This is your official invitation to join the fun

Safe and boring.

Michael had warned her that the vampires at the club were only a small part of Claire’s coven—her favorites—and being noticed by any of them would be fatal.

“Her favorites?” Sonya had asked before Michael left. “Is that why they were all so attractive?”

“Of everything that happened, that’s what you noticed?”

“Yeah.”

“So she made herself a harem? Good for her.”

Michael scoffed at that and left before she could ask him anything else. Since then, it’d been two days of staring at snow and playing games on her phone. When she had enough energy to spare, she practiced Thatcher’s exercises but even those got boring as pencil shavings after a few hours.

The next two weeks passed in a monotonous pattern. She’d translate and train and sleep with Michael checking in every couple days, bringing food and information, letting her take a break from continually expanding their link. She would never tell him but she looked forward to him coming by. It gave her something to do.

Core called once. The hacker demanded to know what was happening:

“Why does your GPS say you’re in upstate New York?”

“The werewolf job fell through but I’m on another one. It’s more long term.”

A pause before, “You didn’t quit, did you?”

“Is that what everyone thinks?”

“Not everyone.” Core’s voice held an uneasy doubt—like she believed Sonya had run away.

“I’ll be there long before New Year’s Eve to kick Keme’s ass,” Sonya said with more assurance than she felt. “So if anyone else says that I backed out like a coward, you tell them to shove it.”

A mixed set of chuckles came from the other end.

“You just told them yourself.” It was Thatcher.

He, Mark, and a few others asked her about what she was doing. She kept her answers vague, changing the subject as subtly as possible. Isaac kept bringing Keme into the conversation, boasting at how much her competition had caught before Core finally hung up.

Only a couple weeks left.

***

It took all of five minutes to walk through each room, pacing back and forth. She rubbed her socks on the carpet, touching the metal handle to create a spark, repeating the process until her feet went numb. She’d decided to start banging her head against the wall for the sheer novelty of it when she bumped into one of the panels beside the couch that served as her bed. It shifted inward.

With nothing better to do, she sat down cross-legged and tugged the pieced of wood out of place. A polished chest had been wedged in the cramped, dusty space—there were scratch marks on the wood from being taken in and out over the years. She grabbed the latch on the end and tugged. It barely budged. One foot up against the wall, she heaved with all her strength and the chest erupted out of the wall, throwing her onto her the floor. Rubbing the back of her head, she hauled the trunk closer and inspected the leather straps binding it shut with large brass locks. She grinned: it was time to put her lessons with Evelyn to use.

It took a few tries to get the latches off and she’d scuffed the walnut finish in the process, but the risk of Michael noticing was worth it. An armful of leather books—mostly old editions of Dickens and Shakespeare and Doyle, a single worn and crinkled journal, a large stack of unsealed letters, and faded drawings of various women were all jumbled together inside.

She picked through the personal items, sorting everything out by age. The journal was oldest, the first entry dated back to 1922.
Six weeks have passed since Paris. It’s clear that my abductor has no intention of releasing me. Perhaps that is best for now. I fear that I’ve fallen prey to a dark metamorphosis. The woman, and the others who travel with her, neither eat nor drink. They sleep a little during the day and avoid the sun as though the warmth would burn them.

There has been no food for me these last five days and yet I feel no hunger. Confined to this singular room, I am left with little else but my thoughts. And even those are starting to fade.

She does not know I have this. She gives orders which my body obeys against my will but even her power cannot see through to my secrets.

Her intentions are yet unclear but whatever she plans, I can no longer wait as the memories of my life drain away.

I was born in London near St. James’ Park in 1891 to Mary and—
Sonya shut the book again; she had no desire for a history lesson. 1891. It made him a hundred years older than her. No wonder he was so grouchy all the time. Putting everything but the journal back into the trunk, she shoved it into the cramped space, returning the panel and moving the couch in front of that section of wall—in case Michael came back before the appointed check-in time.

She set his journal aside, sure that she’d find something better to do. Not even an hour later, she was flipping the book open again.

