Falling to Ash Page 2

  ‘Any romance between the two of you?’ That question from Smith.

  I shook my head. ‘Rick’s gay. Was, I mean.’

  Trent and Smith exchanged a look. It was Detective Trent who spoke up. ‘You’re certain of that?’

  ‘That he was gay?’ I shrugged, trying desperately to make sense of this. Not for the police, I didn’t care about them. But for an innocent kid who’d been murdered. ‘Sure. From what I remember, he didn’t run around announcing it but he didn’t hide it either. It just . . . was what it was. You know?’

  Trent tucked a stray strand of blonde hair behind her right ear, exposing even more of the side of her neck. My gums throbbed as my fangs tried to slide out. I saw her pulse jump and quickly looked away. Vampire fangs only fully extend when we need to feed or when a vampire’s emotions are running high – both of which applied to me right now.

  Being a vampire is about living in a constant gray area: the blurred space between human and monster. Between civilized and wild. It was like walking a tightrope between the two sides of my nature, and I wondered if I would ever learn to reconcile them.

  Somebody’s phone buzzed, making me jump.

  Way to look guilty, Moth.

  Smith pulled a sleek handset out of his seemingly wrinkle-resistant jacket and excused himself, taking the call in the hallway.

  Out the corner of my eye, I watched Trent remove something from between the pages of her notebook. ‘This is a picture of the victim, kindly provided by his family.’

  She slid the photograph of Rick Doyle toward me and I was about to take a proper look when I heard Detective Smith’s lowered voice talking from beyond the kitchen doorway. Adjusting to un-life as a vampire is hard in so many ways, but there are some benefits. I’m not going to pretend that’s not true: increased strength, speed and agility, as well as enhanced senses – such as smell and hearing. Which meant that I could eavesdrop on Smith’s phone call and hear every word he said. My natural abilities didn’t extend to the person on the other end of the phone, but that didn’t matter. What I heard from the detective in my hallway was more than enough to set alarm bells ringing.

  ‘A . . . what?’

  There was a pause as he listened, and I fiddled with the picture of Rick to buy myself some time.

  ‘You’re telling me that a wild animal tore out his throat and is, potentially, on the loose in the city?’ There was a brief pause as he listened. Then: ‘Exactly how much blood did he lose?’

  Holy crap! His throat was torn out by . . . a wild animal? Why did I think it unlikely that an animal was responsible for Rick’s death? What kind of predators – capable of that sort of damage, causing that much blood loss – actually existed in a city like Boston? I imagined a giant red arrow pointing over my head: vampire! I wanted to leap off the windowsill and grab the phone from Smith, find out more from whoever he was talking to, but I forced myself to stay where I was. Had a vampire done this? I felt twitchy, wishing the detectives would leave so I could think about it properly. The note on Rick’s body was bad enough, but now this . . .

  It could hardly be a coincidence. But what did it have to do with me?

  ‘Let us know when the body can be moved from MGH.’ Smith wrapped up the call with a few technical details that I didn’t understand, but I’d gotten enough. MGH is Massachusetts General Hospital – or Mass Gen, as most people called it.

  I thought: This is bad. This is really bad. This is worse than really bad. And while my mind kept up this super-intelligent monologue, I forced myself to stare at the photograph in front of me. I pretended not to notice when Detective Smith returned and told Trent he’d been speaking to the ME who had briefly attended the murder scene and then made an initial examination of ‘the victim’s’ body after his death on the operating table.

  ‘The victim’s’ photograph made me remember him all over again. Rick Doyle’s bright hair was like a red flag against the summer sky and he had his arms around a girl and another boy. They were all wearing graduation robes. The ridiculous mortarboard that he should have been wearing was long gone, thrown into the air and trampled in the excitement of the last day of high school – the last day of being a kid.

  But he had still been a kid when he died. He must have been my age – my true age, I mean. Around nineteen. I’d stopped ageing at eighteen, thanks to my Maker. I bit the inside of my cheek and studied the picture, wondering what Rick had been doing the day he was murdered. He would have been planning for a future filled with hopes and dreams. All gone in an instant, his life snuffed out like the candle flames Theo was so fond of.

