Rare Kinds

Chapter Four

Some people live short enough lives that when they die it’s no trouble remembering every little detail. From their first glimpse of their mother’s wide, proud smile, or their father’s watery eyes as he watched his child take their very first steps. He or she could remember being born and how they died and everything in between for it is easy for a soul to remember if they are so very young and have had so little of life.

Then again some of us live long enough that they may not remember their beginnings at all and only catch fleeting memories disconnected from a marker of time before those memories are chased away hastily by the present—its delights, its worries, its tendency to drag on and fill itself with meaninglessness. Some of us forget on purpose. Some of us forget we forget. Roger is one of those creatures.

Roger was as nearly immortal as a being could be without being a god (and without its dubious perks), and as a nearly immortal creature he tended to forget things. He forgot the beginning of his life, whatever got him around the first years, centuries or millennia, he didn’t know, until a few centuries ago. It wasn’t needed so it was tossed away. But every once and a while something would jog an old memory—a face, a word, an image, anything—and a feeling would come over him. It was more like a compulsion, and try as he might the feeling would not go away unless he dealt with it properly.

It did help to know exactly what it was that he was struggling to remember and that hardly ever happened. It was more and more often these days that he simply waited for the nagging little feeling to pass. It sometimes took months for him to shut the door on it completely, but it would always crop up again, rearing its mysterious head, driving him a little mad for his misery.

In the recent years he had made the decision to tell those feelings to get fucked. He didn’t know what they wanted and go away because he didn’t care. And while this was a little off the mark it seemed to have worked for the time being and had been going sort of well for him over the past several hundred years or so.

Well, until he had come back from the Otherworld. The voice while he held that girl. As he fed from her he heard Nicholas’ voice. Could Nicholas do that? Speak through time and space? Through dimensions to his world? Or had it been Roger’s power to hear him?

Over his lifetime he had forgotten much of what he was. His earliest memory was being brought out of the earth and told by a dark man he was a vampire. What was it that Roger had said to him then? Roger had laughed at him. How silly the dark man was—he wasn’t a vampire. Roger was something else entirely, but the word of what he was had been lost to him and the sun felt so good on his face. It had cleared his head of dusty memories and made him anew. Yes, he had said, perhaps he was a vampire, and the dark man was his master ever since and had provided him with little offerings, hirelings filled with blood. The first few he had not meant to kill and they had been so kind to fill him with what he needed to be strong. Poor things; it had been such a waste. The next, he promised, would not die. None have ever since—at least not by his feeding. The more he drank he learned, or remembered from some remaining cobweb of a memory, that the dark man wasn’t a man at all; he was Tangarian.

Roger owed much to his Tangarian master. He taught him how to curb his hunger, taught him languages, how the world had changed while he slept deep underground. Most wonderful of all, his master gave him something to do with his seemingly endless life. There was adventure and creatures that he had never known existed. The world was amazing and new to him—or had been. Now, as he had spent long stretches of time in the Otherworld away from his master and the magic of his home world, he had begun to see through his own eyes. More importantly he was becoming more like himself again, or whatever he had been before he took the long sleep. While that life was still a mystery to him, there were some things, some memories, that wouldn’t let him close the door on them. They were the kind that shoved their foot in the way, and no matter how hard he battered the foot with the door the damn thing just wouldn’t move.

Nagging, troubling thoughts should have been the least of his concerns at the moment. Soon there would be a job to do and he had to be focused or he would be of no use to Mohan. Roger pushed aside these thoughts and memories and reminded himself where he was.

Mohan and Roger were sitting at a small round table in the corner of a room in The Master’s safe house. Roger briefly glanced around; the room looked abandoned. The paint on the walls was peeling and was scratched deeply in some places. Lining one wall were books stacked as high as the ceiling without the benefit of a bookcase. Cobwebs were all over the room, and a spider dangled from a single thread, down from the tarnished chandelier in the center of the ceiling. A fireplace was on the other side of the room from where they sat themselves. It was empty and cold, yet scorch marks and soot surrounded it and had traveled up half the wall above it. A small settee was covered with a sheet, as was most of the furniture in the room. The carpets were frayed, burned in some places. The whole room smelled of an old fire and dead and rotting books.