Sonya skimmed over the first twenty or so pages. Family names—he had an older sister, Victoria, and a handful of cousins, details about servants and friends, how everyone loved and adored him. Even if it was all true, Michael had obviously written out his childhood with a very heavy set of rose-tinted glasses. The pages always started out neat but devolved into a scribble as he’d tried to write down everything he could think of all at once. Notes on the sides in cramped writing and sections blotted out with ink showed how he’d gone back through and edited the information.

It wasn’t until he was nineteen that the journal became interesting. Rich and pampered, he’d had no shortage of women and drunken escapades through London. At one point, he’d even started a list of women’s names before scratching over them with such force that he’d pierced through the paper. Sonya moved closer to the light, hoping that enough squinting would reveal what he’d tried to erase.

Michael’s record starting skipping months of time, his handwriting turning deliberate as though he’d debated if he should write it down at all. Even his tone turned grave and self-critical.
Victoria never gave up on me, even after I stole father’s laudanum. Trying to drag me into the better side of society, she challenged me to a round of bartitsu with the claim that if I were the victor, she would finally leave me in peace. Her lessons with Miss Sanderson paid off and within three strikes, she had me on the ground. And though the Taylors were always an insufferable lot, I honoured the arrangement.

That night was the first time I met Abigail.

The next chunk of the journal passed over several years, talking about his struggle with opium and Abigail. No matter what topic he started with or what train of thought he got on, everything always tied back to Abigail—beautiful, petite, intelligent, and sweet.

With no interest in his love life, Sonya ignored entire passages of his ramblings. She could understand. Locked away with nothing but time and memories, it would be hard to cut back on what was passing through his head, but Michael had no talent for poetry despite his many, many attempts at it.
I still remember the fear in Victoria’s face when she told me that we were at war.
Sonya stopped her skimming, relaxing back into the couch, a steaming cup of coffee on the table. It was getting late but she wasn’t about to put the book down now.
She even tried enlisting but was turned out by Mr. Edwards. I knew from that first moment I would end up seeing the battlefield but had I known what it would really be like in the mud, with the constant chaos and fear that any moment could be the last, I never would’ve encouraged her to keep trying.

And Abigail, though she had little medical experience outside childhood scrapes, joined Victoria in becoming a nurse. Even now, I wonder if I shouldn’t have stopped her. The carnage we Tommies bore witness to at Mons and Marne—later on, at home, everyone talked about angels and miracles. There’s nothing miraculous about using a rifle to take a man’s life. That’s what none of the bureaucrats understand when they cry for war. They can only see the land or money, the cost. All we saw was fear. Fear and pain and anguish and death.

Abigail might not have been there on the battlefield beside me, but she never forget the men who passed through her hospital doors. All they wanted was to go home and most of them never got that chance.
Sonya released a deep breath, staring out at space, her coffee forgotten. World War I. Learning about history was one thing but reading his journal… How did anyone come back from something like that? How did they piece their lives together after what they’d seen?
Michael didn’t write anything else about what he experienced during the war though he’d left several blank pages at the end.

His style switched as he went into ridiculous detail about coming home and proposing to his golden girl, Abigail. Sonya turned ahead a few pages, skipping over the honeymoon where he’d probably written sonnets about the experience.

Sitting here now, with only a candle to guard against the darkness, I can only imagine what the woman intends for me. She visits me sometimes, late at night. I resist her power as much as I can but it only seems to intrigue her more. There are always men at my door even though it is already locked. But I know how to be patient.

I only pray that Abigail does not believe I have abandoned her.

They are coming now. I can almost feel the steady beats of their hearts.

The next few pages mostly discussed being taken across the Atlantic to New York while Michael struggled with the reality of being a vampire. His writing became more scattered as he’d written down notes of how the rest of the coven worked, Claire’s routine and what she liked, whispers and rumors he heard about how to kill vampires followed by his own fumbled attempts to eliminate the forced bond by his mistress.

Years passed before the next real entry.
1938.

I’ve done it. A letter travels ahead of me to Abigail. I only hope that some part of her still loves me after all this time, that she can trust I did not abandon our life together. I can scarcely believe that sixteen years, an entire lifetime, have passed. It’s seemed little more than a nightmare.

