1
Miss Collard
Present Day
I don’t know muchabout what is happening to me, only that I can’t move any part of my body ever sincehecommanded it. I don’t dare meet the eyes that feel like they’re burning holes into my head. Instead, I focus on the quill held firm in my hand and not the odor of the musty abandoned building we’re in. I’d never used one before, but now I wonder how society went from using something so delicately extravagant to something so plain and boring.
My hair falls over half of my face and I close my eyes for a split second, thankful for some sort of barrier between us. When I open them again, I see the tear that’s fallen involuntarily onto the parchment, swirling ink and salt smudges now etched where the words once were.
I tried to memorize things about the room when he brought me in, like all women are taught to do should they be attacked. If I manage to make it out of here, I need to be able to give the authorities as much information as possible.
But the room is empty. Its walls teem with damp and decay. Everything is brown. Even the desk that separates us and the uncomfortable wooden chair I’m sitting on. A single dim light bulb hangs from the ceiling, swinging on a ghostly wind despite no windows being open. The only window in the room is behind me. It’s small and the paint of the frame is yellowed from time and neglect. It’s pitch-black outside, no streetlights to see. Wherever I am, I’m in the middle of nowhere.
If I screamed, nobody would hear.
The air in my lungs leaves me as a cold hand brushes against my skin, dragging my hair up and securing it behind my ear. Exposing me. Baring both my fear and dripping nose to the creature in front of me. My blood turns to ice as I finally look into his crimson eyes—a deeper shade of red than the dried blood on my neck. His youthful face is pale and gaunt, like a statue carved from the finest Italian marble. Small blue veins decorate his angular jaw, spreading up towards his high, cavernous cheekbones. His features are stark against his disheveled black hair. He looks like a beautiful nightmare. A siren with pillowed lips waiting to pull someone beneath deadly waves.
Two breaths later, he lights a cigarette. Casting himself into shadow and ash in the dimly lit room.
“I’ve met someone like you before.” His deep voice is like soft cashmere against bare skin on a winter’s day. The perfect predator. “She had more tenacity than you. I tell you I’m a creature of the night and you cower in fear. When I told her, she did nothing but laugh. She was afraid of nothing and no one.”
Is this the beginning of the story? Am I supposed to be writing?
As if lost in time, his eyes grow distant as he gazes out at the darkness through the window behind me.
“Speak.”
My tongue loosens but my body stays put. “Please, you can have anything you want. Just please, don’t kill me,” I sob pathetically. If only I could be like the girl he is talking about.
His lips turn into a smile that I’d liken to a Cheshire Cat, his fangs exposed and glinting.
“I’m not going to kill you. I already told you, I’m here to tell you my story, if you would listen?” He raises an eyebrow politely, as if he didn’t just snatch me off the street on my way home from work and sink his teeth into my neck.“I don’t write anymore. I work in a florist shop now, as I have for a year. There are plenty of better journalists you could choose…”
He slams a fist down onto the table and I whimper at the sound.
“No. It must be you.” His voice quivers and I wonder why. Why is it so important thatIwrite his story? Possibly because of my connections to the local newspaper. But still, it’s just the Hillview Chronicles—nothing crazy happens here.
It’s why I came back here a year ago when my sister was offered the position of editor-in-chief of the newspaper. I jumped at the chance of living in a zero-crime rate area. What did he have to prove to the people in this small, shitty town? I close my eyes and weigh my options. If he chose me specifically for this, then I must have some leverage on the not-killing-me front, right?
“If I do this, will you let me live?” I make the mistake of looking back into his eyes. They swirl with murder and mystery.
“That depends.” He stubs out his cigarette in the middle of the table, leaving a scorch mark on the wood. I wonder how many more he will go through during our time together.
“On what?” I finally ask, my voice sounding a little firmer.
“On your ability to not fuck it up.”
I gulp. His eyes flick down to my neck as if entranced by the movement.
“Like I said, I haven’t written anything in years. I can write down what you say, ask questions about things, but I’ll need time to edit. It’ll take me a lot longer doing it by hand.” My voice trails off as his gaze hardens.
“Shall we begin?” He clasps his hands together and leans forward onto the table. I nod, quill at the ready, bracing myself for whatever this man has to say.
“It all started the day I first smelled her blood…”
2
Danni
