The bedroom, if that’s what it was, was full of photographs. At first, they appeared undifferentiated, like multicolored static, but then they resolved to pictures of girls. Little girls. Their eyes. They were layered so they covered one another, leaving mostly eyes peering out. And their eyes, well—the look in them was clear terror. Some were being molested. Others bitten. Some both.
Bile rose in my throat, bitter and angry. I doubled over. I’d have put out a hand to steady myself, but I didn’t want to touch them. They’d already been touched enough.
I swallowed hard a few times and took a deep breath. In a rush, I pulled the envelopes out of my pockets and tore them open. I didn’t think I’d ever been so glad to have gloves on in my life as when I saw the contents inside, the same kind of photos as were on the walls. I let them fall to the ground and put my hands to my face in horror.
“Mr. November—how could you?”
The only place safe to look was the floor, until I realized there were rows of boxes on the far side of the room. I walked over to these, saw they were labeled with names in alphabetical order. Marion. Sascha. Veronica.
I steeled myself and opened a lid. Neat hanging files full of photographs dangled inside, tabbed with what seemed like improbable dates. Melinda 1976–1981. Melinda 1985–2002. I checked at the beginning of these photos, and at the end of them. While the men, women, and backgrounds differed, the girl looked exactly the same. If the dates were right Melinda hadn’t aged in twenty-six years.
“Oh, God,” I whispered.
At the end of the file was a note. “Saved.”
What did that mean? Was it true? I looked around the room. The terror in their eyes seemed plaintive now. Seeking.
Was Anna one of these girls? And if she was, where would she be?
The EMTs had found Mr. November lying out in the street in the middle of the night in another bad neighborhood. They estimated he’d been there for about two hours before anyone local had thought to call. They were amazed he still had his wallet and shoes. After being his nurse, I wasn’t. He’d been a fighter. And there was something strange about vampires, even merely partial ones, that seemed to naturally bend human attention away.
But why would a daytimer care about little girls? I looked around the room. Why did I care? I could still leave right now, pretend I hadn’t seen all this. But—I couldn’t help myself. I didn’t know what “saved” meant—but I thought maybe I knew why he was saving them. To get to her. Anna. Only he hadn’t made it, this last time.
Because of me.
I knelt and dug through the other boxes, the ones not marked “Saved,” and scattered the images around me on the floor until I found her.
Anna. The girl in his picture, the one I still had in my pocket. Almost a century of pictures, they started off as family portraits, the family of five, until the other members disappeared and they withered into pornographic acts. From sepia tones, to black-and-white postcards, to color Polaroids, and finally prints of digital stills.
I couldn’t imagine how horrific it must be to have the only record of someone you loved be photos of others degrading them—while you hoped and prayed that you could match a blanket to a wall, a wall to a place, a place to a person, until they were finally free.
“So where is she?” I asked the room at large. My coming here, Mr. November’s death—this had to have a point. I needed it to. “He knew and you’ve seen her. Hell, you are her. Where is she?”
Their eyes silently stared, accusing, sad. This couldn’t be the end.
“Dammit, Edie,” I whispered, banging my fists on the carpet. My left hand’s nerves stung. Tears sprang to my eyes and I blinked them back as I took off my glove. The bruise was far past the Sharpied outline, encompassing my whole thumb, flowing with dark streaks into my palm.
And then—there was an industrious rustling behind me, ripping and tearing. I froze with fear, my back to the wall, and stared down at the worn carpet, my hands curled into its thin pile, one growing bruise-black, the other one with knuckles corpse-white, until my sense of sharing the room ended.
The Filipino women I used to work with believed in ghosts. After working in Y4, I probably should too.
I sat up and turned around. A portion of the photographs had been ripped off the walls revealing mold underneath, dark and crusted, like deep scabs. Shredded images littered the floor showing little strips of flesh, the corners of stained mattresses, and bleak stares with darkness behind.
“I’m so sorry.” I started backing out of the room, unwilling to turn my back on what was there, out of fear and shame. “I’m so, so sorry.”
A cold wind went through the room, stirring the photos like fall leaves. And when it finished running through me and out the door behind, the fragments of photos on the floor resolved into the shape of an address number and a name.
I remembered a quote from my grandma—just being sorry never helped anyone. I dusted my hands off and reached for my phone.
Three cab companies and a credit card number later, I found someone who’d pick me up. They wanted me at the curb at 7:12 on the nose and if I wasn’t there, they’d gladly keep my deposit. After I hopped in I gave the cabbie my next address—much different from the one I’d given his company on the phone.
“You gotta be kidding me.”
