The Man at the Door

The doorbell is ringing. I am not expecting anyone; in fact, few people know where I am currently living. Probably a salesman, or a Jehovah's Witness, I hope it’s a Jehovah’s Witness. I am hungry after all and I’ve never liked people who feel they can invade your privacy and come right up to your door and tell you what to believe. A small smile tugs at my lips as the door swings open, then falls to a frown, a cop. Even in his cheap suit, I can tell.

“Yes?” There are only two types of cops. The new ones who still believe they can save the world and believe they are actually doing some good, a few of these maintain this cheer throughout their career, they are good cops, then there are those who have become so jaded they no longer care if the bad guy gets caught they just want the paycheck, they pull you over for speeding then give you three more tickets for a broken tail light, the tag not being exactly centered, and driving barefoot. Neither are my favorites because the good cops see me as a bad guy and the bad cops always catch me speeding.

“Miss Blane?” The cop asks. He seems the first type past his prime. He tries to do good, but is more concerned with his expanding waistline and receding hairline. He’s a desk jockey mostly, eats a lot of doughnuts. I’m sure he was the golden boy in his high school, the football star. He spends his Sundays with the boys and some beers watching the NFL certain that if Peggy-Sue, the blonde cheerleader girlfriend who left him six years ago, hadn’t got pregnant, he would be pulling a pro salary.
“Caylen Blane. What can I do for you?”

“May I come in? I have a few questions for you.”

“You can ask outside,” I stepped towards him forcing him to step back. Even at my diminutive five foot three, I can project intimidation so I was surprised when he didn’t immediately move back. I stepped lightly to the side and pulled the door shut behind me watching his eyes dart to see inside. “This way,” I led him down the porch steps to the small patio on the cliff side of the house. This is my favorite spot; just ten feet over the ground falls away a stunning 200 feet to the ocean, the waves pound against the rocks and soothe me. The ocean is comforting because it is as constant and paradoxically changing as I am.

“Miss Blane, I am Sam Crosse, of Walton Detectives,” he held out a card and sat down across the table for me.

“Um, and I had you pegged for a cop, but I suppose a private dick is close enough.”
“Yes, well, I’m a consult on a series of murder cases for the FBI,” he trails off. Obviously the cops suspect me in the murders, but now looking at me, he can’t believe little ole me is a murderer.

I laugh softly and tuck my knees up to rest my chin on them. My chestnut hair falls in soft curls down the right side of my face. I know the look is carefully planned so he sees a very young woman who is almost waifish, but to him I’m all innocence. “You have questions about a murder case to ask me about?”

“Yes, um, you see, well,” he’s falling over his words trying to find the best way to put this. “The only connection we can find between the victims is, well, its you.” He’s nervous now his left hand tugs at his earlobe while his right taps along his knee.
I reach out and still his hand on his knee. I’m flirting I know, so sue me. He glances up sharply at me his eyes searching mine.

“I see, and what connection do I have with the victims?”

“Well, they are all freelance investigators hired through a law firm, Melton, Brooks, and Crawford. After some research, it seems you are the only client of the firm,” he’s got his confidence back now. He’s comfortable with the facts so long as he doesn’t have to apply the suspicions directly to me. “All of the victims were killed with the same MO in several states. The FBI noticed the similarities and just recently found this connection. It was very hard by the way to find out about your connection to the firm. Also, the firm has contracts and things dating back for the past eighty-five years, all of which are traced back to your name. So, the deeper we dig the more questions we have.”

“Yes, but don’t you know that answers only lead to more questions? I can help you a little; Caylen is a family name. My great-grandmother was Caylen Blane. Melton, Brooks, and Crawford the maiden names of my great-grandmother, grandmother, and mother. So you see, the Blanes are Melton, Brooks, and Crawford,” I laugh lightly again pushing my hair behind my ear. “Did you think I was ninety years old!? I didn’t realize you detective types were so… imaginative!”

He reddens slightly. “Of course I didn’t, what I mean is, well it didn’t seem possible, and so we just were trying to tie up some loose ends.”

“And have you tied up those ends?”

“Yes, yes, I think so. I will tell my colleagues that there must be another connection. Perhaps what they were investigating?” he seems confused now, unsure of what he's doing here.

