I felt at least a little bit guilty as I pushed up the sun proof shade and opened the window, stepping out onto the fire escape. I knew that Indigo would want to join me, not just out here, but up on the roof, and we both knew all too well that she couldn’t, at least not comfortably. But I also knew that my nicotine craving was going to drive me stark raving mad if I didn’t do something to quell the urge. So, whether it hurt Indigo’s feelings or not, I was heading up.
The city sounds continued undeterred in the days since the incident on George’s Island, and on the surface at least, it seemed as though little had changed. Horns wailed, the sporadic chorus of police sirens created a warbling backdrop, punctuated by the shouts and screams of friendly and not-so-friendly neighbors. If I’d stood on the roof and just listened, the city would sound exactly as it had a month ago, with no changes whatsoever.
But things had changed, and all the evidence I needed for that was right downstairs. Phones ringing off the hook, the social media followers ticking up by the minute, and a growing unease forming with each caller. Each one described how convinced they were that the strange purple lights and pop-up thunderstorms were a precursor to something more. Something worse. It hadn’t helped at all that taking down Davit had wrestled his control away from the Wilds and other vampire clan members under his care, sending them out into the night untethered.
Then, of course, there was Agent Fenric and her posse of government goons. If my suspicions were correct, she’d actually set up shop inside Fort Warren, landlocked onto George’s Island, the pentagon shaped Civil War-era fort that Davit had taken for his headquarters, a place where he could perform his sinister rituals, his desperate, misguided attempt to pierce the veil separating the two words and draw its power into himself. To become the first vampire sorcerer in millennia. To use that vile power to overthrow the Caretakers and reclaim the throne of the supernatural realm for himself.
God, it sounded so ludicrous when I put it that way. I was just some dude in a beige trench-coat with a collection of weird knives who liked to talk conspiracy theories in a supermarket tabloid. Saving the world wasn’t my gig— I wasn’t built for that shit.
Just ask my dad— he’d tell you.
Chuckling dryly, I removed my familiar pack of Marlboros from my inside pocket and stared at it for a moment, walking toward the edge of the roof. There were days that living a life of several centuries felt more like a burden than a blessing, but I had to admit one thing. The ability to smoke like a chimney without suffering the lung cancery aftereffects was at least one small perk. I would take all the perks I could get. Instead of removing a match from my pocket, I slipped a familiar narrow blade from a sheath at my waist. In the days since the battle with Davit, I’d started carrying a knife more frequently, allowing myself to dip my toes into the magic world with a bit more regularity than I had before. My relationship with the supernatural had become antagonistic in the years since I’d been ejected from Caretaker service, but one thing was becoming increasingly clear as time wore on. The supernatural world was encroaching on the human world, perhaps more than it ever had before. I had to be prepared for anything.
Turning the blade over in my hand, I studied its ancient runes etched upon the straightened blade, the color of burnt charcoal, though far sharper than it looked. There were wizards, mages and sorcerers out there who could simply— do magic. Recite a chant, whisper a prayer, sometimes just curl their fingers into weird, crooked shadow puppets and the magic energy would just spring to life. Then, there was me. I was only part supernatural, after all, my mother was human, and as such I wasn’t quite as in tune with the magic world as some of my peers. So, I needed enchanted knives to complete my ensemble. Like a magic wand only— sharper, these blades allowed me to pierce the veil between worlds. To recite the ancient tongue and cut a slice in that protective layer, allowing myself to pull magic energy from the other side into this one, then use it, much as a wizard would.
In a way, the knives themselves controlled what I could do, which was nice in some ways, but a real pain in the ass in others. It was good because I could trust myself not to say a wrong word and castrate myself instead of shield myself. But it also provided some limits, and during some of the tenser conflicts I’d been embroiled in— limits were bad. Sure, I could carry more than one knife, but if I started loading myself down with three, four, or even five blades it got to be pretty hard to move and then I had to remember when to say what and— well— yeah, just as much of a pain in the ass as it sounds.