  ‘Yes, I remember Rick,’ I said, my voice thick with sudden emotion. ‘But I honestly can’t tell you anything. I haven’t the slightest idea why he’d have my address on him – I wish I did.’

  Detective Trent glanced at Smith and nodded, almost imperceptibly.

  ‘Thank you for your time, Marie. If you think of anything that could help us, anything at all – anyone who might have had a reason to hurt Rick, the name of someone he was friends with that we might not know about; boyfriends . . . anything. Please call us.’ She produced a business card from somewhere and pressed it into my cold hand.

  There was no way the police would drop their interest in me or my possible link to the case. If I was one of their only leads, they would surely be keeping tabs on me. I wouldn’t dare tell Theo – anything that brought our hidden world into the light made him angry. Perhaps I could find out more without having to tell him anything? Maybe he didn’t even have to find out that Trent and Smith had paid me a visit? I was sick of playing by his rules anyway. I stared at the flimsy piece of cardboard without seeing it. All I could see was Rick Doyle’s joyful face in that photograph. All I could hear were Smith’s words during the phone call I wasn’t supposed to have heard.

  A wild animal? I doubted it. There were a lot worse things than ‘wild animals’ living in Boston.

  * * *

  After letting the detectives out I headed straight to my room.

  I didn’t bother with the chair or the bed, just slumped to the floor as my legs gave way with relief. My hands were shaking, a fact that surprised me despite the visit from Detectives Trent and Smith. Or perhaps it was the news of Rick Doyle’s death that had affected me.

  Maybe I was just hungry. Vampires only need to feed once a week to sustain us, but more was preferable, especially during the first year and definitely if under stress. It was Friday, and I realized that I hadn’t taken blood for almost eight days. No wonder Trent’s neck had looked so yummy.

  Ugh. I wished I didn’t think such disgusting things. I hated that, since it made me feel no better than whoever – or whatever – had killed poor Rick. They’d left him in the sort of state that had police detectives talking like he’d been mauled by something other than a human. Considering that Boston, Massachusetts, has one of the highest vampire populations per square mile in the whole of North America, I figured that my gut feeling might be right.

  Added to that, there was the not insignificant detail of my name and address found on his body – the name and address of a vampire. Though, of course, the police didn’t actually know that. I’m not sure I really believe in coincidences, so either Rick really did want to contact me for some mysterious reason – which seemed unlikely – or someone wanted me to think that he did. And I couldn’t say I liked that theory a whole lot better.

  Whatever the case, I felt like I owed it to Rick to try figuring it out. Maybe he’d been trying to reach out to me, only he’d gotten himself killed before he could do it. Whether that was true or not, I knew what Theo would do if I told him any of this: he’d hand the matter over to his Enforcer, Kyle, and that would be the end of it. I’d never find out what happened and everything would be covered up.

  According to that phone call Rick’s body was being held temporarily at Mass Gen. That was good to know, but only so long as they actually kept him there. If I wanted to get a quiet look at his remains before he was
moved on to wherever the cops would do their main examination, I needed to beat them to the body. There was probably red tape and stuff, especially as he’d died at the hospital rather than at the murder scene, but still . . .

  I wouldn’t have long. Maybe I could use my newly developed senses to find a clue that the on-scene examiner had missed? It was weird, but as a vampire I might be able to scent something on him.

  I tried to tell myself I wanted to do this for good reasons. Unselfish reasons. But there was something sneaky lurking in my heart; something I didn’t want to admit, although it was hard not to when I was so brutally honest with myself about most things. Tomorrow night was my official introduction to the Elders who oversaw the vampire Family of Boston – Theo’s Family. He’d kept me pretty much on lock-down for the best part of a year, only meeting just a select few of the Family, but now he considered me ‘ready’ to face them. I wouldn’t be the wild, half-crazed creature I’d been in those early days. Or the depressed, suicidal girl I’d become as the weeks and months progressed. I was, apparently, well-adjusted. Finally.