My time to her is so short. The boat departs in a matter of hours. I traveled during the day to attempt the spies Claire has across the city. The pain was well worth it. I can barely keep from crying out for joy. I can finally go home. Even if she is with another, to know that she is safe and happy will be enough.
Sonya set the book down, taking a deep breath. She didn’t want to feel such intense sympathy for him. Leaving the journal, she got a drink of water, sitting at the table to watch the snow fall. She hoped if she separated herself long enough, the emotion would die off.

It didn’t.

When she returned, the next page had two lines.
There is no place to hide where Claire cannot find me.

She must die.

I won’t give up fighting to return to you. Claire is strong but not invincible. I’ve met with members of other covens and learned that many oppose Claire’s methods. Her power hangs in the balance and if I can use my position to aid her enemies in destroying her, all the better.

In 1961, when Michael was seventy, the letters changed.

I can no longer recall your face. Forgive me.

—Your ever loving husband, in this life and, hopefully, the next.
Apologies brimmed through the rest of the letters with such personal attachment and emotion that Sonya stopped reading. This was a line even she wasn’t willing to cross. Putting each letter away with care, she pulled out the drawings. She suspected they were sketches of his wife. They all shared long curling hair and sharp, intelligent eyes, but the rest of the face shifted with each sketch as Michael had tried to recall Abigail’s face.

Sonya tried to put everything with as much reverence as she could. She didn’t know what she’d expected—bitter writings from a snobby Englishman who maybe deserved what he got, overly dramatic self-pity—anything but this.

Michael, like the three she’d rescued from the warehouse, was another victim; a rude, arrogant victim who was quick to blame her for everything, but still a victim.

It would’ve been so much easier if she’d never known.

A knock at the door and Michael walked in, snow frosting his hair. “Are you ready?”

“Yeah. How are things with Claire?”

Michael shuddered a little at her name and spat out the word, “Intimate. But I believe your plan in working. She’s allowing me more freedoms than she has in a long while and has even visited me on several occasions.” He started to take off his coat but stopped, nose twitching.

“What’s wrong?” Sonya asked. She barely resisted the urge to smell-check her hair when his nostrils flared.

“I think one of the blood packs has turned.” He stepped closer and leaned in, breathing deep as though smelling different vintages of wine. When he straightened, a hint of repulsion entered his features.

“What is it?”

“I’m not sure. There’s a hint of…” He sniffed and moved closer to her. “of…” Another step closer. “Rotting fruit.”

She flushed as he got close, growing self-conscious. She’d showered that morning and her clothes had been washed the night before but there were a couple of trash bags in the house and she hadn’t done the dishes in a few days.

“It’s you,” Michael accused.

“No it’s not. I swear I’m clean.”

He waved his hand. “The scent isn’t on you, it is you.”

“I’m not following.”

“You’re—” he gestured with his hands.

“What?”

“You’ve…come into your course.” He cleared his throat and looked away, his cheeks coloring.

Sonya curled away from him. “You can tell?”

“I’m a vampire. Of course I can tell.” He pinched the bridge of his nose and let out a deep sigh. “This won’t work. We’ll have to wait.”

“Why?”

“I would never present a woman in your,” he paused to search for the right word, “condition to Claire.”

Michael sighed. “Think of it this way: Would you eat a steak if it had maggots crawling on it?”

“Of course not.” She ran up and caught his arm when he turned to leave. “But it’s still blood.” It was hard to imagine a vampire being picky. “And if it’s so bad, you’d never go out in public.”

“In a crowded room, it’s like the faint scent of mildew where you’re not quite sure if it’s even there. But getting close, it becomes very obvious. The entire taste is affected. Even with the transfusion, which might not cover up your scent enough to begin with, presenting you to Claire now would be perceived as an insult. Things would not go well.” He nodded towards her neck, implying it would end the same way as before.

“But it’s Christmas in a few days. And as long as you’re incapable of leaving, I’m stuck here too.”

“Consider it an extra incentive to end the connection between us.” He left before she could protest and she kicked the door in her anger. The sympathy she’d developed for him made her try and be nicer the past week but it wouldn’t last much longer.

Another five days of this and she was going to lose her mind. Plopping onto the couch, which had become more of a nest made of pillows and blankets, she pulled out her phone and called her cousin Arthur.

“It’s about time you I heard from you.” His voice crackled through the speaker. “If you don’t show up before Christmas morning, I’m keeping your present.”