Either being waist high in dirty dealings didn’t pay very well, which was unlikely, thought Roger, or The Master had not been here since they last saw him. How long ago had that been? Roger briefly entertained the idea of getting a calendar. He didn’t even know what day it was.

“I’m afraid the entire house has been sorely neglected,” said a voice behind him. The voice said these words resignedly, as if it could not be helped.

Out of his peripheral vision Roger saw Mohan sit a little straighter as the voice came closer. It made him crack a little smile to see his friend so humbled.

An oil lamp was set in the middle of the table, casting a soft yellow glow on their faces. Roger looked up into the new arrival’s face.

The Master wasn’t as tall as Roger, but he did make up a rather intimidating figure. His skin was as dark as Lent’s, his eyes slightly slanted and filled with a deep black void, and his ears, too, were slightly pointed. The Master, like Lent, was part of the Tangarian race of elves, but the Master’s ego demanded more room to walk around and his unpredictable, mischievous nature set him and Lent on opposite sides of the spectrum.

While the rest of Tangarians, the peaceful earth-worshipping elves, had all but died out, the Master had a claw-hold on the new age. He had lived for a long time although the evidence of this was absent from his features, and yet still gave the impression that he was a half-step up from owner of the world. His hair was white, startling against his dark skin, and hung in a long braid down his back. He was dressed expensively in a suit of dark blue velvet—mirroring the color of the tumultuous sea that surrounded this place. On the middle finger of his left hand was his signet ring, the double-headed eagle in flight with its lion paws raised to the sky.

The Master looked extremely out of place in the stuffy, ill-lit room, but made himself comfortable at the table with Roger and Mohan. He nearly rested his arms on the surface, but seemed to think better of it as there was a thick layer of dust there.

“I’m sorry I can’t catch you up properly. It has been a long time, my friends, I know, but busy, busy, busy,” The Master offered a smile, a gleaming white grin of impeccably straight teeth. He pulled out a handkerchief from the inside of his coat and dusted a part of the table (he almost put it in his pocket, but it was dirty so he tossed it over his shoulder), then settled his elbows comfortably against the edge of it, smile gone as he launched into business. “There have been quite a lot of rumors going around on the mainland. A man from Grey, it is said, somewhat of a drunkard, has developed an interesting ability and he has used this ability to nearly destroy a very hard-won alliance with the barbarians in the north.”

Roger noticed the contempt in his Master’s voice when he said the word barbarians. The Master wasn’t particularly fond of the northern men. He had supposed he had only had to deal with them recently as Grey was a newly acquired city. The Master had imperially recognized claim on one other city and had turned it from a squalid town of thieves and beggars into a thriving industrial metropolis—one that rivaled Tannika’s capitol in nearly all respects. Roger had been to that city, which had a long time ago had been called Murrae, but he had never even heard of Grey. The Master had other cities in the Underground, like the Haidakam, but not even the world above officially recognized that place. Roger imagined that the human royals wanted to pretend such places didn’t exist.

Mohan cleared his throat beside him, calling him out of his thoughts. “Ability?” he questioned.
Roger shook himself mentally; he had almost forgotten what they were talking about.

“Apparently he fed from one of the barbarians and left him for dead. He was pursued, naturally, by the rest of their party but they lost him.”

Roger’s eyebrows rose into his hairline at the word ‘fed’ and he glanced at Mohan before addressing The Master. Mohan looked just as surprised as he was. “Fed, did you say?”

The Master laughed softly. “Not blood, but life, yes. Fed. The barbarian’s alive, surprisingly, but I wouldn’t call Laët harmless.”

