Early morning light spilled pale through the kitchen window as Michael and I came down the stairs. The light carried that thin, washed-out quality of dawn, where every shadow looked half-asleep. My feet slapped against the cold floor as the AC hummed softly.
Walking bleary-eyed to the coffee maker, I got it prepped, turning on the machine and praying for it to drip faster with a yawn. The faint metallic scent of old coffee grounds mixed with the comforting hiss of brewing. Michael held open his arms and I leaned into his embrace, breathing in his citrusy musk. Placing a kiss in my hair, he gave a contented sigh.
The dream lingered like mist in the back of my mind. Selene’s voice looped: He will hunt all touched by the first sin. I tried to decipher it. What did she mean by “first sin?” Was she talking about the vampires Nikola turned, Davor’s Ten, or other vampires? And did that mean that whoever I needed to find would hunt not only mortals but our own kind as well? I licked my lips, still tasting salt from the sea. I didn’t want to believe in prophesies, but Selene’s words always arrived with precision, not poetry. Hunt all touched by the first sin… Antun’s, Syla’s, and Michael’s faces slid through my vision as I worried.
I couldn’t tell if it was prophesy, or if it was just my own mind shaping fears into myths. I mean, the words hadn’t seemed like something I’d dream up, but it was a dream so who was to really say? The scent of coffee blended with something familiar, anchoring me to the present.
I glanced around the kitchen as we waited for the coffee to finish dripping and my eyes caught on something – someone had gotten a bouquet of flowers, including red roses. They stood in a vase on the counter, the floral scent taking my thoughts back to the seaside cliff balcony – to the words I couldn’t unhear. The petals caught the morning light like embers and I reached out, touching their velvety softness.
Figures. Even here – among coffee and sunlight – she’d leave her scent behind.
A hand at my waist bought my attention back to Michael before his words did. “Well someone rose to the occasion with these, didn’t they?”
I gave him a bone-dry look, causing him to laugh. His joy cracked a smile on my face as well.
Syla and Antun both came down the stairs, Syla starting the kettle for her morning tea while Antun went over to the TV, tuning in to our local news. The smells of coffee and toasting bread swirled around me as Syla’s kettle began a faint hiss.
“Rain forecast for Seattle, shocker,” Antun said as he watched a map of cold and warm fronts moving across.
I relaxed for a split second, savoring the illusion of normalcy. It felt like any other morning – until it didn’t.
After the segment about the weather, the anchor on the TV pivoted in her seat to face the camera. In a tone that was overly polished, bright, and detached, she started, “The incident this last weekend at the Sirens of Spring has officially been classified as a mass psychogenic episode with the cause of said psychogenic episode still to be determined.”
I froze midway through pouring my coffee, hands trembling, nearly spilling over the top of my mug. A hot drop of coffee landed on my knuckle and I hurried to stick it in my mouth, trying to suck away the pain. The kettle on the stove whistled loud and shrill, utterly oblivious to the gravity of what was on-screen.
What did she just say?
“There were no deaths or lasting injuries from the event, and despite reports of supposed vampire behavior, there were no monsters.” From there, her co-anchor began to laugh. “Quit it, Jerry,” the female anchor said, appearing to barely be holding her composure from fits of laughter herself.
They turned the horror into a headline they can laugh about.
“I’m sorry,” Jerry chuckled. “Its just… I’m still trying to get over all the supposed “vampire” stuff. My high school girlfriend called me a vampire after leaving a hickey on her neck. Her parents were furious. That’s always the first thing to come to mind when I hear anything about vampires.” The anchors continued their banter, apparently finding the entire thing hardly more than a joke.
Images flashed through my mind – I saw Nikola’s face throughout the fight, how he’d gone from a deific visage to angrier than a devil. The singing of the yew blade through the air, its burgundy stripe little more than a dark streak. The bright day, so in contrast to Nikola’s dark machinations behind everything.
Sun too bright, blood too clean, the smell of iron turning the air heavy. My own shaking hands as I plunged the sword through his chest. They began to shake again now. His expression still burned behind my eyelids, frozen somewhere between wrath and surprise. Was it justice? Or just survival? Did it even matter? The coffee in my mug rippled like a tiny earthquake.
I killed him. No matter how evil a person he was, I killed. The truth sat in my chest like glass refusing to dissolve.
Antun lowered the volume on the TV, muttering something about the anchors’ voices being grating. Syla glanced over but said nothing, pretending not to see my tremoring.