“Perhaps. Anyway, I really must be going now. I will call the firm and tell them to cooperate in anyway they can,” I stand and bend slightly over him. I know he can see straight down my shirt, but whatever. Resting my hand on his shoulder I breathe into his ear, “I know you can get to the bottom of this.” I let me hand trail down his chest as I stand up and give him a dazzling smile. “Please let me know if there is anything else I can do for you.”

Ten minutes later, I am standing under the steaming water of the shower. I’m not worried about the FBI and I’m certainly not worried about Mr. Sam Crosse. Even if he discovers more I am certain he cannot link me to any of the murders. All ten of them to be exact; I know because I did kill them. He is missing one huge connection between the freelancers, the fact that they were all investigating a young woman with dark hair, appearing to be between 18-23 years of age, with large financial and real estate holdings in several countries. Of course the woman’s name is different in every case, but in all cases she is me. Another reason they will never connect me is because each victim appears to have the seven vertebrae and the hyoid bone in the neck literally crushed by what seems to have no other explanation than human force. A woman of my size, weighing maybe one hundred pounds sopping wet could never have the strength required. A professional body builder would have hard time.

The water begins to cool so I step out and wrap a big towel around my body. Running a brush through my hair, I give my face a hard stare in the mirror. “Not bad for 3000.”

As you have probably deduced, I am not your typical girl. I am what would be called a vampire. This instantly brings up half a million questions. Many of which I don’t have an answer for, but I’ll try to answer a few here.

Am I dead? Well what is dead, exactly? Are you dead if your heart stops? Well then I suppose we have a lot of dead people wandering around don’t we? People raised by the miracle of modern science. Are you dead when you are buried? But what about those ancient Victorian tales of people being buried alive, deep within the earth with tiny bells tied to string around their fingers is there no truth to those tales? What if people wake up in darkness and begin clawing at their silk lined dungeons, forever locked in suffocating pillowing softness drowning in the stench of old flowers? Are you dead then? No, I don’t think I am dead, but I can’t say I am alive either.

Am I a monster? No, I wouldn’t say I am a monster. But what monster admits they are a monster?

Do I need blood? Honestly, I don’t know; even after all this time, I just don’t know. I drink blood because I crave it. I am uncomfortable, even in pain, if I don’t have it for long enough. But I can’t say if I need it.

Anyway, I’m hungry tonight. I generally only need to feed every three days or so, but I don’t really hold a strict schedule. I drink when I feel the need. I don’t kill my donors, turn them into vampires, or anything like that. I can kill them, but rarely do anymore. Not for any moral reasons, don’t get any highly ethical ideas about me. I feel no remorse when I have to kill. After 3000 years I have seen to much death to be shocked by it or horrified at the thought of causing it, after all, I am considered a creature of death. But I like to avoid scrutiny whenever possible and leaving behind a trial of drained bodies, is not particularly discreet. Plus who wants to deal with the hassle of getting rid of bodies? Not me that’s for sure.

Of course, now you wonder why I killed those detectives. Well, you see it all had to do with discretion. There are a few people who know what I am, and a few of those would not be considered friends of mine. I generally do not attract enemies because what would dare make an enemy of me. But on occasion, I meet another vampire, a werewolf, or other beastie that seems intent on destroying the human race. I find that offensive; I like humans. I enjoy watching them grow, many times their creativity and ingenuity amuses me, so I do not like to see the race threatened. Another reason is that many of us creatures of the night were once humans ourselves, or at least related to humans. But I’m digressing; one of these creatures had apparently employed humans, the detectives, to find me. That just would not do. So killing all of them with what is known as the demon’s touch sends a very direct message to my enemy. Hopefully one that will be returned by him soon, signaling the end of his investigation. And then I can put all of this behind me and continue to live my quiet life on the cliff just outside of town.

My favorite part of this town is the anonymity. It is essentially a tourist town, without many tourists, except in the summer months. Many of the residents are transient, using the town as a weekend retreat. It becomes a near ghost town during the long winter weeks, which suits me just fine. No one notices that I never age because the townspeople rarely see me, even though the US passed a Vamp Rights law in 1947 and vampires have become a bit pop culture I prefer to live as a human with humans. It is a little disheartening to meet the new vamps or wannabes with their dyed black hair and black lipstick and white washed skin that want to be my best friend or have me change them; even worse are the humans that stare at you like you might suddenly jump them and suck their life away, a stare that always makes me want to do just that. During the summer, I feed off the tourists that hang around on the beach who are constantly moving on, and during the winter, I just drive down a few hours on the freeway and stop at one of the bars or all night truck stops to pick up dinner. Tonight I’m headed to the bars even though summer isn’t quite gone; I’m not in the mood for the beach.