“That’s the drunk man?” Roger asked. He at least wanted to seem as if he wanted to be a part of this conversation. In truth, he’d rather be out getting the whole thing over with. Roger was eager to meet this man who could feed on life rather than blood.

“Who knows if he was drunk at the time,” The Master shrugged and leaned back I his chair. “As he’s done no real harm yet I simply want you two to bring him in, but that may pose a little difficulty.”

“How so?” Roger was fidgeting in his chair, and began scraping at the wood under the table with his fingernail. Mohan reached out and smacked his hand away.

“The one he fed off of was the youngest of their royal line. His brother has demanded that negotiations between Grey and Hergrath are to be put off until they capture him. I won’t have Northmen telling me what do to in my own city and rightly the council has agreed. Unfortunately it has made these axe-wielders very put out,” The Master sighed and threw up his hands. “I couldn’t give two shakes, really, and quite honestly, I’m more concerned about what my people are saying about it. They’re throwing around the word vampire as if it’s some kind of explanation for everything.”

Roger frowned. “So you don’t think he is a vampire?”

“No, I’m sorry,” The Master said quietly, and he did seem apologetic. “I don’t think he’s anything like you. This was an ordinary man, you see. Now he’s something different.”

“Is he still in Grey?”

“Yes, actually, and is very easy to find. Except for now he’s claimed sanctuary with a priest of the Star of Our Father and neither council or Northmen can get around that.”

“That doesn’t help things,” Mohan muttered under his breath. Roger wondered for a moment what a half-demon would do to a priest. He sized Mohan up out of the corner of his eye. A priest wouldn’t be any issue.
Sanctuary meant nothing to Roger, and the Master, no matter which face he was showing to the political world, could go and get him without a problem and pay the stupid bastards off if they protested. More than that he could have sent anyone—Lent and Maria for instance. Roger and Mohan didn’t need to be here. Besides, Lent was far better at diplomacy than either of them. Lent could talk a priest out of priesthood if that’s what was required. Roger eyed the Master from across the table, wondering why he really called them here. A side glance at Mohan told him his friend was just as confused as he was.

“That’s where you come in,” the Master leaned forward, “I must naturally follow the laws of politics, but you two can bust in and do whatever needs be done to get him,” he said with a roguish grin, leaned back and pulled a cigar from the inside of his coat. He offered it around but when he was politely declined, he lit it himself and puffed in silence for a moment. Then he said, “As he lived in Grey, my city, naturally this Laët, whatever creature he has become, is mine as well and I want him here.”

Mohan and Roger shared a look briefly, but neither spoke when they turned their attention back to The Master.

He stared at them both thoughtfully. “It should be no problem, you understand, but afterward,” he said, addressing Roger alone and in a voice that rose in Roger one of those nagging feelings that told him in a stern voice to do something and do it now. The Master’s expression this time was unreadable. “… you and I have to have a chat about your new friend.”

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Nick thought a long time about those words. It was something that had troubled him for a long time and only now was he beginning to understand that that was what Roger was asking him. What are you? Indeed. What sort of thing was he? Was he crazy like they said?

Nick stood in front of the sink in his bathroom, one light shining over the mirror. He peered into the mirror, poking with his fingers to his cheeks, as if he’d never seen his own face before. That was almost accurate; it was rare that he ever cared to look at his reflection. He stared into his eyes, trying to see if anything was hidden there, something behind or lurking that might be the cause to the effect. But no, why would there be? They were just eyes. And he did feel a bit funny standing there, trying to find a demon in his eye or some sort of source for craziness.

But the hallucinations those were surely a psychosis? And they had been around ever since he could remember. Flashes sometimes, in great pools of flashes behind people in the street… behind his parents. Behind the doctors. Behind everyone but him. Nick had mentioned this to his parents, his father in particular, and that’s where all the curing nonsense had started. Nick didn’t think his father was ridiculous to get doctors to try it, but the possibility that he could have been cured was an improbability. Through years of doctors and medications the “condition” had persisted, and had been mentioned by one doctor that it could be genetic. That’s when he found out for certain that he was adopted. He remembered that day clearer than any other.