Sonya smiled, putting as much joy in her voice as she could. “Make sure to send me a picture of it.”

“Ah, come on. Don’t tell me that you’re not going to make it. You already skipped out on Thanksgiving!”

“Yeah, but—”

“But nothing. I put a lot of thought into your gift.” He sniffed as though on the verge of crying. “I can’t believe you would betray me like this.”

“Let me guess: it’s a video game you bought for yourself but you labeled it for me so your mom wouldn’t get mad.”  

“Have I told you how much I’ve missed you?”

“Not yet,” she said with a smile. “But it’s always nice to hear.”

“Seriously though, you’re really not coming?”

“I can’t.” She stared out the window. “The airport got snowed in. All flights are grounded.”

“Then drive out.”

“It would take three days on good roads.”

“So you’ll be a little late to dinner.”

“Arthur.”

“I know. You’re a bigshot student now at a snobby private school, mixing with a bunch of stuckup twits. I’m sure you have some glamorous party to get to.”

“Something like that.”

Arthur chuckled and she heard him shouting to the others that she was on the phone.

“No, wait.” She’d called him directly for a reason. It had been about three and a half months since she’d slapped her aunt and walked out. Sonya wanted to ease back in with him and then slowly work her way up.

“Sonya, what the hell!” Bethany screeched in her ear. “If someone says a plane in grounded, you hijack it and come out here anyway.”

“Isn’t that the plot of a Die Hard movie?”

A deep, rich chuckle came from the phone. Uncle Ethan was on the line too. Arthur had put her on speaker. Sonya strained her ears as Bethany launched into questions about cute guys at her school and if she’d found a rich boyfriend yet. In the background, she heard the sink running and the light clink of dishes being stacked in the drainer.

“Can I talk to Aunt Valarie?”

Bethany stopped mid-word and everything went quiet. Sonya checked the screen but the phone said she was still connected.

“Hello? Anybody?”

“What do you want?” Her aunt’s voice was clipped and detached.

Sonya clamped her hand down in the blankets as an unexpected anger surged in her. She wanted to tell Valarie that she’d been wrong about Natasha going insane. She wanted to scream and lecture the older woman about how wrong she was about everything, how monsters were real, how Natasha had died to protect her family. Sonya took a deep breath, channeling Mark’s perpetual calm. “Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas to you too, Sonya.”

The phone passed from person to person after that as they exchanged holiday greetings. She evaded most of their questions, mentioning homework and how she was looking forward to making a difference in people’s lives: nothing that was a complete lie.

Even when they ran out of topics, Sonya kept asking questions about what had happened in their lives. Reading Michael’s story combined with her own fears that she might meet with an “accident”—as Core called it—and never speak with her family again prompted her to keep them on the line until they couldn’t hide the annoyance in their voices any longer. An exchange of half hollow I-love-you-s passed between them before the call ended.

“Alone again,” Sonya muttered to the empty room. “Yay.”

***

Sonya gnawed on her bottom lip. She’d never been much of a gambler before; didn’t like the risk. Now, it felt like all she did was risk—her job, her well-being, even her life.

Michael popped in and out, wishing her a happy Christmas before telling her she still smelled too horrendous for their plan to work.

On the night of the 28^th, he actually smiled when he said it was time.

Sonya started on the physical transformation. She braided her hair up in a tight circle on top of her head, pinning the short, blonde wig down so it would stay in place even if tugged on. Brown contacts. Fake glasses. Ripped up, dirty clothes. Make-up to cover the scars on her neck.

“Ready?” Michael asked.

Sonya lay back as Michael stuck with her arms tubes, draining her veins. “How do you know to do all of this?”

“My wife trained as a nurse during World War I. She taught me the basics when I returned home and time has filled in the gaps.”

Sonya tried to look surprised. If he found out that she’d read his journal the results would definitely be unpleasant. “You don’t look too bad for being over a hundred.”

He smiled, just a little, and started the transfusion. She shivered, chilling as the cold blood flowed in to replace her own. She kept her eyes off his face, too nervous he’d see the truth of what she’d done.