I see the neon lights of a bar ahead and pull in. The man at the door asks for ID, but after a hard look he just waves me in. The bar is dark and hazy from cigarette smoke, the lights from the jukebox in the corner gives an odd pink wash to everyone. I scan the room looking for tonight’s supper, someone alone who won’t be missed tonight. I spot him sitting in the corner close to the empty stage. Few of the patrons look up at me as I walk to counter and order a shot of tequila. Laying a ten on the counter I walk towards the man in the booth and slid in beside him. The cracked vinyl of the seat pinches the back of my thighs below my short leather skirt.
“Hello, I’m Claire,” I give him a very sexy smile and lean towards him as I offer him my hand. “Seeing as I’ve finished my drink,” I down my shot smoothly and suck hard on a lime slice, “would you like to buy me another?”

He grins at me and picks up a finger to order me another shot. “Jack.”

I notice the ring on his left hand, but he doesn’t mention it so neither do I. If he wants to sleep with me that’s his and his wife’s problem. However, I personally have little issue with infidelity, but what she doesn’t know won’t hurt her.

I also have few issues with using my body to my advantage. I will pay for his blood with sex, although he will not know it. Perhaps tomorrow he will wonder about me, take three aspirins for the dull headache he will attribute to the booze even thought he didn’t drink that much, and return to his wife after two weeks on the road. He is a long distance truck driver, and occasionally picks up women, just as his wife occasionally sleeps with her female students at the local vocational school, a dysfunctional relationship, but it works for them. Occasionally I get this kind of information from my donors as if the blood itself carries bits of memory.

The sky is just beginning to turn pink when I return home. I’ve already been up for more than 30 hours, but I don’t need that much sleep. I also do not turn to ash in the sun. It makes me uncomfortable, but it doesn’t kill me. I shower quickly to wash the man off of me and collapse onto my huge bed to bury myself beneath the silk comforter.

I guess you could say I sleep like the dead, completely still, barely breathing. I sleep for only about three hours before I am awoken by the ringing of the telephone. Pushing the covers off, I head for the desk on the other side of the room. For someone who doesn’t hold a real job, I have a rather large number of papers littering my desk space, and in trying to locate the cordless phone manage to knock a huge stack of them onto the floor, luckily however, underneath those exact papers lay the black phone. “Hello?”

“Cay, what have you been up to that has attracted the attention of the illustrious Detective Crosse?” It’s Marlie. Her voice is nearly as old as mine, but more honeyed and songlike from her native Ireland. She looks remarkably like you’d imagine from her voice, very golden red hair that is always disheveled and dark emerald eyes. She is very tall, nearly six feet, and very thin. She has on occasion modeled to support herself, one such occasion in 1865 was for Gustave Courbetfor the painting Portrait of Jo, the Beautiful Irish Girl. We have been best friends for years, and it often astonishes me how much she knows about the goings on in my life even when I haven’t spoken to her for six months. Marlie is a werewolf; in fact, she is the Eriu-Ben of her pack, or loosely the queen. However, this knowledge is not shocking as Marlie’s husband, non-were, is the chief of police in Emerald Bay, 50 miles south of here.

“Marlie! And how is Zachariah?” I enjoy hearing from Marlie; we do not get together enough; she is always off somewhere. She spent the last year in Sweden at a Were-Convention, plus she is the mother of four, three boys and a girl. Her life is ridiculously busy.

“Ha! I have other sources than my husband thanks very much! I actually heard about Crosse from a newbie, Nathan Williams. Nathan’s an interesting case, half were, half selkie, and an FBI man to boot,” Marlie says.

“Hmm… and what does Zachariah have to say about Nathan’s selkie side? They are rather seductive.”

“Oh, Zach’s already threatened to steal his skin if Nathan lays so much as one soulful look on me, not that Nathan would, as I am pregnant again. Seems when Zach visited for Christmas he left a present behind, a present, which now has made all my clothes un-wearable. I swore after Mick I’d never be pregnant in the summer again, and now I’m due end of July! Children are determined to make liars out of us all! So I was wanting a shopping partner, plus a travel companion as I need to go see Mum before I’m restricted to land.” Even though she complains I know Marlie wanted another child. She is always happier when she’s pregnant and Zach is the love of her life; she’ll want his children, and grandchildren to remember him by once his human life span is over. Marlie’s not as immortal as I, but she still has a few hundred years to go. Degrees of immortality is an oxymoron I know, but compared to human spans, thousands of years and near impossibility to kill is close enough. We have both offered Zachariah, but he wants to stay human and wants his children to be human. Of course who can blame him, while immortality has its advantages there are certainly drawbacks.