Nick had been eleven years old. He had also been in an institution that time for at least six months. The first time had been just over three years. He remembered how his legs had dangled off the metal cot. Facing the window, he’d watch the shadows of birds pass over the window panes.

His doctor then, a tall reedy man that wore a long white coat that seemed three sizes too big for him, let his parents into see him. Nick wouldn’t turn around. He had hated that place, and at that time, hated them for letting the doctors keep him there.

“It’s a side effect of the medicine,” the doctor had lied for him, or probably had hoped that such a thing really explained his current behavior.

And it was unusual for a child to do nothing but stare out at a window all day. He had wanted to turn and run over to them, tell them that he was sorry for seeing things and that he would try harder to make them go away.
Nick had stared out of that window for the better part of the day. The country side, rolling green hills rich with grass, a strong breeze that could easily hold a kite high; the view outside his window was just easier to cope with. He had drifted away but something caught his attention and he had almost turned his head, surprised that the doctor and his parents were still in the room.

“… usually comes from the mother’s side of the family. Did you know her at all? Does her family have a history of mental illness?”

“We don’t know anything about his birth mother,” his father had said quickly.

And then all three voices moved out into the hall; a secret had been set loose, and it wasn’t until he had two more months in that stupid place with that stupid doctor and was brought home that his parents had finally explained it to him that they weren’t his birth parents. But they hadn’t needed to.

Nick had always known. Sure his parents loved him as if he were their own and were nothing but kind and gentle to him, but he had known he didn’t belong there.

A curious feeling swept over him. Nick suddenly realized that he didn’t belong here, either. He hadn’t belonged anywhere really. Nick had watched everyone around him as he grew up as if they were fish in an aquarium or animals in a zoo. He felt a sort of fondness for them but was out of place in their midst. He didn’t set himself above them, no, but they were objects he moved around and avoided if he could. Doomed souls, he thought, with their paths past, present and future swallowing them up, and working them into a desperate frenzy to beat their end. They were something different entirely. He must have always known that because the realization that he was adopted was so anticlimactic that he laughed.

What had they, he thought of the doctors, that they thought they could cure him? They too were just people, busying themselves to their end. What did they know about him?

Nick stared at the bottle he had brought from his bedroom, his prescription that he had placed on the sink. Those pills—what were they doing to him? With shaking hands he grasped the sides of the sink, his eyes narrowing at the label. With one finger he sent the bottle tipping off the side where it landed neatly in the little trash can by the sink. Maybe without them he would find an answer to Roger’s question.

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“Hardly seems worth bringing us back,” Mohan muttered to himself once they were back in their rooms. He noticed absently that their wet clothes from earlier were cleaned, dried and set on an armchair by the fireplace. “You and I will be back before Lent’s tea time.”

“It’s not about Laët or the Northmen or anything,” Roger hissed as he picked up some things in the room, perhaps contemplating throwing them around in a tantrum. He seemed determined to do something but didn’t know what it was he should be doing.

“Don’t be silly,” Mohan said, but Roger left to the adjoining room, struggling with the door as his arms full of random objects.

He had been right beside Roger when the Master had said it, and of course he’d thought it was easy work but Mohan was not about to question things. And worrying about things before they happened could lead to a present situation spinning out of control.

Mohan wiped some sweat off his brow. He could feel his heart pounding in his chest. It felt like something was clawing at the inside of his skin. Fighting the urge to scream, he shoved his arm in his teeth. Mohan didn’t have the strength anymore to keep Roger in check—not when he was wrestling with himself. There was a momentary feeling of relief as his teeth sunk into the flesh of his arm, the beast within subsiding as he tasted blood.

“It’s Maria, she’s told him everything!” Roger shouted, bursting in from the other room. His arms were empty. At least he had the decency to throw whatever he had taken around in the other room.

