It's Monday morning and I'm cutting pills for the week, as good a sign as any that the day's already gone to shit. Usually, I do this on Sunday evenings, after Gran swallows her last dose, but last night she became convinced ants infested the house. I had to comb through each carpet and curtain; it was either that or watch her try it herself. At least she forgot what we were doing before demanding me to call maintenance at one o'clock in the morning.
I know. I sound like a cold-hearted brat. Caseworkers call it compassion fatigue. They have many nice-sounding terms like that. Thaumaturgical fallout. Long-term health effects. Syllables used like sterilized wrapping to soften the sharp angles of the facts: we're the clean-up attempt of a government struggling to deal with a disaster it created.
I blink burning eyes while my hands move out of sheer muscle memory. The rattle of medication falling into pill slots reminds me time isn't slowing down. I glance at the clock and swear after seeing I'm already ten minutes late for class. That means Mrs. Kent is late, too.
After snapping shut the lids for each slot, I hide the container and the extra pills in the pantry, on a shelf high enough that Gran can't see them. As if sensing my treachery, I hear her call out, "Nina?"
"I'm coming."
She's still where I left her, sitting in her chair with the reading lamp on for light, since she dislikes opening the curtains. "I don't want these socks. They keep slipping off."
While fitting a new pair onto her feet, I glance at the clock again. Fifteen minutes late. Ms. Darzi will dock my homework for sure. "That feel better?"
"Yes. Thank you." Like I'm a strange hospice nurse instead of her granddaughter. I try telling myself it's just an extension of the distance that always existed between us; unlike Maria, I can't hide my teeth. They're not that bad-looking; anyone who doesn't know my mom was a wolf witch might think I only have very pointed cuspids. But Gran knows.
When she doesn't say anything else, I take the inadequate socks and dump them into the washer. Done.
I let myself slump back against the machine, staring at the mirror facing me. My hair's a mess and I'm not wearing a bra, but I can deal with any jokes thrown my way. With a punch to the nose, if necessary.
Back in the kitchen, I gulp some of my coffee, grimace that it's gone cold, and then down the rest of it while grabbing for my backpack. The door to the communal garden opens while I dump the cup into the sink.
Mrs. Kent steps inside, a white woman in her forties, solid as stone and with metal jewelry jingling around her neck and wrists. If that's not clue enough about her line of work before she ended up here, her calloused, scarred hands take away the last hint of uncertainty. She's a mech witch, twisting magic into little life forms merged with machines. I always thought it would be cool as hell to have a job like that, but my dreams of becoming a mech witch died with the realization that one needs innate talent to manipulate magic with metal. No kind of reality check like concentrating on a penny until my nose bled, willing the coin to move, even just twitch, while my sister only flicked her fingers to give it wings and send it flying around the room.
Seeing me, Mrs. Kent offers her usual greeting. "Any guns in the house?"
"Nope." There never are, but Mrs. Kent watches so many hospice patients she prefers hearing the same information each time over misremembering.
One of her metal necklaces unwinds itself to blink sleepily at me, growing stubby lizard legs and delicate bat wings in the process. It's her old familiar, Fuel. One of its copper eyes is melted to a nub, an injury all the way back from when Mrs. Kent found herself trapped on the edges of what's now known as the Fivefield fallout range. Fuel tilts its head so the good eye can better see the broken zipper on my backpack.
I stop looking for my homework long enough to give Fuel a quick smile. "Gran's already dressed. I tried making her breakfast, but she didn't want much."
Mrs. Kent nods and heads toward the fridge to inspect the leftovers. There's an unspoken agreement between us that she can eat whatever she wants as long as it isn't labeled for Gran. I guess I should be flattered she likes my cooking, but at the moment, I'm more concerned with making sure the worksheets for bio are in my backpack and not mixed up with medical paperwork.
"Does this have anything odd in it?"
I glance over and see she pulled out the small omelet I cooked for Gran this morning. "Frog skin." I go back to rifling through my binder.
After a short pause, I hear her guffaw. "Cherish that sense of humor, girl. It'll get you through a lot."
