The fight stopped as quickly as it had begun. The woman stood and backed away, hands held away from her sides as if ready to strike again. The man stood in the center of the street, in almost exactly the same place he had been when Marty first saw him. He looked as if he’d passed through a thresher, shredding skin and flesh, breaking bone… yet still he grinned. Swaying, he appeared ready to fall.
“Weakling,” he said, his voice heavily accented even through the damage done to his face. And then he turned and was gone, darting away between blinks. Marty looked left and right, trying to see where he had vanished to, and for a moment he glimpsed movement on the terraced rooftop across the street. There was a distant scream, the smashing of glass, and the window that had flashed with camera shots suddenly grew dark.
The woman started walking away.
“Wait!” Marty shouted. “You saved me from… You can’t just…”
She paused, motionless, and Marty thought, That’s how Rose would stand if she was thinking about something, a bit of tension on the shoulders, looking down at the ground in front of her as if the answer might be written there. She stood like that for some time, her left hand clenching and unclenching, and Marty wasn’t sure whether it was the newly revealed moonlight that made her appear to be shivering.
And then she turned around.
Without a body, there could be no death. That was always Rose’s concern. Once turned, she had disappeared from the map of London life, becoming something else entirely and viewing the city through different eyes. She had left her family behind, guided into her new life by Francesco and the others, but her thoughts had always been for young Marty. They had fought like cats and dogs but loved each other with an intensity that only siblings could achieve. He would be bereft, and she knew that the wondering would be the most painful part of her disappearance, for him and for their parents. Wondering if Rose had run away or been murdered; whether she lay in a shallow grave, or chopped up and stored in a killer’s freezer; or whether she had been dragged into prostitution, drugged and beaten, as so many had through the years.
She had wanted them to think she was dead. But she could not give them a body.
Now, turning and looking Marty in the eye for the first time in five years, she realized that Francesco had always been right: disappearing would have been best.
“Marty,” she said, and his eyes grew wider. She was still wound up from the fight, and knew that he saw her teeth. She could do nothing about that. Becoming involved had been her choice; now she had to deal with the consequences.
That thing would come back. Perhaps in moments, or maybe in days, sniffing Marty out, following him home, taking later what it had intended on taking tonight. She’d seen its kind before, and knew what this meant. She could not let her brother die.
“Rose,” he said, and there was not as much surprise in his voice as she’d imagined. “Rose.” He came toward her and she held up both hands.
“Stay back,” she whispered, and her jaws ached. She could smell Marty’s fear.
“Rose, I knew it was you. And it was those other times, too, wasn’t it?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“That time, when I fell over drunk and banged my head. I really caught it from Mum and Dad for that, I can tell you, but they were glad enough to have me home that it wasn’t as bad as it should have been. And when those shitheads ganged up on me a couple of years back outside the leisure center, and that one big bastard pulled a knife… that was you too? You ran by and grabbed it out of his hand, broke his wrist?”
“No,” Rose said, remembering the thrill she’d felt while snapping the thug’s arm like a twig.
“I saw your hair,” Marty said, “and the way you ran.”
“I run differently now,” she said.
“Yeah.” He was staring at her, and Rose was surprised at how uncomfortable she found it. No one ever stared at her. Francesco and the others looked and saw someone like themselves. Lee Woodhams didn’t even know what she was. And other humans… generally she kept away from them, or if she was close she would hide herself away. Dark glasses, a scarf, a hat. Anything to avoid their stares, because if they saw something that scared them and their heart rates increased, she’d see their pulse, and hear their hearts, and consider the blood that should be her food.
She had only ever drunk warm once, and she had vowed to never do so again.
Marty stared but did not seem afraid. He was happy to see her.
“Marty, I’m gone,” she said. “Pretend you never saw me.”
“I can’t do that.”
“You have to! I’m not here anymore, not like I was before. I’m somewhere else. Some thing else. A memory for you, that’s the best I can be.”
“My guardian angel,” he said, and Rose almost crumpled. He’d encapsulated her weakness in two words, because she had never been able to fully let go. It was a weakness some of the Humains shared, and though the vampires did not acknowledge it as such, they all knew deep down that it was a fault. They were no longer human, yet they viewed the world of humans in a way that could not sit right with their existence. They had always known of the existence of the more brutal vampires—like the one she’d just fought, and which she and the others would have to hunt down and destroy—but they viewed themselves as something more controlled, and more natural. They existed alongside humans rather than killing them for food. But this meant that they all carried links to their old lives and ways of life that was often difficult to break.
Ten years before, when the Barrow thing happened in the United States, the Humains’ sheltered and unusual existence had been brought home to them more powerfully than ever before. When Rose had been turned, part of the care they gave her was lessons in their species’ history.
“I can’t ever be your guardian angel,” Rose said. “I can’t be with you all the time. You were lucky I was passing by this time, otherwise that thing—”
“That… vampire,” Marty said, and she saw his eyes watering with terror.
“You’d be dead,” Rose said after a slight pause. “But you can’t count on me.”
“Oh my God, you’re one too.” He took a step closer and Rose stepped back into the road. She looked around for cars and scanned the shadows for the thing she’d fought. She had sensed his surprise as she bettered him, felt his flesh and bones breaking beneath her grip and punches, but she had no doubt he would seek revenge. That’s what his sort were like. Proud of their monstrousness.
What have I done? she thought as Marty kept walking toward her.
“Marty, stay back,” she whispered, injecting as much menace as she could into her voice. His eyes went wide and he scampered back a few steps, tripping over his own feet and sprawling on the bloodied pavement.
“I won’t tell anyone!” he blurted.
“Fuck,” Rose muttered. She looked around, saw that a couple of lights had come on again. She’d heard the scream soon after the thing fled and knew that in one of those darkened rooms, walls and ceiling would be dripping and the stink of death would hang heavy. It didn’t matter so much if she was seen, but if Marty was spotted and identified by anyone watching now…
“Come on,” she said. Faster than he could blink she grabbed his arm, and his warmth bled through the leather jacket. She steered him along in front of the shops, moving through shadows and using her body to shield him from the view of houses across the road. All the while she kept watch for things that should not move, wondering who that vampire had been and where his strange accent originated. Since she’d been turned, they’d had only one vampire in London, and the Humains had acted quickly to hunt her down and eject her from the city. Still, she had killed fifteen people before being caught. It had been a terrifying time for Rose, the first time she had confronted the naked truth of what she was. The Humains had shielded her. But in a way, Francesco had said afterward, it was good for her to know.