“Congratulations! And of course I’ll go, have you ever known me to turn down an invitation to your mother’s? No one makes better food than her, and what better way to use my unchanging figure, than to eat my weight in fabulous cooking by a brownie? Do you know what it is yet?” To most I suppose the last questions means boy or girl, but to us, especially with Marlie’s interesting heritage, means a little more. So far, only the eldest girl, Willow, has been other than human. She is a brownie, like her grandmother. Were-ism is not passed down because it, like vampirism, is a disease of the blood; of course, vampirism is never passed down because a vampire is infertile. The dead cannot have children.

“I knew I could count on you! In fact, I already scheduled the plane; we leave tomorrow morning at 7 AM, and will be at Mum’s in time for a midnight snack!” I could tell she was waiting to say something else, so I just sat on my end of the line. Marlie often waits till the end of the conversation to tell you what it is she really called to tell you. “Nathan is coming with us.”

“Why?” My voice takes on a harder edge. I try to disguise it, after all my selkie issues have nothing to do with Marlie, or Nathan for that matter. I reach down and touch the long scar running down the inside of my left thigh. I can feel it clearly against the silk of my pajama pants. Nearly a foot in length, it is one of the only scars I have gotten in the past 2500 years. One of only three since my change. It is also the only one I was unsure if I would survive. It takes a lot to scar a vampire, only nonhumans have ever been able to it, as far as I know. A fight with a werewolf, actually one of Marlie’s pack, left a small scar across my lower back. He had tried to attack me in wolf form from behind. He now sports a deformed left hand/paw. I can’t really blame him; it was his first change, and I had just killed his sister. The other is from a banshee. She grabbed my wrist as I fell over a cliff, I probably would have survived the fall without scaring if she’d just let me, but I appreciate the sentiment. It looks almost like a bracelet of lightly raised twisted skin on my right wrist. The one from the selkie is a much longer story that I won’t go into here.

“Well, because it will be during his first change. You know that’s always hardest for the newbies; it could be even harder for him because of his selkie side. I need to be with him. Plus I think being near home will help him. He’s from the original line so he was born not far from Merrion. He can visit his family there; he’ll need to tell them in person. I have to do this as Eriu-Ben,” the last sentence decides for me. Marlie feels it is her duty to do this, so she will go with or without me, and I don’t like the idea of her flying without me in her state. And besides who knows what a selkie would do on a private jet with a pregnant woman. Selkies are known to find pregnant women even more attractive than supermodel types, and as Marlie looks like a pregnant supermodel, I felt it my duty as a friend to be there.

“Fine, I’ll be there. I’ll meet you at the airport. You just let Nathan know I will not tolerate anything but utmost respect from him,” I hang the phone up to let her know I don’t like the idea, but I’m doing it for her. Plus I know she’s finished everything she was planning on telling me. I’ve only just put the phone down when it starts ringing again. “Marlie, there cannot be another surprise!”
“This is Detective Crosse, Miss Blane.”

Ugh, just what I need now! I am quickly getting very tired of Detective Crosse. “What can I do for you?”

“Just wanted to let you know that the FBI has decided to pursue this case on its own, and that their agent, a Dr. Williams, will be coming by to question you later today.” He sounds particularly disappointed to be losing the case. Perhaps I flirted a little too much. “But I was hoping we could continue to be friends? How about dinner on Friday?”

Yep, I definitely flirted too much. “I don’t think dinner will be possible. I’m leaving for vacation out of the country in the morning, but I appreciate the offer. In fact I really must go now; I have some packing to finish up.”

“Well, maybe when you get back then…”

“Yes, perhaps, goodbye Detective Crosse,” I cut him off and threw the phone down.
I’ve just finished stuffing clothes into a faded black duffle bag when the doorbell rings. I am certainly popular today. It must be the new FBI agent Crosse was talking about. This investigation is really starting to be an inconvenience. It may be time to change countries and identities for a few years, or at least until I can figure out who or what has been investigating me.

“Hello, you are Caylen Blane? I am Dr. Nathan Williams.”

