of the front passenger seat. Nick pulls my hair back and removes the bloody cloth he's been holding against the wound. Elle leans over the back of the seat and hands him the holy water.

“Make sure you empty the whole thing,” I hear her say. “Or the wound won't be completely sanitized.”

I bite my lip; God, this is going to hurt.

“Are you ready, Kayla?” Nick asks. No, I'm not ready. I'll never be ready. But I nod anyway.

It feels like someone is pouring acid on me. My skin crackles, bubbles, fucking burns as the holy water comes into contact with the vampire bite. Fuck, I don't think I want the wound to be clean, not if it feels like this.

I let out a noise between a gasp and a sob but manage not to scream. Points for me.

The pain keeps building, though, as the slow pouring of the water becomes too much for me to bear. I lean away from Nick, spill my guts into the floorboard, and a moment later, pass out completely.

-

Mikhail leans forward, and I know what he's going to do, but for some reason I don't stop him. There's no one holding me back but I just can't move; all I can do is watch and he leans forward, his fangs too long and too sharp, and Cassie's crying and suddenly there's blood everywhere and I just stand there, watching—

I sit up in bed. It takes me a few moments to calm down, to realize I'm not in my bed. I'm not even at home, or at anyone's home that I recognize. In fact, I'm in the last place I want to be.

How long have I been in the hospital?

I run a hand through my slightly greasy hair, blinking because I'm not used to the harsh hospital lighting. The nightmare is already slipping from my memory, thank God; I don't think I can deal with reliving that right now.

Tentatively I reach up and touch my neck; a bandage is covering where I know the bite to be. I wonder how in the hell Donovan explained that one. Of course, some doctors—not all, but quite a few—are in on the whole conspiracy. The vampire conspiracy, I mean. Some doctors do nothing but treat vampire bites, working hard to keep the secret. You think I'm kidding? There are people everywhere who are a part of it, all working to keep the existence of vampires from the general population.

I almost jump out of my skin when the door of my room opens. If it's a nurse, I'm going to tell them to go away and leave me the hell alone. But it's not a nurse, not even close. My eyes widen in surprise when Brandon, my fiancée, walks into the room. His eyes are red; has he been crying? “Holy shit,” he says when he sees me. Yeah, I must look pretty bad. He comes to my bedside and immediately kisses me. I can't bring myself to return the gesture. I tell myself it's because I'm emotionally drained, but I have a feeling that's not really it.

“That Donovan guy you worked for called me, told me about the wreck,” he says, looking down at me sadly. “Why didn't someone call me when it happened? I've been trying to reach you all day.”

Wreck? I frown. I suppose Donovan told him I'd been in a car accident. Well, it would certainly explain the extent of the injuries, with the exception of the two puncture wounds in my neck, of course.

Suddenly Brandon looks around curiously. “Where's Cassie?” he asks. “Is she staying with one of your friends?”

Oh, God. Trust him to ask about her. I blink away the stinging in my eyes and swallow the lump in my throat before answering him. “She, uh...she's dead, Brandon.”

“Oh.” His face immediately softens. “I'm sorry, babe,” he says, his hand brushing my cheek. “So, she was in the car with you when it happened?”

I start to nod, and then pause. What the hell am I doing? This is fucking ridiculous. I've been engaged to Brandon for months, and all this time, I've been lying to him. I have no idea why he wants to marry me, but I can't keep lying to him like this. I've got to tell the truth if I want to stay sane. If he can't deal with the fact that monsters exist, and that I kill them, then that's just going to have to be his problem. But surely, if he loves me, he'll believe.

Right?

“There was no accident, Brandon,” I say, as gently as I can.

He looks like I've just slapped him in the face. “What?”

“The truth is, there was no car accident,” I say again, feeling a little braver this time. “Cassie was killed by San Francisco's master vampire. I tried to save her, but I wasn't...wasn't good enough, I guess. He tried to kill me, too. It's a wonder I survived, really.” There. I did it. I've finally told him the truth. Only problem is, he's looking at me with one of those looks you use when you're trying to humor criminally insane people.

