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Silence is not something I have ever been particularly good at, though, and as I lean back in my seat, my mind spins with questions I desperately need answers to.
“So, you really think I’m a vampire?”
I already suspected that I was, given the fangs and blood drinking, yet hearing him say it aloud made me feel unsure.
Shifting in his seat, the officer clicks his tongue before answering. “That male died of a vampire attack, and you reek of his blood, not to mention your fangs are still poking out.”
Sitting back, I run my tongue over the tips of said fangs, wincing as I pierce myself with them. Boy, they are sharp. He seems to know a lot about vampires and their feeding habits. Tilting my head to one side, I examine him. “Are you a vampire too?” I can’t seem to stop myself from asking, even though I shouldn’t be antagonising him—not to mention the fact that I should really be focusing on the fact that I am somehow a vampire.
His blue eyes narrow on me in the mirror, his irritation showing, yet it quickly changes as a flash of understanding fills his gaze. “No, I’m not.” He doesn’t elaborate, instead examining me via the mirror once more. “I’m assuming tonight was the first time you’ve fed. Is it your birthday today?”
Surprised, I lean forward, frowning with surprised confusion. “How did you know that?”
He nods his head slowly, the stern set of his shoulders relaxing a little. I guess it’s easier to relax when you know you don’t have a stone-cold killer in your car, just an accidental one.
“When a vampire turns twenty-one, they complete their transformation. The first feed can get pretty messy.”
Messy, yeah, that’s one way to put it. I feel a little less guilty now that I know what happened was a natural part of being a vampire. If I had known, though, this could have been prevented. Perhaps he’s wrong and I’m not a supernatural creature… just a human having a mental breakdown. Hmm, I’m not sure what is worse.
“But I wasn’t bitten. How could I be a vampire? Surely this is something I would know about myself,” I counter, ignoring the slight panic in my voice. See, I’ve read Twilight, so I know about these things.
He snorts as though he can read my mind. “Popular culture has it all wrong. Everything you’ve read in books and watched in movies is probably incorrect.” He rubs the back of his neck as he drives, and something that sounds like frustration laces his voice. “Pure blood vampires are born, not bitten. They live as a human until their twenty-first birthday, and then they come into their power. Didn’t your parents tell you any of this?” He’s clearly in disbelief over my lack of paranormal education.
Me too, buddy.
“I’m an orphan,” I explain. There is no pain or regret in my voice, it is simply a fact.
I never knew my parents, they died when I was still a baby, so while I am sad I missed out on getting to know them and having a picture-perfect family, I don’t actually miss them. It’s hard to miss someone you never knew. When I was a young child in the orphanage, I would dream of them coming to rescue me, hoping that they weren’t actually dead. I would mourn them, but as I grew older, I realised that it wasn’t necessarily them that I was mourning, but my chance at having a family. Sure, I have pictures of them that I cherish, but it seems like there was even more about them I never knew. If what Officer Hart said is true, then they were vampires too.
His eyes flick up to look at me through the rearview mirror. “I’m sorry. That would explain why you are undocumented.” His apology seems genuine, which takes me aback. He is a perfect stranger to me, and he’s sorry on my behalf for something he had no hand in.
Life hasn’t been easy, and trusting others when you are in and out of care is difficult. As a foster child, you learn early on that most of the people you stay with aren’t doing it for altruistic reasons. Oh, there are the rare few who take you in out of the kindness of their hearts, but those beings are unusual. Because of this, I find it really strange that the handsome officer seems apologetic.
With thousands of questions still swirling around my brain, I shift through the useless ones and ask something that has been bothering me since he arrived at my door.
“I don’t understand how you found me in the first place. How did you know that I killed Colin, and that I was undocumented?”
Driving one-handed, he rummages around in his pocket for something. I want to tell him that he shouldn’t take his hands off the wheel, but pointing that out to a police officer would probably just get me in trouble, so I keep my mouth shut. After a second, he seems to find what he’s looking for and raises it up for me to see—his notebook. “All reports of crimes committed by undocumented creatures automatically file into these. We have a warlock who is good with barriers. Any unlicenced magic or behaviour triggers the spell and reports it straight to us.”
Unlicenced magic or behaviour? I suppose that’s where I fit in. I get the distinct impression that it is the fact that I’m unregistered that is the greater crime than killing my boyfriend. Still, I keep that to myself. I’m already in hot water, so I shouldn’t start handing them the matches.
“Whoa,” I muse. “That must make catching criminals easy.” I’m still eyeing the magical notebook, thinking how useful something like that would be.
“You would be surprised. Not everyone is as easy to bring in as you.” The officer laughs as though he just said something hilarious, and I wonder if I should be offended. Before I can comment, he continues with his explanation. “Unfortunately, we are only able to track crimes committed by undocumented creatures.”
Frowning, I let what he said roll over me, dissecting the logic of it. “Wait, if everyone else is documented, then shouldn’t it be easier to find them rather than the ones you didn’t know existed?” I wait for him to come back with a good explanation. It seems like a bit of a backwards system. If they are able to track undocumented creatures, then why don’t they just round us all up and document us before we commit a crime?
“I don’t know the intricacies of the spell, but apparently it has something to do with the crime itself. The fact that the creature committing it is undocumented makes it more important that we find them.”
That seems a little discriminatory, as though crimes committed by an undocumented creature are more illegal than the same crime committed by someone who is documented. I also don’t like the term “creatures,” but there is so much about this world I don’t know, so perhaps it’s the perfect way to describe us.
Mulling over everything he said, I fall into silence, watching the world go by as I realise that my whole life is changing in the blink of an eye, and I have no idea what is going to happen next. It’s scary, and I’m starting to feel seriously nauseated.
After a while, I realise that I’m just winding myself up into a panic spiral, and I need to do something to calm myself down. Grabbing onto anything that I can think of that won’t make me think about the fact that I’m a murderer, I grasp onto the first thing that pops into my mind.
“Spell, like magic?”
His quiet sigh might have gone unnoticed if it wasn’t for the obvious slump of his shoulders as I speak. Rude. His eyes glance up at me in the mirror again, that sharp brow rising as he contemplates me.