My stomach felt full of lead; the weight was so heavy I was sure I’d sink. I tried to focus on the mug’s warmth and the sound of the ice machine churning cubes over. My mouth tasted bitter – not the coffee, but the memory.
Antun entered the kitchen, his hair so tousled he could’ve been imitating Einstein. Half-amused, he stated, “Humans can’t accept what doesn’t fit their narrative. It’s safer to call it madness.” He’d said it lightly, but I could feel the fatigue behind it. His tone shifted between humor and melancholy – as if centuries of hiding had taught him the futility of arguing with disbelief. We’d all lived long enough to know that safety and ignorance often wore the same face.
He went over to the espresso machine, gesturing to it with a hand like a philosopher punctuating a lecture. “Who all wants one?”
I raised my hand, being the only other one who wanted an extra shot of caffeine this morning. He filled the portafilter with grounds, compacting it before attaching it to the espresso machine. It didn’t take long for the shots to brew, machine humming warmly, and I added mine to my coffee while Antun drank his like the little shot it was. The roasted scent was rich, and it tasted delicious.
Antun’s slippered footsteps stilled as he leaned against the counter. Syla finished preparing her tea, adding cream to it before stirring and blowing gently over the top; her spoon clinked softly against the sides of the ceramic. Rain tapped faintly at the windows. The kitchen felt like a sanctuary trying to remember what peace was supposed to sound like.
Her robe hung open, showing a cute pink pajama tee and shorts set underneath. The oversized top hung off her shoulder. She took a careful sip of her tea before chewing on her lip like she had something to say. After a few more moments of contemplation, she said gently, “Maybe it’s better this way.” Her voice carried warmth even through her worry. Her calm was like balm and salt at once; I wanted to believe her, but we were already seeing what hiding cost.
“What do you mean?” Michael asked, taking a drink, his other hand settling on the counter behind me. His rumpled hair normally would’ve had me halfway to swooning, though today I more noticed the mundane comfort of everyone in soft clothes.
She answered, “We stay hidden; they stay safe.”
I drank my coffee, wincing at the burn as it went down my throat. Who’s it really safe for? I didn’t voice my thought, unsure if I really wanted the answer. Images from that day swam through my head of the victims forgotten by the morning headlines. Sure, no one had died except Nikola, but so many had been fed upon. The sight of vampires attacking innocent civilians – the fear and panic – all of it completely disregarded.
I hid behind my mug, the steam fogging my vision, giving me an excuse not to look anyone in the eye. Maybe it was easier to let them believe in madness than to admit monsters walk to work beside them.
Michael’s hip leaned against the counter, his tone soft but teasing. He bumped my arm, wiggling his brows. “At least they didn’t blame aliens.”
Everyone chuckled, the sound of it filling the kitchen like sunlight – brief, bright, and gone too soon. I managed a weak smile that didn’t hold. I hid it behind my mug, not wanting to worry anyone. It lingered as a mask, my thoughts catching on the gnawing truth that the world kept moving as if nothing had happened.
❖ 🩸 ❖
The rest of the morning passed uneventfully, and soon enough Michael and I were once again at work. Fluorescent lights buzzed above our heads, and for the most part everything was normal. People swiveled in their chairs and typed on their computers, keyboards clacking at a steady rate.
The air conditioning droned, and the faint smell of toner mixed with the smell of someone’s reheated lunch. Down the hall, someone laughed at a joke while another complained about their emails piling up.
Everything looked exactly the same, like the world had pressed “resume” after pretending nothing happened. I glanced through my office window at Michael, his face lit by a monitor glow. So eerily ordinary.
I walked to the break room, needing a refill. A few of my coworkers were watching the TV mounted in the upper corner of the room. It was always on, always the news, always nearly muted. The ticker at the bottom of the screen read, “SIRENS OF SPRING MASS PSYCHOGENIC EPISODE.”
“Does anyone actually believe that?” Pricilla asked, stirring her coffee too fast, sugar granules crunching. “I’ll bet it’s a top-secret government experiment gone wrong,” she said as she leaned forward conspiratorially.
Justin shook his head, refuting, “Nah. My brother’s friend who was in the area said that it was an immersive play about transcendence that went too far.” He gestured with a half-eaten granola bar to emphasize his point.
“Does no one think it was mass hypnosis? Weren’t people talking about hearing voices?” Sam pointed out.
“That’s practically the same thing as a psychogenic episode.” Pricilla accused.