“Is this morphine?” he asks, looking at the IV they've hooked up to my arm. I glare at him. “Come on, Kayla!” he says. “You can't honestly expect me to believe that you and Cassie were attacked by...by vampires, of all things. Look, I know she was your friend and you cared about her a lot, and I'm sorry she died, but making up stories to help deal with your grief isn't healthy.”

I so do not need this. Not from him, of all people. “I am not making it up, Brandon,” I tell him. “Peel off the bandage on my neck, see the bite marks for yourself.” He looks at me skeptically, but does what I say anyway. He peels away the white bandage and gazes at the bite marks that Mikhail left on my neck.

“Shit,” he whispers. I'm hopeful; has he finally seen the truth of my words? But when he looks back at me, he's angry. “What did you do?”

“Me?!” I cry.

“It looks like you stabbed yourself with a Bar-B-Que fork,” he tells me. “Or someone did it for you.”

“Oh, my God,” I say, trying to sit up but failing. Yelling at someone doesn't really work when you're lying down. “Look, Brandon, I know it's hard to believe, but I'm an honest-to-God monster slayer. I kill things like vampires for a living. Me, and Donovan, Vann, Elle, Sandy, Nick, Jay, and Seth—we all work together.”

“Stop it, Kayla,” says Brandon in a warning tone. “This is the medication they have you on, and your grief, talking. There are no such things as vampires.”

“I've seen vampires!” I cry, utterly enraged now. “I was training Cassie to take my place, so that I could retire and we could get married. That's why she was living with me, but they killed her, Brandon. You've got to believe me!”

He shakes his head. “Maybe you should stop hanging out with those friends of yours,” he says. “I think they've brainwashed you or something.”

“But, Brandon, I—”

“Stop it, Kayla, just stop!” he yells, angrier than I've seen him yet. He runs a hand wearily through his brown hair, and as he does, a look of understanding crosses his features. I'm not quite sure what he's understanding.

“This is about Nick, isn't it?” he asks, out of the blue.

I can practically feel my eyes bugging out of my head. “I can't believe you'd bring that up,” I say. I know that he knew I was sleeping with Nick when we first got together, but it's over. I mean, okay, Nick kissed me earlier, but I'm not sleeping with him anymore. I guess Brandon thinks I am, though. He thinks I never got over Nick, but what he doesn't realize is there was nothing to get over in the first place. It's not like I was ever in love with Nick.

“Isn't there some truth to it?” Brandon questions. “Don't you love him still, just a little?”

“Of course I love him, Brandon,” I snap. “But it's not him I agreed to marry, is it? It's you.”

And because God hates me, the door opens, and who do you think walks in, but Nick himself. Great fucking timing.

“I heard yellin',” he says by way of explanation. “Is there a problem?”

“Yeah, there's a big problem,” Brandon yells. “Kayla's still in love with you!”

Nick just looks at me. I look back. “I am not in love with you,” I tell him.

He shrugs. “Fair enough,” he says.

“But you do need to tell Brandon that we're vampire slayers. He won't believe me!”

Nick looks like I've hit him or something. “Beg pardon?”

“See? She's delusional!” Brandon cries.

“Oh, she's not delusional,” Nick tells him. My fiancée's eyes bug out of his head. He stares at Nick for the space of a heartbeat, then two. And then he laughs.

“Not you, too,” he says. At Nick's look, he adds, “There's no such thing as vampires!”

“How do you know?” Nick questions coolly. “You ever met a vampire?”

Brandon looks back and forth between Nick and I disbelievingly. “No...” he said. “This...this is ridiculous. No, this is insane.” He's staring at both of us now like we've sprouted extra heads. He can see it in our eyes—the solid belief in vampires we both share. Something he's been taught isn't real. We're the hard proof right in from of him, and in no way is he willing to accept it. “Kayla, I hope you're happy with him,” he says, throwing a glare in Nick's direction. “This is just too weird for me. The engagement's off.” He storms toward the door, slamming it shut behind him.

I can only stare after him, my mouth hanging open. I can't believe... Why? Why would he leave me over this?

“Jesus, I'm sorry, Kayla,” Nick says. I hear him, but his words barely register.