"They're just green onions." I nudge Fuel away as it absorbs the pull-tag of the zipper. It makes a sound like falling pins and wriggles toward the other zipper.
"Not much cheese. You use full-fat?"
"Sure. The diet version tastes like glue. Gran's instructions are taped on the desk like usual."
"That's all right, then. Have a good class, Nina." She picks up Fuel and cradles it to her as she heads out to greet Gran.
It takes another five minutes to find my homework, buried beneath the latest blood work results. Sweet Christ, I did finish it. After stuffing the sheets into my backpack, I hurry to where Gran still sits, already dozing. "Going to school, Gran. I'll be back soon."
I slip my hand over hers and gently squeeze, feeling my stomach sink at how cool and frail her fingers feel. Last week, the hospice nurse sent over to check Gran's state of health decided it was time to give me an information packet about signs of approaching death. Now I can't get that damn checklist out of my head. #4: Hands and feet grow cold to the touch.
Are her feet this cold, too? I felt them not even five minutes ago, but can't remember. Damn it, I need more coffee.
I push my worries away as Gran's eyes clear a little, her hand still in mine. But the word that works its way from her mouth is my sister's name. I keep smiling, anyway, until I'm outside and the door closes behind me. Morning sunlight glares in my face, the strength of its heat promising a scorching day. Inside my junk bucket of a car, it already feels like a triple digit temperature. Good. When you burn, you feel. I take off toward school as fast as possible.
Ms. Darzi only rolls her eyes at me when I slip inside the classroom. Teaching at a school nestled in a government-run hospice community like Mercywing means accepting late students as par for the course. A glance around reveals everyone is already at work on the lab. Shit, I missed the instructions.
"Safety goggles on, Miss Belmonte." Ms. Darzi exchanges my homework for a plastic cup filled with clear liquid. My nose twitches at it. I can't sniff out things like a full-blooded wolf witch, but even I can tell this isn't only water. "Since you finished these," she waves my worksheets, "I assume you've read the accompanying lecture and remember what today's lab is about?"
"Um..." I didn't even remember to take a hair clip with me this morning.
She sighs. "We're simulating the spread of infectious disease. Find someone else in the room, pour the contents of your cup into theirs, and have them pour half of the mixed solutions back into yours. Do this with two people and then return to your seat."
When I turn around, Elliot already waits for me. "Ready to have sex without protection?"
I raise an eyebrow before handing over my cup. "We could just be sharing the same water bottle."
"Relax. I was joking." He gives my hand a squeeze before taking my cup and emptying it into his.
"Sorry. Last night was bad."
He just nods. Elliot's mom works as an on-site nurse here in the community; he's never had to take care of a dying person, but he's heard plenty of horror stories. When I tug at a strand of hair that got stuck in my goggles, he pulls an extra hair band off from his ponytail and hands it over with my cup. "Better tie your hair back before Darzi freaks out."
As if sensing her name being spoken, Ms. Darzi looks up from grading homework and calls out, "One more minute to find a second person to share your solution with."
I exchange a grimace with Elliot and turn to find someone else. Students weave in and out with each other, trying to find someone they want to spend thirty seconds with while doing this stupid lab. I'm feeling desperate enough to reach out and grab the nearest arm when I hear a voice on my right.
"Nina?" And there she is, two steps away and looking at me. At me, not through me.
"Laci," I say, hating how uncomfortable I sound. I smile and try again. "Hi."
Talk about an uptight way to greet someone I once thought I'd be friends with forever, but no other words will come out. Laci looks as awkward as I feel, tucking a strand of pink hair back behind her ear. Funny, she always dyed it purple.
"Do you want to go?" She gestures with her cup, nearly sloshing the contents over its rim.
"Sure." I pass mine over.
"I'm sorry about your mom," I say, finally, while she mixes our solutions. "I sent you a card, but I bet you didn't get it. This community's postal system is total shit."
"I got it," she says, softly. "I was going to write back, but when Mom died, my aunt started disintegrating and never stopped. You know we never left this place before she became bad enough to secure a house? I've been here two fucking years."