“I’ll triple your fare.” It was do it now, or not at all.
I watched him weigh the extra money against his personal safety, divided by the time of night, and he must have gotten an answer he agreed with, because he went my way.
I stared out the window as the cab ignored stop signs, rolling through perpetually grimmer neighborhoods until he brought the car to a halt.
“You sure you want off here? I ain’t coming back for you.”
“If this is the right address.” I peeled bills out of my bra and handed them over. So much for this month’s student loan payment. The cab rushed off the moment I closed the door.
There weren’t address numbers posted here, but I saw that the third floor on one building had metal sheets nailed up over all the windows. A homemade asylum, a pot farm, or a dark place to keep vampires in captivity—someone had something to hide. I pulled out a cologne bottle and headed for the door.
The air inside this new place had the smell of cat pee and vinegar—the pungent byproducts of cooking large-scale meth or personal-use heroin. Luckily, I was used to junkies. A hairless girl in the stairwell was picking at a nonexistent scab. I skirted her and mounted the stairs two at a time.
My hand began to throb as I walked down the third-floor hall. I took off my winter gloves and found the bruise covering my entire palm, and it ached, bad. Without thinking about why I knew to do it, I placed my hand on one door after another until I found one that was cold, and the pain stopped.
No landlady and no House here. I hit the door with my marked hand, hard. “Delivery!”
“What?”
“Delivery!”
There were sounds behind the door. Metal scraping against metal. Whispers. The door opened to reveal a narrow-faced man, and the smell of sex and blood washed out around him.
I knew I was in the right place. I just knew.
“What do you want?” he asked. I held up the cologne bottle and pressed the plunger, hard and fast. Nothing happened. He tried to slam the door shut and would’ve too, if my steel toe hadn’t been in the way.
“Fuck this.” I unscrewed the cap and sloshed the contents at him. He started shrieking. Mr. November had managed to get the good stuff.
“Jesus Christ!” He stumbled to his knees and started scratching at his face.
“Something like that.” I shoved him out of my way with the door. “Anna?”
The room’s devastation was almost complete. Two lightbulbs dangled from the ceiling on threadbare wires. Waterlogged wallpaper sagged down to the floor. A shiny black camera on a tripod occupied the center of the room, keeping its mechanical eye on a dirty mattress on the dirty floor, where a girl was chained like a bad dog. She looked about nine, but I knew there was no way to tell.
“Anna?” I repeated.
Her eyes flickered over my shoulder, which is why I ducked just in time.
All the sexy vampires on TV and all the weakened half ones I’d seen on Y4—nothing prepared me for the disgusting creature that hurled itself at me, arms out, lips stretched tight against a smile full of knives. I twisted away and ran to get my back against the wall. His breath washed over me as he passed by, with the scent of smoke and rotting apples. I held the open bottle of holy water out in one hand, and held the other up like a grenade, unscrewing its cap with my thumb.
“I just want the girl!” I shouted.
Was killing a vampire still murder? The man I’d first hit with the fluid was still writhing around the floor, his hands against his face—only now, dust was leaking through the gaps between his fingers.
“Get out!” the fresh attacker said with a heavy accent. His gaze flickered to the open bottle. His nose was flat, his nostrils mere slits, and the skin of his cheeks rippled upward to accommodate his wide swath of teeth.
“Hell, no.” She’d invited me in. Or Mr. November had. I needed to be here. Stone-gray eyes regarded me and then looked at his dust-weeping friend. He squinted and sniffed the air deep, like an animal, then came to a decision.
“Fine.” He reached into his pocket and found a lighter, lit it, and backed away from me and toward his accomplice.
What was it Gina had said? The dust was bad? It was—flammable? I dropped to one knee and braced.
What it was, was like gunpowder.
A flash of heat billowed out. I threw my arm up to protect my face. Not all of the first vampire was dust yet—the part that wasn’t screamed until it couldn’t anymore. When I could see again, the second vampire had taken off, running down the hall. By then, what was left of the first one was debatable.
I looked to the girl. She watched the burning vampire, the light of his fire glittering in her eyes.
“Anna?” I asked again. She made no response for or against the name. “Look—” I began. I was pretty sure the apartment wouldn’t go up in flames, but she couldn’t stay chained here. I gestured with my free hand so she could watch me put the bottles back in my pocket. And then I reached out with my bruised hand, not for her, but for the pipe that she was chained to.
She lunged forward like a feral cat and bit my outstretched hand. I felt her grind her teeth together, scissoring through my flesh, one fang hitting bone. I screamed and fell to my knees. She stood above me, my blood smeared across her face, teeth latched into the crotch of my hand.