“Of course she has,” was all Mohan offered grimly, and turned around to pull the sleeve of his shirt over the bite. “We can’t worry about that now.”

“What’s she doing over there?”

“Never mind!” He turned again to face him, and grabbed Roger around the shoulders. He knew he was talking about Nicholas but he just couldn’t take him seriously now, there were other things on his mind. He shook the vampire a little, hoping to shake some sense into him. “Why do you care so much about it? When have you cared about anything?”

“Mohan,” Roger said with a warning tone, jerking himself away from his friend. It was clear that he had been about to say something terrible, something brainless like I’m leaving, but instead he glanced down and whispered, “You’re bleeding.”

“A wound from dinner.” The lie rushed out before he could stop it. Mohan looked down at his arm and dropped himself into a chair. “And you’re crazy.”

If Roger noticed his feeble attempt at subject change, he didn’t say so, but Mohan could still feel the vampire’s eyes on his back.

“It won’t happen you know,” Mohan told him. “We’ll get this Laët person, we’ll come back and you’ll have a chat with The Master. You’ll do as you’re told.”

“What do you think he’s going to do with him?” Roger asked impatiently; he hadn’t really been listening he was so wrapped up in his obsession with that man Nicholas.

“I don’t really care,” Mohan snapped, and the truth was that he really didn’t. He half turned in the chair to glare at Roger, the beast inside adding fiery conviction to his words. “I do the job. We—do—the—job.” Roger began to protest but he cut in. “That’s how it is, remember? We used to be of like minds on this!”

The vampire left for the adjoining room again, this time slamming the door twice before he finally fucked off for the rest of the night. Fuming, he gripped the arms of the chair so tightly that they broke off in his hands. His wound would heal by tomorrow, but Roger… Mohan glanced at the door leading to the other room and worried what other trials tomorrow would present. Mohan watched the clouds gather over the safe house; the Master was leaving again.

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Roger hated when Mohan was right and he almost always was. Mohan had always been the rational one.
Roger had never cared about a job before. Never had a subject intrigued him to the point of obsession. He assumed it was the experience that drove him. It was solving the puzzle. Now he cared? It simply could not be possible. There were a number of things he was allowed to care about: Mohan, where his next meal was coming from, et cetera. All the things that preserved his self.

However it was incredibly difficult for Roger to convince himself that he was merely feeding his curiosity when it came to Nicholas. The man was a puzzle and when he was solved perhaps then it would be over. The master would do his thing, whatever that was, and they would move on to the next. His obsession with Nicholas would fade away and latch on to something new. Past experience led him to believe this rationale but once again a nagging feeling resurfaced, and he couldn’t tell from where or why. Something within was telling him there was more to this than the puzzle.

Roger had done jobs like this many times with Mohan, but none of them had that particular kind of excitement that drove him to the point of doubt. This was a new feeling, or maybe it wasn’t. Roger had the impression that he had felt this way before, long ago, and when fully explored it could only lead to something terrible. He had tried and failed to remember what had happened before he met the master and was under his employ. Had he blocked it out himself? Had he buried himself all those years ago or had someone done it for him? Perhaps they did it because of him. It wasn’t too much of stretch. Trouble did seem to follow him, he thought with a resigned smile.

The random objects he had stolen from the other room lay in the copper tubs. They weren’t damaged, much to Roger’s disappointment, but they did appear impeccably clean. The room itself was a bit too cold for him, but the water in the tubs was still hot. He tossed the objects out of one tub, grinning as he heard several of them crack on the stone floor. Roger stripped off his clothes and climbed in the tub.

What was it about Nicholas that made Roger question who he was? What was it about the man that made him wonder about the master? What was the Master’s motive in all this? Usually whenever he asked himself that last question there was always something else to wipe it from his mind, something to do, something to solve, someone to catch. His mind had always been flitting from one thing to the next; He had never been so focused as he was now.

