Lot 13 tasted bitter, as usual, but I screwed up my nose as it slowly rolled down the back of my throat. It was disgusting and nothing like real blood. The real stuff — the red stuff — was lovely. Lot 13 was like Diet Coke — the red stuff was like the full-fat version. There was no comparison. But it was better than nothing and it dulled that constant itch that wouldn’t go away. But that itch, the one that drove me half-crazy at times, seemed like a mild irritation today — like a wasp hovering around your ice cream, compared to the noise.
I could hear Kiera going to her bathroom, even from my room all the way down the hall. The sound of the water rushing from the taps and filling the bath was almost deafening and I wanted to scream at her to turn them off. But there had been a lot that I had wanted to scream about lately, so taking one of my pillows, I buried my head beneath it. With the pillow smothering my face and ears, I could still hear the sound of Kiera’s blanket flutter to the floor. She stopped and I knew that she was looking at herself in the mirror again. Not out of vanity — Kiera wasn’t like that — she was looking at something else. I didn’t know what, but I knew that she was staring at herself again. I could see it in her eyes. Kiera hadn’t been the same since coming back — but then again, I don’t think any of us had been the same.
I heard Kiera climb into the bath and at last, the sound of running water stopped. My hearing wasn’t usually this intense — but whenever I got upset — angry or frightened, the sounds around me became louder — oh yeah — loud wasn’t the word. Sometimes I felt like stuffing my fingers into my ears and screaming. There had always been a soundtrack, as I had called it, since the age of six — a faint background noise, like someone whispering at me from behind a wall. But sometimes it intensified and was worse than deafening. And it was like that today and had been since I’d come back from The Hollows — the dead.
Listening to music helped and I was forever swiping Kiera’s iPod — the music helped to drown out the soundtrack. But Kiera had it now — she was listening to it in the bath. I could hear the music hissing from beneath my pillow. I had my own but it was busted. Dropped it throwing a hissy-fit at my mum and cracked the screen — the thing was screwed after that.
And I knew it was because of my mother, my father and…I didn’t want to think of the other one’s name, that the soundtrack had been cranked up to full. Since being back from The Hollows, I’d had time to think — reflect about everything that had happened there. I’d wanted to come back here, it had been my idea, it was my home. But to walk the quiet corridors and passageways, to sit alone in the vast kitchen, and walk the grounds had made me think of the ones I had loved and lost…because of him.
I was angry — no — I was fucking raging inside. Even though I was dead I could still feel things — pain. I still hurt. But even though he humiliated me, cut my ears off and then murdered me, I knew that I was angrier at myself than him. How had I been so dumb? Why had I been so flattered by the words that he had whispered? And I knew the answer to those questions — I had been desperate. I had been desperate for the red stuff that he had supplied me. But even more desperate to be loved. I had lost my mother and father but I had found a brother — Isidor. Why hadn’t I turned to him? Even when he tried to warn me, I didn’t listen. For someone who can sometimes hear too much — I had failed to hear my brother’s warnings and that’s why I was freaking angry with myself.
But hey, Kayla, you’re alive, girl — you came back from the dead — you got another shot. But not really. I’m still dead, right? The Elders told me I was a Dark Angel — a dead angel more like. And what exactly was a dark angel? What was I brought back for? To help protect Kiera, they had told me. Protect her from what? I mean, Kiera didn’t need looking after — I’d seen her kick more Vampyrus butt than I cared to remember; she looked after Kiera and I wished that I could be more like her. Kiera was my protector — she was my friend, my sister.
Maybe Kiera didn’t need that kind of protection — the fang-ripping and clawing, tearing kind. Maybe she just needed a friend? Someone to be there for her — to be there for each other. Like I said, I knew she was troubled by something — the walls of her room were covered from floor to ceiling in those newspaper cuttings. It was like she was looking for something. I knew she didn’t know what, exactly, but I knew that she would see it eventually.
The soundtrack had started to fade a little, so pulling the pillow from over my head, I climbed from my bed and padded across my bedroom to the large bay windows leading to the balcony. I pulled back the curtains a fraction and peered outside. The day looked miserable again and I had forgotten how bleak this place could be in the winter…spring…oh, who was I trying to kid? The place was freaking bleak all year round.
From my window, I spied Isidor coming back through the woods carrying an armful of branches. His dark hair was swept off his brow and his Shaggy-Doo beard jutted from his chin. He hated it when I called it that. That’s what Potter called it and was always taking the piss. And that was another thing — being dead hadn’t stopped those two from bitching at one another. They were constantly at each other’s throats. But Isidor hit back just as hard as Potter now, or should I say Gabriel! I couldn’t help but snigger aloud every time Isidor taunted him. Seeing Potter get wound up had been my happiest moments since coming back.
I watched Isidor drop the pile of branches onto the drive at the foot of the steps that led to the front door. He took a flick-knife from the pocket of his jeans and sat down where he began to sharpen them. Pulling on a pair of jogging bottoms, trainers, and a sweatshirt, I left my room to join him.
“What are you doing, Isidor?” I asked, sitting beside him on the step.
“Making stakes,” he said back, as he carved away at the tips of the branches.
“Why?” I asked.
“Why not?” he smiled at me, then went back to the sharpening. “What else is there to do around here?”
“Don’t tell me you’re missing The Hollows and what happened there?” I half-smiled, placing my arm about his shoulder.
“It’s because of what happened there that I’m making these stakes,” Isidor said, not looking at me.
“I don’t understand?” I said. “That’s all finished with now, we’re safe here. Besides, we’re dead already — how can we die twice?”
Then, stopping what he was doing, Isidor turned to face me. “You’ve noticed the changes, right?”
“I guess,” I said, looking straight at him.
“Then I don’t think we’re safe — dead or alive,” and he went back to his cutting.