“Not even close!” he argued. “Someone get their phone out and look up the difference,” he said as he got out his own phone and proceeded to do just that. Softly, he chuckled out of nowhere. “Heh, that’s a funny one. Here, guys. Check this out.” He proceeded to share what was on his phone, garnering a roll of the eyes from Pricilla and a choked laugh from Justin.
Their weightless curiosity made their voices too casual for their topic of discussion. The flickering light in the vending machine buzzed, covering up what little could be heard through the TV. It wasn’t just the news agencies that had rewritten what had happened. It seemed the world was beginning to as well. They were dissecting it like trivia night, not mass hysteria. Not blood and screaming.
I listened silently to their conversation as I poured coffee into my mug, blending in as any other employee for the moment. I poured slowly, focusing on the stream to keep my hands from shaking. The burnt, bitter smell of the coffee reminded me of the scent of iron, the steam reminding me of the heat of all those bodies on that day. I saw Nikola’s eyes before the fatal strike flash behind my eyelids.
Breathe, Drew…
I replaced the coffee pot for the next person, preparing my coffee how I always did – one cream, two sugars. They can talk about it because they hadn’t seen it. They hadn’t felt the way light dimmed when it touched a dying god. I swallowed hard, heat and nausea mingling with the bitterness of the coffee.
Lucky, I thought to myself. They get to move on. They get to forget. But I couldn’t. The blood of that day still stained my hands. Even if I hadn’t attacked any of the civilians, I hadn’t stopped Nikola in time. This was still mine to carry.
For me, the world rewrote itself overnight; for them, the edits just didn’t take. I glanced at my reflection in the break room window – the fluorescent lights made my skin look almost too pale. The mug cooled in my hand. Anchors spoke almost muted from the TV. The world carried on as if nothing had burned.
❖ 🩸 ❖
After work had completed for the day, Michael and I drove back home to Antun’s, the evening light turning gold and gray as we left the city behind. The drive didn’t feel all that long anymore now that I was used to it. The hum of tires over wet pavement harmonized with the rhythmic thrum of the wiper blades keeping time.
The city blurred into watercolor streaks of amber and violet behind the rain-speckled glass. Maybe it wasn’t that the distance felt shorter but that the weight between places had changed.
Michael squeezed my fingers as he held my hand, his elbow resting on the center console of the car. He entertained me with stories of the floor from today that I hadn’t been aware of. “I swear, that’s what he said!” he laughed.
“You’re kidding. You have to be. There’s no way quiet Hector would’ve cussed at work. He really said “fucking hell?””
“I’m telling you, Hector’s got a mouth on him and it’s freaking hilarious.” Saying this of the short Hispanic man who was very devoutly Catholic definitely caught me off guard, and for a fleeting moment I forgot about the Sirens of Spring.
We got home soon enough, parking and going inside. A delicious aroma floated from the kitchen. Antun had made rosemary chicken and roasted vegetables – comfort food for a dreary day. Syla had made cinnamon rolls for dessert, and by the end of it all I was thoroughly full. Laughter floated from the kitchen afterward, sounding faint, like a memory overheard.
My body relaxed, but my mind didn’t – the peace only sharpened my unease. I found myself sitting alone by the large bay window. City lights flickered through the drizzle on the glass. The window carried the city like a painting – distorted by rain, but still reaching for light.
I held a throw pillow on my lap, fingers idly playing with the tasseled edges. The window beside me was chilled, radiating the cold toward me, though it really couldn’t bother me now. I saw my reflection faintly overlaid with the nightscape of the forest and the city beyond – human and not, ghosting between worlds.
He will call it salvation, Selene had said. But what does that mean? The word “salvation” made me think of churches and organized religion. Did vampires go to church? The idea seemed so hypocritical now that I had become a vampire. I thought about Antun’s monk costume at the Ren Faire, how he was basically scoffing at divinity the whole time. But if monsters could seek salvation, did that make the word holy… or hollow?
He will call it salvation…
“Maybe I already have,” I muttered under my breath. My fingers stilled, startled at myself for having actually said it aloud. Even if no one else heard it. The words hung heavy as a chain around my neck, unanswered.
I watched as a car passed on the road outside, its rear lights flashing crimson – life moving on, unaware. Inside, I felt caught between two worlds; one that denied monsters existed, one that knew I had become one. Between the gold of lamplight and the gray of drizzle, I waited for peace to feel like something I deserved.