Roger had been ready to leave a moment ago. He had been ready to go back and resume his post outside Nicholas’ window, but merely looking in on him wouldn’t solve this mystery. He wanted to figure it out but a deep need was building in him. Roger wanted something more but what it was he could only guess.

Roger rested the back of his head on the edge of the copper tub with a sigh. He should really be thinking about what to say to the master once this job, a joke obviously, was over. Perhaps it was a test, he mused. Lent surely told the master about his recent impulsiveness—his stealing of the file, his hiding place in the wall full of Nicholas’ things proving Roger’s growing obsession with a subject. Lent probably told out of concern. His trusting nature led him to believe perhaps that the Master would approach Roger the same way, but if Lent really believed that the Master actually cared about his employees then he was very naïve.

Blaming Maria was too easy, but it was in her nature to report Roger’s every move. Of course the witch had it out for him ever since that night in the caves. It was obvious that she would be the one to tell him about Roger’s constant failings, as she saw them. Maria was too close to the master to silence, so he had to put up with it. There would be an appropriate time to get back at her, but not now.

Mohan hadn’t told a soul. Who would he tell? Who did he know that they would approach someone like the master and spill dirt about one of his employees? Mohan wouldn’t do that, and even if he had told someone and they were stupid enough to tell they wouldn’t be trusted. Roger had the feeling that the master got where he was by not trusting anyone. Maybe the Master suspected him, but of impulsiveness? That was a given. The Master had been dealing with Roger more than he had with anyone, aside from Lent. But if Roger thought that long service meant anything to the Master then he was being just as naïve as Lent.

Roger stared blankly at the ceiling, his anger had subsided, but a feeling of hopelessness replaced it. What could he say? The answer was obvious; he would do what he had always done in tight situations. Wing it. Tomorrow he and Mohan would leave for the mainland and capture this Laët, bring him back and then it would be crunch time. Roger could only hope that the master would be too busy with his new creature that he’d forget all about their impending chat.

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Without the pills sleep seemed impossible and as the weeks passed there was no sign of Roger. Nick knew now that Roger wasn’t a figment of his psychosis. Other people had seen him—though he was a bit strange to behold—he seemed as real to them as he was to Nick. There was something odd about the way he smiled—something wrong with his teeth. Nick couldn’t register what it was and couldn’t really remember. The whole incident, the conversation at the bar, it just seemed too long ago to recall correctly.

While Nick didn’t appreciate being watched all hours, he had gotten used to Roger’s presence and his absence made Nick slightly uneasy. There was someone new outside every night, every day. Watching him. He would catch her sometimes—see her out of the corner of his eye—a very bored looking girl with orange hair. She looked as if stalking him was the next most boring thing since watching grass grow.

Nick wished she’d go away; he got a weird feeling from her. Whoever she was, she didn’t like Nick, and whatever she was waiting for, he had the impression she wouldn’t leave until she had it. It could just be paranoia, he thought, because he wasn’t taking his prescription, but she was there outside his window, staring at him and waiting. What was she waiting for?

Subtly the hallucinations came back. He spent most of his time tossing and turning in a bed that now served only as a breeding place for frustration. In his living room Nick constantly paced the floor, his eyes itching to look out of the window. He could feel that girl’s eyes on him, watching him, following him. Didn’t she ever sleep? Didn’t she ever get tired of watching him day in and day out? What was she doing there?

He had started leaving the lights on all the time. At night he would hear things, in shadows he would see shapes. In the darkness the mirrors in his apartment showed a boy, naked, crawling along the floor. His mouth was dripping blood. Light kept these things away. He was sure he was getting paranoid. The hallucinations were getting worse; he needed his prescription, but when he went to retrieve it from the bathroom trash it wasn’t there. Nick hadn’t left his apartment for a month, hadn’t taken out the trash, hadn’t left for groceries or to check his mail. What had happened to those pills?