As she halves the solution between the cups, it hits me how tired she looks, even worse than I do. She's lighter than me, always has been, and the dark circles under her eyes stand out like bruises. I almost say something, but then she hands my cup back and continues. "There were so many cards that came in about Mom. After a while, I got sick of looking at them. But I read yours. I should've written back. Who'd guess a stupid letter would make us drift apart?"
Not entirely true, and we both know it. I shift from one foot to the other, wondering whether she's gotten the guts to finally talk about it. Wondering whether I have those same guts, too.
"Time's up." Ms. Darzi's voice cuts between us like a laser. "Get back to your seats and estimate how many people will now be infected. Then write your answer on the worksheet."
As everyone else flows around us to get back to their seats, we look at each other and simultaneously say, "Next round."
My foot taps impatiently while Ms. Darzi goes to each student and puts a few drops of infection indicator into their cup. She'd have to crawl to move any slower. When she asks people with newly-pink solutions to raise their hands, and then starts counting them, Laci rolls her eyes at me as if to say, Can you believe this shit?
While we write down the results, Elliot tries to catch my eye, probably curious about why I talked with Laci after months of pretending I didn't know her. I don't look away from her, though. It feels like we reconnected with a strand as thin as spider silk, and I'm afraid of it blowing away.
Next round, we both leap for each other. I speak first. "So, what block are you on?"
"C."
I nod. "I'm on L."
"I know." She gets a funny look on her face, like she wants to say more but can't speak through her nerves. "I guess you're here with Gran. What does she have?"
And just like that, my eyes burn. I can't remember the last time I cried, but hearing the pain in her question brings me damn close. "She never came down with a curse or a rogue spell, so they diagnosed her with Rygg's Disease and sent her here. She's pretty far gone by now."
"Fuck." One black-painted nail worries at the hem of her sleeve, something she's done since we were kids together. "Then it's a shit time to ask you this, but Ninaâ"
"Time to find a second person." Ms. Darzi doesn't even glance up this time.
A growl rumbles from my throat. No way was that a full minute. But Laci just waves her hand. "Fuck it. You take gym right after this, right? Me, too. Let's talk then."
I agree, but as we turn away from each other, I can't help wondering why, just before Ms. Darzi interrupted us, she looked so afraid.
Gym class just means running around the track, a rough path looping out into the scrubland that surrounds the entire hospice community. No danger of being snatched by strangers or attacked by mountain lions. It's all brilliant blue sky and copper earth, with outcroppings of reddish rock waiting in the distance. Anything that isn't low-lying would be spotted in a second. Rattlesnakes are the only true menaces, and most of those are killed by the pest control crew.
It's hard to miss Laci with her hair, and she's waiting for me anyway, one leg pulled up behind her in a stretch. As I walk up, I arrange my own hair in a bun and grin. "Am I the only one thinking about that stupid diet we did together?"
She laughs and shifts to her other leg. "You mean the one I was sure would get me into those size 0 spider leggings?"
"And I was supposed to lose these big hips." I try pulling my t-shirt over them, and watch the fabric spring back. "I think I hated everything by the end."
"I already hated everything. Instead, I lost my period for three months. Mom thought I'd destroyed any chance of her having grandkids." She straightens up as Coach Bowman blows his whistle, telling students to go.
We start jogging. It only takes a few seconds to remember how to match my longer stride to hers. The sun already hangs high and hot above us as our feet make little puffs of red dust with each step, and I wipe sweat off my face before the sound of the whistle even fades. I don't care; I love running. Everything disappears under the feeling of breath, bone, and blood working together. Maybe that comes from my mom's side, being able to sink into my skin.
When the class spreads out, we end up somewhere in the middle, but I know I could beat them all without trying. Laci already struggles, though, so I slow down.
We're nearly the last ones when she catches enough breath to say, "So, you're going out with Elliot Hopkins?"
I glance at her warily, but she sounds only interested. "Almost six months. He's already talking about celebrating."
She laughs. "You don't sound too happy about it. What's his way of celebrating?"
Two years ago, I wouldn't have thought twice about telling her the naked truth, but now our trust feels like hands grazing each other by the fingertips. I can't dump all my problems onto that. A half-truth will have to do. "He'll probably want to take photos."