Once Michael confirmed that her own scent had faded away, she armed herself with a serrated knife from the kitchen and her dead man’s blood, grabbed a couple of blood packs and made it outside to her car. She could tell he’d used it again because one of the headlights was cracked. Each time he touched her baby, he managed to damage it.

Maybe I should just be grateful it’s still in one piece. If he drove it again, it’d probably end up exploding.

She parked a couple blocks away from Claire’s house in case she had surveillance outside as well. Sonya adjusted her hoodie, making it look like someone had tried ripping it off her as she and Michael got outside.

“Do it,” she said, closing her eyes.

The sound of ripping plastic and then cold, thick liquid poured splashed across her face, dripping down her neck and staining her clothes. A few specks of blood landed on her lips and she squirmed, her stomach revolting against the iron taste.

“Get it off, get it off!”

“No. If the attack was real, you wouldn’t be so concerned about what’s on your mouth.”

Sonya grumbled, holding still until he finished coating her. The plan was to make it look like she’d been with someone else—someone that Michael drank for himself—leaving her as a “gift” for his mistress. As he drank the rest of the blood packs she’d brought, she flopped down onto the snow, rolling around and making it look like she’d been in a struggle. Shaking herself off as she stood, she tucked the kitchen knife in the back of her jeans, adjusting her clothes to keep it hidden.

When she turned to him, her jaw dropped. He radiated color. His hair, a washed out blond gleamed gold like light hitting a window when the sun was about to set. His cheeks were flush with life and his eyes looked less like the training pool water and more like a freshly painted, cobalt mustang. She finally understood why Claire had made him the crowning jewel of her harem.

The attraction died when he picked her up and flung her over his shoulder like a pig being taken for slaughter.

She closed her eyes and went limp once they turned into the driveway. Michael carried her down into the basement, dumping her into a corner. She grunted softly, wondering if he was enjoying this. He started with her ankles, then her knees and worked his way up her body with the rope. Even if this was her own plan, her wrists were starting to revolt against the treatment.

“Sleep tight,” he whispered.

Sonya stuck her tongue out just a little bit and listened to him walk upstairs, shutting the door, and eliminating what little light there was. Paranoia kept her eyes shut. Night vision cameras or any number of devices could be recording her every move.

She waited.

The cold cement seeped the heat out of her and the blood coating her face began to dry and crack. It itched. But she didn’t move.

A soft squeak started by her feet and moved up as something small but light crawled up her side. She clenched her eyes, chanting a prayer in her head that a snake would come along and swallow the damned mouse. When the hellspawn slipped down her neck and started clawing at her bra strap, she could feel her skin breaking out in hives. ‘Waking up’ now would mean having to pretend to struggle for a couple hours before Michael took her to Claire.

Get off me or I’ll kill you.

It scampered up by her face, sniffing by her ear.

The effort not to flinch or cringe was killing her with each passing second. She sensed its evil, beady eyes on her face. She shut it out, thinking about Isaac and Keme and how good it would feel when she beat him in the bet and earned a bit of credibility with the other Hunters.

By the time she finished replaying Isaac’s defeated expression in her head, the mouse was gone.

She let out a deep breath, looking forward to burning the clothes once this was done. But she hadn’t quite decided if she was going to kill Michael before or after the mouse purging. He could’ve put her on any of the beds or a couch—even the floor upstairs would’ve been preferable.

It felt like a week passed, her bladder growing angry along with her rock-embedded hips, when a faint bump came from the door.

About time.

She twitched, starting slow, her eyes not quite opening. One hundred counted seconds later, she snapped up and screamed. Rocking back and forth against the ropes, she shouted for help, for anyone to come help her. Not too loudly, of course, just enough to make a dent on any listening devices planted in the house.

On cue, Michael burst in, sprinting down to her. He pulled her up and she made a show of trying to escape.

He grabbed the back of her neck, forcing her face to him as he her mouth with a rag. She gagged. Chloroform. Like when he’d taken her back at the warehouse. This wasn’t part of the plan. She struggled against him in earnest, falling over and flailing around. Michael moved with her, patiently waiting for the chemicals to take effect. She glared at him when he smirked.

That settled it. He’d die first and then be burned with her clothes.

Sonya’s vision blurred as her head transformed into a helium balloon ready to pop. He left her there in the dark, time losing focus as the drug took hold and she lost herself.