You have got to be kidding me! Well, I’m certainly not going to tell him that we will be boarding a plane together and spending incredibly long hours together very soon. “Yes, I’m Caylen Blane. What can I do for you?”

“I’m with the FBI. I believe you spoke with Detective Crosse recently. I just have few more questions to ask to complete his notes.”

It is rare that I meet someone with seduction powers as good as mine, in that small population maybe 1% is better than me, however, I feel Nathan to be in that 1%. Even with just a few words, I feel drawn to him, unbelievably drawn to him. Its not his dark hair curling gently to his collar, though my fingers ache to run through it, or his very large dark eyes, though I want to see my face reflected in them as I lay beneath him, or his powerfully built body, all long and sleek and male, though that is impressive and just my type, although I never would have said I had a type before. This seduction, however, is just as carefully crafted as mine with Crosse, or the trucker from last night, so I force myself to take a step back instead of forward. Instantly I realize my mistake as Nathan merely steps with me placing him in the entry hall. Determined now to match him, strength for strength, (I have always had a very competitive streak.) I force my voice a timbre lower calling to mind the gentle push and pull of the sea, trying to put the ocean into my eyes, letting the blue of my eyes deepen and my pupils widen, the selkie adore the water, “Please, come with me to the breakfast nook, I’ve coffee if you wish, and Danishes.”

I notice the quick look of desire float through his eyes and know I have hit my mark, but just as quickly, he shakes his head and throws off the glamour. He doubles his efforts at me, but now the cat is out of the bag so to speak. Seduction is not a game of competition, though I suppose lust could be. He laughs unexpectedly, “You are very good, very good indeed!” The clipped proper English accent shocked me nearly as much as his laugh. I wasn’t expecting him to admit to the glamour, after all most creatures consider it very bad taste not to mention completely unethical to use our glamour unprovoked on those we believe to be human.

“How did you know what I was then?”

“Marlie, she told me you were good. I had to see for myself,” he holds out both hands. “No offense, honestly. I was just testing. Being selkie, I could always seduce, but the were part, the lust, that’s a new one.”

“Hmm, so you thought you’d test it out on me. A vampire, a vampire you are investigating for a series of gruesome murders no less. Well I must say you have balls, Dr. Williams. I can respect that. But, I also knew what you were so the ocean trick was probably a little unfair, but you know a vampire’s power rests in her eyes and has to do with age. I am very old; I would have pegged you as selkie within five minutes of meeting you. The were isn’t as obvious yet, but in a few hundred years I would have gotten that too, then I could have played on your lust and had you panting on your knees before me without even a word.”

“Don’t be modest!” Sarcasm drips from the exclamation. “Anyway you didn’t get the full effect and in another hundred years or so, I’ll be so good you couldn’t label me anything other than human!”

“Ha! Me be modest; look in the mirror!” Suddenly the childishness of the argument hit me, two children both sure their toy was way cooler, and I started laughing. Leaning on the door for support, I hold my hand over my stomach where the muscles are arching from laughing so hard. Nathan starts laughing too, and soon were hanging onto each other to keep from falling. When I can finally stand on my own I reach behind him and shut the door. “Come on, I’ll make tea.”

“Tea?” I hear his voice pick up; he is English after all.

“Yes, green herbal tea, not English tea. It’s good for you, and I’m sure you drink way too much coffee,” I put the kettle on the stove and take a seat at the kitchen table. He sits across from me and I see him change before me, letting the lingering smile fall from his face and a hardness settle into his eyes. I’ve seen enough cops to recognize the shift into cop-mode. “Alright what are the questions? You have, I’m sure, already guessed that I killed them.”

“Is that a confession?”

“No, it was a comment,” I stood up, got two cups from above the sink, and got the tea ready. “Here you go,” I put his cup in front of him.

“Let me run through the background. Ten men have been killed in a manner known as the demon’s touch, in ten different states. The men all have the same occupation, freelance investigator, and they are all poor, not destitute, living in the streets poor, more trashy apartments in the bad part of town. Plus each of them are employed by Melton, Brooks, and Crawford, I understand your connection there. Melton, Brooks, and Crawford deposited $25,000 in advances to each detective, although we could never find out exactly what they were investigating for the firm. Prior to that deposit there are five cash deposits in equal amounts of $75,000 for each investigator. We assume they are payments from another employer. However, none of these detectives charges more than $150 an hour for their services. Suddenly each investigator had $400,000 in their accounts, but none of them mentioned it to their families or friends, none bought new cars or houses. Why did the cash employer and Melton, Brooks, and Crawford choose these detectives, why didn’t they spend any of their payments, and why are they now all dead? I think you can answer these questions Ms. Blane.”