So I tried to keep it simple. Throughout my more formative years, I’d become obsessed with Stephen King novels and that obsession continued to this day. So in my own twisted way, I’d paid homage to him by naming my knives after his books. The one I held with the charcoal blade was called Firestarter, for obvious reasons. As I looked at it, a dark blade made only darker by the glow of the afternoon sun, I recited the ancient runes etched along its blade— words I could say by heart at that point. I flicked my wrist gently, just pricking the veil, nothing more, after all, it wasn’t like I was launching a fireball at a twelve foot troll or something.
Drawing the knife back toward me, the blackened blade glowed red and a sudden spine of pale, blue flame crawled along its edge. I tipped the end of my Marlboro into that blue flame and it lit instantly, the cherry red end of the cigarette glowing as I quickly placed it between my lips and drew an eager, almost desperate inhale. If my father had seen me using an ancient ignition blade as a cigarette lighter, well— I could only imagine his reaction. I was glad for that, actually— as little as my father wanted to interact with me, I wanted to interact with him even less. It was a mutually beneficial ignorance. Though, to be fair, while I certainly wasn’t keeping tabs on him, there were no assurances he wasn’t keeping tabs on me— it was just the kind of thing Randall Savage would do.
If he was, indeed, watching my day to day life, he would likely take at least a little satisfaction in the idea that I was sheltering myself from the people closest to me— holding my cards to my chest. Restricting myself to the sorts of relationships that co-workers have, not friends, all the better to keep people at arm’s length. The fact was, I wasn’t sure what choice I had. I’d seen far too many close friends— family, even, come and go, and each death of a loved one had been like a small part of me had been extinguished as well. Five hundred years I’d gone through it, in one way or another, and I just wasn’t sure I had it in me to keep going through it.
Especially not with Sammy and Indigo. Indigo who I’d barely known for a few weeks and who had already taken up far too much real estate in my mind. Throughout my long and complicated history of human interaction, I’d managed to balance all sorts of different relationships. In spite of them all, I’d never had a child— a son or daughter, a mind to shape— a small version of myself that could motivate me to be better than I was. Was that a role that Indigo could eventually fill in my life?
I closed my eyes, feeling my head swim with the familiar fog of the nicotine light-headedness, a warm burn of the smoke in my lungs. This line of thinking was precisely why I had to keep personal and work lives separate and why I couldn’t afford to get too close— or to let her get too close to me. Exhaling a faint cloud, I ticked a scatter of ashes from the end of the cigarette over the edge of the roof, watching as they drifted toward the sidewalk below.
“City ain’t your ashtray, asshole!”
I couldn’t tell where the voice had come from, though it was close enough to be in one of the tightly grouped neighboring buildings. Lifting my hand, I extended my middle finger, waving it in the general direction of various banks of windows in the adjoining apartments. Leaning against the raised edge of the roof, I absorbed myself in the relative solitude of the world around me, enjoying the momentary lapse of ringing phones and urgent voices.
I’d forgotten how much I’d relished my own space, my own thoughts and voices— having Sammy as a partner had worked out amazingly well, with him quietly accomplishing the administrative duties of running the paper while I did my thing. The injection of Indigo had brought life— and sound— to an otherwise monotone workplace, which had been refreshing in ways, but overwhelming in others. Living for as long as I had, I’d long ago forced a barrier between myself and others. I knew that I’d most likely outlive them, and as much as I hated to admit it, Indigo was slowly chipping away at that barrier. She rammed at it like an Eskimo hacks at ice, making in thinner, more brittle— fragile to the point of separation.
The best thing I could do to maintain my sanity and protect hers was to keep the relationship as professional as humanly possible, even though she represented something I’d always wanted but forced myself away from. Drawing a long, last drag on the cigarette, I sucked it down to its bare nub and stared at the building across the way, searching for a set of eyes that might be looking out at me. Seeing nothing, I casually flicked the remaining butt of the Marlboro, sending it cartwheeling over the edge, tumbling down to the asphalt below.
I waited for a moment, silently challenging someone to speak. I heard no voice of admonishment, and turned away from the edge, walking back toward the fire escape and the continued chaos of the floor below.