"God, one of those? Has he pulled any shit about you being his muse, and artistic fire, and, oh yeah, could you take off your clothes now?"
"No," I say, quickly. Too quickly.
Laci shakes her head. "C'mon. Spill."
"He hasn't asked that. Anyway, that's not the problem. There is no problem." I sound way too defensive for my words to ring true.
Laci gives me an unconvinced look, but then she shrugs. "Maybe I'm pasting my own shit boyfriends over yours. First year here, I went out with a guy. Sam Voletta? You probably don't remember himâhis family left soon after you arrived. But he always talked about fighting against the regressive theology of our times, and all this other shit that made no sense. I finally figured out he just wanted me to let him shove his hand down my shirt in public."
Well, if I ever met a Sam Voletta, I knew to punch him in the balls. "Did you dump him?"
"Yeah, but not for that. All guys are like that. I found out he chewed his nails. So disgusting."
We both snicker. I'm still grinning when I say, "Yeah, but it's not like you're going to find someone perfect."
"But I did."
That makes me glance over. Something about her voice sounds strange. Almost panicky. Shit, is she in trouble? "Who?"
"She takes chemistry instead of bio, so you probably haven't met her. Melanie Burnett?"
I don't recognize the name, but before I can ask anything else, footsteps pound behind us. "Look out, heifers!"
Grabbing Laci by the collar of her shirt, I yank her to the side, growling even before several guys fly by us, laughing and whistling. The track team, already on their second go-around. I recognize the guy who yelled; it's Frankie, Elliot's best friend and a total dickhead. I snarl at all of them, feeling gratified as a few grins drop away at the sight of my teeth. Losers. I'll probably get reprimanded for that, but it's worth it.
When I turn back to Laci, I find her bent over and panting, hair wild around her face. "Hey. What's wrong?"
"Shit." She straightens up, still gasping. Her face looks flushed, and she quickly wipes some wetness from her cheek. I'm not sure it's sweat. "God, I thought so carefully about how to do this, and now the words are just gone."
I wrap my arm around her shoulders, remembering how she can get so wound up that she starts hyperventilating. Once, when a beloved sand-dollar shell she collected from a beach cracked in two, she actually passed out. "Calm down. They're just a bunch of douchebags. It's okay."
"No, it's not. Melanie's missing."
I stare at her. "What?"
More tears run down her face, and she brushes them away with quick, angry swipes. "She's been gone for two days. Two nights. When I went over to her house, her father showed me a note she supposedly left behind, but that's a bunch of shit. I know it is. So I thought of you andâ"
I pull away without giving her a chance to finish, feeling my shoulders go stiff. "I don't believe this. So, you don't even want to reconnect with me, it's just that your girlfriend's gone and I'm the only wolf witch you know who could, what, sniff around for her?"
"No, it's not like that," she says, quickly. But her eyes slide to the side.
"Of course it is! Christ, I can't believe I thought we were falling back together." I spin away, choking down the rest of my words, feeling them burn deep inside. If I look at her now, I'll say something nasty, so I start running. My breath comes out funny, uneven, and I can't go as fast as normal. Behind me, I hear Laci panting, trying to catch up, and for one ugly moment, I think about letting her strain until her lungs pop.
When I do slow down, she glares at me, pushing out the words in between gasps. "I'm here right now because I can trust you."
"With what?"
"Withâcan we stop? A fucking horse can't outrun you."
I do, wiping sweat from my face while waiting for her to catch her breath. It takes a while. A few more people pass us by, and the coach's yelling in the distance is probably meant for us. I'm ready to ignore him, but Laci starts stumbling along, like she doesn't want him to come over to see what's happening.
We walk a few yards before she finally looks at me. "Do you believe in vampires?"
"Vampires," I repeat, blankly. "Are you serious?"
She nods. "It's related. I promise."
If it wasn't for the same fear flashing across her face I saw earlier, I'd laugh. "No."
"But you're a wolf witch. You know about being magical and," her fingers waggle, "different."
"Not really. My mom was, but my dad wasn't any kind of skin witch at all. So I can't change or anything. C'mon, you know that."