“Well, you seem to have figured out plenty. Do you really think I can answer the questions? And why would I use my company to hire the detectives when I could have hired the detectives with cash like your “mystery employer”? And why if I was paying for information from these detectives, why would I pay less than their other employer and why would I kill them? Didn’t I need them for the information? Your logic appears to have very serious holes Dr. Williams.” I can practically see his wheels turning. I know he knows that I killed those men, and he knows that I know he knows. He is trying to figure out how to get me to confess without me knowing I’m confessing. I have a feeling he is very good at what he does, but I am very careful. “Why are you not investigating this “mystery employer” as he seems to have a bigger investment and a bigger desire to be anonymous? Not only that but even if I did kill them and you could prove it, you know my resources, I could be gone in an hour and no one would ever find me. I’d just simply be gone. So I do not know what this investigation is all about anyway. Now, I have things to do because as you are aware, I am leaving for Ireland in the morning and so I must ask you to leave.” I stand up and put my cup on the sink, turning to face him and leaning back against the sink I smile at him.

“Look, I just want to know what happened to these men; their families deserve that. Plus until the crimes are closed, the families are having a hard time getting to the money because it looks very suspicious. They need the money Caylen; they don’t have your “resources”,” he tosses the last word back at me as he walks out of the kitchen. I just stand at sink until the front door closes.

Suddenly I feel small.

The plane ride is very uneventful. Marlie sleeps comfortably as only the truly happy can and Nathan and I lay with our eyes closed pretending to sleep while carefully watching each other out of the corners of our eyes. Even the two-hour car ride passes smoothly. I have always loved the Irish countryside, and I watch the scenery to pass the time. Even though it is nearing midnight and the landscape is illuminated by only the moon and stars, my vampire sight allows me to see even better at night than during the day. Marlie chats easily behind the wheel and requires little response. As we pull into her mother’s driveway, I know something is wrong. I can smell blood in the air. A lot of it. The air feels heavy with fear and death’s sick smell lingers in the doorway. I feel rather than see the blood drain from Marlie’s face. I turn to her in the same instant she looks at me her eyes wide and scared.

“Stay in the car, I’ll go check it out.” I open the door and get out. The click of the car door right behind me startles me and I turn to tell Marlie to stay there. She worries me going into danger in her condition. It’s Nathan; he has his police issue gun in his hand. “Stay in the car Nathan.”

“I won’t,” he clicks the safety off decisively and I watch him shift into cop mode.
“Fine, just stay out of my way,” I curl my fingers against my wrists to feel the cool hilts of the knives in my wrist sheaths. I have a Firestar in my bag but I don’t have time to get it. I walk quickly to the door and stand just outside letting my hearing bleed outwards until I can hear the television on inside. Oprah is talking about her favorite things. I try the handle and find the door unlocked. Dreading what would be inside I push it open quickly making sure to stand to the side in case someone is waiting on the other side. No one jumps out so I slip inside. I send my power out searching for blood moving under the skin or the faintest sound of breath. Nothing but Nathan behind me. “There’s no one alive inside.”

I look around. No body is in the entryway. I just walk not choosing any direction just letting my power guide me. I climb the stairs and head towards the farthest room. My feet make soft sighing sounds on the plush carpet. I don’t want to open that white door. I already have a feeling about what I will find inside the room. I can smell the fear and blood emanating from behind the door; the air shimmers with it making the door almost seem to pulse, like heat waves rising from hot pavement. I shove the door open as fast as I can kind of like ripping off a band-aid.

The amount of blood startles even me. The smell almost staggers me. It is drying in thick clots on the carpet and blood is sprayed onto the walls and up onto the ceiling. The amount of blood had to mean the victim had been completely drained. Even then, the blood seems excessive meaning the victim had fought back and wounded the attacker. Some of this blood would be his making my job a little easier if I can find some of his blood to smell, if it wasn’t too old and dry I can find him based on the scent of his blood. Even if I can’t find him, Marlie can probably find some kind of scent trail leading from the house. I look for the body and don’t see it, only the broken head of a doll tossed into the far corner. Almost instantly, I realize my mistake; it wasn’t a doll. Mrs. O’Brien’s still childlike round face is slack with death and the emerald eyes she shared with Marlie held no shine as they gaze out into the blood soaked room. The rest of the body is gone, eaten or carried away I’m not sure.