  Meeting the Family meant a change in the status quo of my life. On the one hand, I welcomed change, because I was sick of spending most of my time hiding. I didn’t even see my human family – my dad and two sisters – that much anymore, though Theo had approved some short visits so that no one would get too suspicious. On the other hand . . . I knew it could mean more restrictions of a different kind. There would be expectations of me. Maybe even responsibility. Probably those rare visits to my family would have to stop too . . . I shuddered. I could never have my old life back – the one Theo had stolen from me – but as I couldn’t have that human existence, then I at least wanted to do whatever I wanted with this ‘new’ life.

  And today, I wanted to figure out what had happened to Rick Doyle. Nobody had the right to stop me – not even the man who made me what I am.

  I headed across the room to my closet. I needed more suitable clothes. Getting into the hospital through the front doors would be the obvious choice, but there were ways of getting around Boston that most people didn’t know about. Sometimes, even vampires needed to travel during daylight – and that’s where the tunnels came in. I grabbed jeans and a sweater – both black, natch – and quickly changed. I wanted to be out of here before Holly got in. She was late coming home this morning – her shift was over well before daylight. As she was now too ‘old’ to go out in full light, she could be in the tunnels – I’d have to make sure I didn’t run into her.

  My DMs were super-comfortable and made me feel ready for anything. I left them halfway open and tucked the laces inside. Looking up, the first thing I focused on, as usual, was the mirror attached to the old-fashioned dressing table that had been my mother’s. I liked to remember her sitting in front of it, brushing her thick dark hair – before she cut it short. Before the first round of chemo.

  When I first moved in with Holly, I’d painted the mirror itself with three coats of black paint. Holly keeps threatening to rip it from its brass fixtures at the back of the table. She says I’m torturing myself. I prefer to call it reminding myself of what I no longer have. I like to think that’s a subtle-and-yet-significant difference. When I was first brought back to life as a vampire, my reflection had initially remained intact – but it faded quickly during those first painful months of adjustment. I had felt sick with fear each time I saw a little more of myself slipping away, almost as though someone had taken a giant eraser and set to work rubbing me out of existence. I would sit in front of the gilt mirror in Theo’s grand hallway, watching my flesh become more translucent as the light from the arched windows shone right through the ghostly girl looking back at me. It was like watching my own transformation: human Marie slowly dissolving and becoming inhuman Moth. A new kind of metamorphosis.

  It was like watching myself die all over again.

  Now, I’d gotten used to it. Not having a reflection, I mean. Dressing was never a problem to me – who needed a mirror to check out the effect of whatever ensemble I’d chosen for the day? Make-up was more challenging, though I only ever bothered with eyeliner and Holly would take great pleasure in telling me if I screwed it up. And sometimes – though I had never confessed this to Theo – I would catch a distorted, ethereal reflection of myself in a window, if the light was shining at a certain angle, or even in water if it was very still. I didn’t know if that was normal and I didn’t want to ask.

  But mirrors were as much use to me now as trying to find my reflection in a brick wall. Some people say that mirrors provide a reflection of the soul, so what does that say about me? Do I even have a soul? I wonder about that a lot. My mom had been pretty religious – we’re Catholics, and I still have family in Ireland, apparently – and Sunday was an important day when she was alive.

  A full-length mirror mocked me now from its place on the back of the bathroom door. I stood and looked at the space where I should be and my stomach flipped over. It still made me feel nauseous. You try it: even though you know you’re standing right there, the mirror reflects nothing but the room around you.

  However, despite how unsettling it could be, a big part of me was relieved I no longer had to gaze at my mother’s face every time I looked in a mirror. My father resented me for many reasons, but one of the most obvious was how much like Mom I looked. OK, and there was the not-so-tiny matter of how disappointed he’d been when I told him there was no way I was following in his footsteps onto the Job. No way did I want to be a cop. Can you imagine it?