"You call yourself a wolf witch," she insists, as if I'm trying to worm my way out of a lie.
"Yeah, well, that's a lot of words to spit out otherwise whenever someone asks about my teeth." I sigh and pull at the neck of my shirt a few times, trying to fan myself. "Laci, come on. People like my mom are recognized whether they call themselves skin witches or thaumaturgical users. No one's seen a vampire. No one's proven they exist. With all the tech we have now, don't you think they'd have been found if they existed?"
"What if they have but no one lived long enough to tell others?"
It doesn't take much to see the connection. "You think a vampire got Melanie?"
She nods.
"Why?"
She explodes. "Because that's what they do! They hunt, they feed, and that's it. They don't agonize about their existence, or try to find their humanity again. They like what they are, and they like killing people."
I hold up my hands. "Okay, okay. But why her?" I take another look at the guilt on Laci's face, memories swirling. She always drew scale patterns on her cheeks and wore skeleton-inspired jewelry, but I remember how her book shelf held mysteries instead of melodramas. "Oh my God, don't tell me you were investigating someone?"
"It's not like the security staff would believe us. So, we needed to find evidence that the people disappearing were fed on. You know, sucked dry."
"Christ, Laci!"
She glares at me. "Just listen, okay? We watched his house for a week, but that fucker found us out, somehow. We got photos of him without a reflection in the mirror, but they disappeared with Melanie."
"I can't believe you found someone to do this with you." I can't believe she wants me to be the replacement.
"Look, this wasn't a fun time for us, okay? Don't think we were a couple of dopey girls hoping to find a brooding, lovesick vampire to share fucking sonnets with. This thing? It's a monster. Androids show more humanity. Nina, I wrote out a will before we started following him." She stares at me like she wants to burn the words into my brain.
I rub my eyes. "Why do you think he's a vampire instead of, I don't know, a serial killer or something? Why do you think he's anything at all?"
She growls. "The most obvious one? He never goes out in the day. Ever."
"A lot of people near Fivefield came down with photophobia. There are three on my block alone. Maybe he's one of them."
She scoffs and straightens up. "Well, that's why I wanted to talk to you. He is one of them. He's your next-door neighbor."
"My neighbor," I repeat, blankly.
"Haven't you noticed all the people dying close to your home? All within a four-block radius. We mapped it out."
"These days, I don't notice if my shirt is inside out. And we're in a hospice community. Everyone is dying here."
Laci grabs my arm. "That's what makes living here so perfect! It's a place where people come to die, so who's surprised when they do? But he fucked up by going after healthy family members, and we caught him. Nina, listen. You and I have to stake him. I know he's the reason why Melanieâ"
"Laci, stop." I'm holding my head with both hands. This is too much, too fast. I expected to talk about why our friendship fell apart, not about missing girlfriends and possible vampires. "Playing detective was fun when we were ten, okay? You're eighteen, and I'm almost, too. You need to go to a police station, file a missing persons report if Melanie's dad hasn't, and post flyers or whatever else to spread awareness. Not go after people with fuckingâwhat? Crosses? Stakes?"
She glares at me. "Anything wooden works, even the stick up your ass."
My frayed patience snaps. "You know what? If you think you can ignore me for two years and still expect me to step back into your stupid schemes wearing a big fucking smile on my face, that's your problem. Find someone else."
I rip my hair out of its bun as I walk past her, needing something to do with my hands.
"Got any tips?" she yells after me. "Looks like you know how to do that really well."
A snarl bursts out of me. Of course she'd bring Elliot into this. "Don't even go there."
"Why not? You're the one who wants to talk about why we fell away." We're jogging again, me trying to outpace her, and her determined to keep up. "You know, if you didn't want me because you only like dick, you could've said so. It's more honest than saying you wanted friendship instead of romance."
Her words hit like a punch to the gut. Despite feeling like the air disappeared from my lungs, I move into a flat-out run, finally leaving her behind. She yells something else, but I can't hear her, because my own words are stuck inside my head.
I think I still do, and Elliot's no exception. I just don't want to lose him like I lost you.