Brandon was my one chance at normal. And he just walked out of my life forever. No amount of apologies from Nick—from anyone—is going to make that better.

-

It's been about a month since I was released from the hospital. I'm still cleaning up the apartment. My living room looks really empty without a couch, but I managed to find a small black-and-white television that I'm using for now.

I'm running the vacuum when I hear a knocking sound. Shutting off the machine, I realize someone is at the door. Wiping my hands on my jeans and smoothing down my messy hair, I open it warily. I'm not very trusting of visitors lately, you see. But it's only Donovan and Vann.

“What are you guys doing here?” I ask, leaving the door open as I go to put the vacuum up. They wander into the apartment, looking around, probably remembering how it looked the night...that night.

“We came to pick you up,” Donovan says. “Someone's reported a nest downtown. They'll be easy kills, just something to get you back on your feet.”

“It'll be fun,” Vann throws in from her spot near the door.

I frown. I haven't been going on missions lately. In fact, I haven't gone on any since...yeah. I just...can't bring myself to. Hunting down vampires just doesn't hold the same spark for me anymore. The only vampires I want to worry about are the ones from that night. And I know that neither one of them want to talk about it, but I can't but ask.

“Have you heard anything about Mikhail yet?”

You can imagine my surprise when, during my stay at the hospital, I had a chat with Donovan, and he told me that not only had a few vampires escaped from the warehouse before the explosion, but Mikhail was one of them. He's still out there. Still alive. And Cassie is...

But I don't like to think about it.

They exchange a grim look. “No,” Donovan says. “We think he left the state.”

I bit my lip, but otherwise don't say anything. I could spend all day cursing and screaming at them because they can't find him, but it wouldn't do any of us any good.

“So what do you say?” asks Vann, quickly changing the subject. “Come downtown with us, stake some vampires. You need to get out of this apartment.”

God, I wish I could accept their offer, I really do, but... I can't make the thought of going with them seem enjoyable. I just...I don't want to kill vampires just for sport, if that makes any sense. They're going because they think it will make me feel better, but I think it would just make me feel worse. Make me feel like a monster. I don't want to be like Mikhail, I don't want to be one of the monsters. So how can I go with them? How?

“No,” I say, the word barely audible. They hear it anyway.

“No?” Vann repeats, surprised.

“Kayla...” Donovan starts, but I interrupt him.

“I can't do it, Donovan. I can't just go out there and kill vampires who haven't done anything wrong.”

Both of them look at me like I've gone insane. “Haven't done...” Vann can barely conceal her anger. “Kayla, they're vampires! Everything about them is wrong?”

How come I don't believe that anymore?

I shake my head. “I'm sorry,” I say. “But I can't. I...I quit.”

They fall silent, their eyes boring holes into me. I look back at them defiantly. They are not going to make me feel like I'm the bad guy in all this.

“If that's how you feel,” Donovan finally says.

I nod. “It is.”

He nods back. There's a resolve in his eyes. I'm not sure what he's doing; it takes me completely by surprise when he hugs me, kissing me on the forehead. “You have twenty-four hours,” he tells me as he pulls back. I look at him in shock. Twenty-four hours until what? And then, from the look in his eyes, I get it. Fuck. What he's saying is that I have twenty-four hours to get the hell out.

“So, that's how it is, then?” I ask.

He nods. “No one just leaves, not like this.”

“I won't reveal the secret,” I tell him, because I have to at least try to plead my case, right? “If that's what you're afraid of.”

“We can't take that risk.” It's Vann who speaks this time. “And we can't look weak. If we just let you leave...imagine what the vampires will think of us.”

Ah, I understand now. It all comes back to their fucking politics. Their black-and-white world where you're either with them, or against them. When will they learn? Not today, obviously.

They leave, and I am suddenly alone, standing in the middle of my living room, unable to move just yet. This is it. The end. I've got twenty-four hours to leave the city, or they'll come after me. And I know them, I know they'll keep good on their promise. Their threat. Promises and threats; they're the same thing, really.

And so I do what they want me to. I do the only thing I can do.

I run.