A small sound at the door has me dropping to my knees and spinning around knife drawn, superhuman speed made the move a blur to human eyes and dropping to my knees puts me out of the way of bullets aimed head or chest high, although most people aimed a little high on me anyway with my diminutive size. Bullets wouldn’t likely kill me, but they still hurt like hell and enough firepower could probably kill me. Marlie stands white faced at the door breathing in quick shallow breaths. Nathan stands just behind her and he puts a hand on her shoulder and pulls her out of the doorway and down the hall. I spend a few more minutes checking the other rooms in the house to make sure they were empty as well although I already know they are.

I find Marlie and Nathan sitting in the kitchen. Nathan stands and pours me a cup of tea. I sit with them for a few minutes letting the tea soothe me as I gather my thoughts. If it were up to me, I’d forego the cops and handle this myself, but seeing as how the people beside me are a FBI agent and a cop’s wife they will want to call the authorities. It’s not because I want to take all the glory of finding whomever or whatever did this myself, but I worry about the cops when they step into the supernatural realm, right now only the United States has a preternatural division in only five major cities. Plus, sometimes human justice is not as swift and decisive as mine. Even if Marlie and Nathan decide to call the cops, I will catch the killer first because he hurt Marlie and she is my friend.

“I’ve called the local police,” Marlie began, pushing her curls off her still pale face. “And I let Zach know; he and the children are on the way as soon as he can charter a flight. I know you would rather do this on your own, but I had to call them. As Eriu-ben of the largest pack, people know me, and if a cover up of a murder like this got out it would destroy all of the work I’ve done to give the wolves a better name. Nathan agrees with me and has offered to call in a few favors with Interpol and I know you will conduct your own investigation so everything’s handled.”

“Fine, then before the cops get here I’m going to look around and see if I find anything,” although I am always uncomfortable with physical contact I lay a hand over Marlie’s trying to offer comfort. “Don’t worry Marlie, I’ll let the police do their job, but know I’m going to get him first and show him what real pain feels like.”

“Don’t do anything stupid, Cay, but know I’d do the same thing for you,” Marlie flips her hand up to quickly grasp mine in a tight squeeze that would break a human’s fingers into a thousand pieces.

I don’t want to go back into the blood soaked room; even a bloodthirsty monster like me doesn’t enjoy that much suffering. I suck it up and walk back into the room not allowing myself to hesitate at the door. I force myself to take in the scene without emotion, scouring for clues. The blood splatter is irregular; Mrs. O’Brien had tried to get away dragging her blood all over the room. Something doesn’t feel right about the scene. This was not a random kill, a kill to feed like you see sometimes with crazed were-animals, it feels almost ritualistic, but not. I step closer to the head and study the flesh around the end of the neck. The wound is remarkably clean; it looks almost like it the skin was cauterized, so it doesn’t bleed too much. Cauterization is rarely used today since Ambroise Paré introduced ligature for arteries in amputation, but once it was the premier of medicine. I study the skin closer; cauterized not using lasers like modern day medicine, but with hot metal, iron probably or possibly silver nitrate. The amputation and the lack of a body remind me of something, a similar murder from a long time ago. I can’t put my finger on it right now, but I’ll figure it out. My memory is perfect and very long.

I glance up and catch a funny reflection in the glass of the window. I spin around and study the mirror above the vanity directly across from the window. Something is written across it, but backwards so it takes a mirror to read it and it’s not English. I turn back to the window and try to find the mirror in the reflection. It takes me a few moments to recognize the language, an old form of German that is completely unrecognizable to the language today, a form of the language only a language specialist or someone as old as I would know. The blood has run so bad it looks like random splatter if you looked at it straight on. I am not worried about the police recognizing it as a message much less figuring out what it says. I study the letters and slowly put together the message: It has been a long time. It will not be much longer, Cilissa. Johann will be avenged. Shit! Johann Zantfurt! In an instant, I am back in Germany in 1493. Cilissa, pronounced like Kelissa, is my original name. The name my father gave me when I was born in 485 BC. The name very few people have ever known me by in the years since. Johann Zantfurt had called me by that name and I have had no one call me that since his death more than 500 years ago. I had been an assistant to Chancellor Zantfurt at Julius-Maximilians-Univerität, or the University of Würzburg, and we had been researching medical amputations. Johann was a scholar ahead of his time, and over the past six years, we had delved into the idea of cauterizing wounds and amputations taking cues from the ancient Greeks. I must say I pushed Johann to explore the Greek findings, after all, I had been born there and my father, a respected physician, first introduced the idea. Johann had experimented with different types of metals, iron being the most successful until we began using fused silver nitrate.