  My phone rang just as I was pulling my leather jacket back on. I checked caller display: Caitlín. My little sister (not so little, she’d tell me, now that she was sixteen). I sighed, briefly considering pressing the ‘ignore’ button. Cait had been on my back a lot lately, though I could hardly blame her. After Mom died I’d hardly been around. It wasn’t like I didn’t have a good reason for that, considering how I’d met Theo at the time, but how could I tell my sister that? Honestly, she was the only person in the world who I’d even considered telling the truth to. I just had to figure out a way to do it that meant Theo would never find out. And, really, did I expect Caitlín to believe me? ‘Hey, sis, guess what? I’m a vampire.’ ‘Really? Cool!’

  I hit the answer button. ‘Yo.’

  ‘Yo, yourself. Where are you?’

  ‘Home. You?’

  ‘Same.’

  ‘No school today?’

  I could hear the pout in her voice. ‘Why? Is your name Sinéad all of a sudden?’

  I frowned, even though she couldn’t see me. ‘Are you ill?’

  ‘Marie . . .’ Her voice whined at me. I hardened my heart.

  ‘Skipping?’

  ‘Like you’re one to talk.’

  Actually, I’d never skipped high school. I had been a model student, once upon a time. Just because I was into Goth clothes didn’t mean I didn’t work hard. People and their crazy stereotypes bugged me.

  I sighed. Caitlín had gotten more rebellious lately, and I couldn’t help taking on some of the blame for that. Not that she wasn’t ultimately responsible for her own behavior, but after Mom died I should have been there for her. Not left it all to Sinéad, our older sister. Caitlín was only three years younger than me so I was the one she really wanted around. Sinéad just didn’t cut it for Caitlín.

  I looked at the photographs on my bureau. There were just two of them – a small picture of myself with my mother, taken at my fifth birthday party. The other one, larger, of me and Caitlín from three years ago. It had been taken before Mom died, so we looked happy. I was sixteen in the photo, and Cait thirteen. We looked similar apart from the color of our hair: pale faces, big eyes, long wavy hair. My curls are black, inherited from Mom, and hers a beautiful autumnal shade of red. Dad’s legacy to both of my sisters.

  ‘Why didn’t you go to school?’

  ‘I just can’t concentrate, lately.’

  ‘Is it Dad? Is he . . . you know.’

  We didn�
�t actually need to say the words. His drinking had gotten worse, and that was yet another thing I wasn’t there for – to help. Not that Dad would want me around.

  ‘He’s always . . . “you know”. You know?’

  I half smiled. ‘Yeah. Sinéad’s not there today?’

  ‘She’s been on a residential course. She gets back today – I told you that last weekend.’

  There was no judgment in Caitlín’s voice, but I felt the sting of her words all the same.

  ‘Sorry, I forgot.’ My memory really was screwed up. When I told the cops that, I’d actually been telling the truth. Crap. Caitlín had been home alone with Dad for most of the week. I felt terrible. Not that he’d ever hurt her – she was his favorite, after all – but that didn’t make his moods any easier to handle.

  ‘Marie,’ Caitlín said. ‘Are you OK?’

  ‘I’m always OK.’

  ‘And I’m serious. I haven’t seen you in ages.’

  I ran my tongue across my fangs and remembered my last visit to the O’Neal family home. It had ended badly. None of us had coped with Mom’s death well, and instead of pulling together, sometimes it was more like we were all intent on pulling each other apart. Except for Caitlín. She was the only one of us who tried – at least, she had done for a while – and although I knew it was wrong that the baby of the family should always be acting as peacemaker, I didn’t think I’d ever get on well with Dad and my older sister, Sinéad.

  ‘Sis?’

  ‘Sorry,’ I said, pressing the phone against my ear and trying to focus. ‘I’m still here.’

  ‘Are you coming to dinner tomorrow?’

  Ah, yes. The Sunday dinners. We come from the standard, working to middle-class Irish-American family, hardworking, honest, all of that good stuff. Our family rituals still continued, despite everything going to shit. Despite the fact that Dad would spend most of the afternoon watching the game and drinking beer. Sinéad would treat it like a duty, complaining that she should be studying her law books rather than cooking for her ungrateful sisters; while poor Caitlín would look increasingly depressed and sneak gulps of wine when she thought I wasn’t looking.