Nick found himself staring out of his window, looking down into the girl’s startled face. It was her. She took them. Was that what she was waiting for? For him to go insane? The girl stared up at him. She was whispering something; she was afraid. The whole street was deserted now and he saw only her—just her face.
The lights in his apartment flickered and then went out. The street lamps winked out one by one until all was dark. A rushing sound of wind filled his ears, whipped around him suddenly, but he didn’t take his eyes off hers. He only blinked just as she turned and ran down the street.

Nick opened his eyes a fraction of a second later. Nearly ten blocks away he was standing on the street corner in front of the bookstore in his pajamas. It was spring but in the night air he found himself uncomfortably cold. Staring across the street at the store front, Nick’s mind began to break. Had he lost track of time? How did he get here? What time was it and why didn’t he think to put on shoes?

He looked around—where was that girl? For that matter, where was everyone else? The moon hung high in the sky so it must be late, but there were always people out at all times of the night in the city. Drunk persons, homeless people, there would be cars as well but there wasn’t anyone or anything. Everywhere he turned his head was deserted aside from the bookstore.

He blinked across the street at the store front. It was the same bookstore he had seen every pedestrian avoid all those weeks ago. Within the lights were still on although all other businesses had long since closed for the night. Beyond the glass front he saw the familiar row of book shelves, the mismatched café tables and chairs, but behind the counter there was someone new. He had noticed a man, fair skinned with glasses. He hadn’t seen his face clearly because most of it had been behind a book, but he had noticed his hair was thinning and he was far shorter than the man that stood there now.

The man that stood behind the counter now was tall, broad shouldered and thick. His dark skin glowed under the lights in the store, his smooth bald head reflecting the light. As Nick stared at him the man stared back. The man’s eyes were dark black like pools of ink and his ears… were they pointed? He was dreaming, he had to be, but there was a way he could find out.

A shiver ran up his spine when the street lamps buzzed back on around him as he crossed the street. The man, or whatever he was, continued to watch him, shock and confusion showing on his face. Nick knew exactly how he felt.

Fast footsteps coming from down the street broke his concentration on the man behind the counter, and he turned to the see the orange-haired girl running around a corner, but once she saw him she stopped. She stood, trembling and wide-eyed, in the middle of the street while Nick backed to the door. Her eyes glanced over his head, perhaps to the man behind the counter, and then pulled something out of the bag she held at her side.
It should have been obvious to Nick how ridiculous it was to focus on how such a large item like a crossbow shouldn’t be able to fit in such a small bag. Since when did people start carrying crossbows? This had to be a dream, or a hallucination, but just to be safe Nick’s hand felt behind him for the door and pushed it open.

It was just good luck that he fell backward over the threshold as soon as her shaking fingers fired the crossbow. The bolt soared over his head and his eyes followed its path until he had to shut his eyes and cover his ears to a howl of pain just behind him that threatened to burst his skull.

When the scream subsided, he opened his eyes and the man that had been behind the counter stood over him, the bolt sticking out of his right shoulder. Thick blood soaked his cream colored shirt, dripping down his arm and onto Nick’s face when the man reached down to drag him all the way into the store. He fought him at first, trying to push him away, but the larger man grabbed his forearms and held him still.

“She’s gone,” he said in a deep and pained voice. “Relax, I’m a friend.”

Nick looked at him doubtfully but the man let him go and dropped on his backside on the floor next to him. He watched as sweat was breaking out all over the man’s face.

“She shot you,” Nick managed, nearly paralyzed with fear.

“I don’t think she’ll be back for a while,” the man breathed heavily in between words. “…I think she poisons
these things.” The man gestured to the bolt sticking out of his shoulder and slumped against the glass door, his chin falling to his chest. “…don’t think she meant to get me…” he whispered weakly and then was out.

Nick got to his feet and looked out of the glass windows. The girl was gone and there was a large cracked hole in the glass door from the bolt. He looked down at the injured man whose dark blood was now pooling on the floor, wondering if she would be back to finish them both.