The Catholic Church was beginning to get suspicious of me at the time. I was not as careful about hiding bodies or erasing memories in those times and had taken to drinking the blood of certain local Church officials. The Church was very corrupt in those days. They thought of me as a bit of a witch I suppose. Johann believed I was a witch and it suited me for him to think so. He was tickled at the thought of sleeping with the witch and saw as a way to stick it to the Catholic man. Johann was an atheist in truth but to teach and study at the University one had to be Catholic, in fact, non-Catholics were not allowed in until 1769. I didn’t mind being thought of as a witch so long as no one tried to burn me at the stake, a little suspicion kept the women’s groups away and didn’t question why I wasn’t married. Being the witch gave me freedoms that most women of time couldn’t dream of, like being an assistant.

Anyway, the discovery of using silver nitrate improved our amputations tenfold. Being a “witch”, I hypnotized our patients so Johann could save our precious anesthesia. During an operation, the Inquisition came storming in breaking my eye contact, leaving the patient to feel the hot metal against his skin and unsure how he got there. Since amputee patients were hard to find, I sometimes picked perfectly healthy homeless and later, after the surgery, I drank their blood and disposed of them. The damn man began screaming his head off about the devil and the witch gesturing wildly at Johann and me. I reached for Johann and tried to tell him to be quiet. The man tried to leap from the table and fell against me knocking me back. Johann thinking I guess that the man was trying to hurt me swung the hot metal at him and one of the Inquisitors stabbed Johann through the heart killing him almost instantly. The man we were working on hit his leg and it burst open at the amputation; he died a few days later of blood loss and an infection I was told. The falling metal caught me across the neck and left an angry red burn that later would pass as my witch’s mark. I was crying over Johann’s body when I was arrested. I didn’t protest. I had loved Johann, even after more than 500 years I still miss him.
At the trial, I was accused and found guilty, unsurprisingly, of witchcraft, unnatural practices, and two murders. I was accused of stabbing Chancellor Zantfurt to death. The history books are still wrong to this day. Chancellor Zantfurt according to them was stabbed to death by an unruly assistant. I was sentenced to death by burning. I missed the execution. The night before the scheduled execution, I tore the door off my cell and left. I spent the next few years as a nomad. Traveling from place to place, mourning Johann.

A knock at the front door drags me from my memory. I hurry downstairs to meet the cops at the door, pausing only to wipe my fingerprints off everything in the room except the door. My memory is perfect; I remember every surface I touched.
Marlie is already at the front door speaking to a plump man in an old suit. The man isn’t tall; maybe 5’7’’ making Marlie tower over him and Nathan beside her seem even taller. His face is weathered and ruddy at the cheeks, but his eyes are kind and the creases go up meaning he smiles a lot. I peg him at around forty-five. Marlie, Nathan, and the man turn towards me as I take the last stair. I stretch out my hand towards the man.

“Hello, I’m Caylen Blane, Marlie’s friend.” I give a small faltering smile playing the part of the damsel in distress.

“Ah, Marlie, you still keep interesting company. A vampire, a selkie, a werewolf, and a murdered Brownie, certainly going to cause some talk. I am sorry about your mother; she was a kind woman. Ms. Blane, I’m Detective Michael O’Brien.” He gives a small smile at my surprise, but his eyes are still sad.

“How did you know?” Michael O’Brien is human and very few humans even notice I’m not human much less pinpoint me as a vampire.

“Cay. Michael is an old family friend. His daughter you remember was Sheena O’Brien,” Marlie smiles a little.

Sheena was a werewolf, and she is dead because I killed her. Michael shared his daughter’s kind green eyes and black hair. Sheena was once Eriu-Ben of Marlie’s pack. The scar across my lower back is from her brother, Sullivan, also a werewolf, now Marlie’s second in command. He and I still don’t speak, but he has given up on trying to kill me, or perhaps he is waiting on me to get lazy and then he’ll kill me. I don’t know if Michael knows I am the one that killed his daughter; it makes the situation a bit awkward.

“Michael it’s nice to meet you. I have heard a lot about you.”