The trail went cold at the edge of the financial district where a twelve-story apartment building faced a thirty-floor office tower across a six-lane street.
Too far to jump, even for a vampire.
Simon stood at the edge, staring across. Charlie had been terrified, running on adrenaline and instinct.
Had he managed to fly?
That would be impressive if it wasn't so inconvenient.
No, for now Simon would assume that a three-weeks-old fledgling hadnotmanaged to fly.
Down, then. Charlie must have gone down.
Simon descended to street level, but the sidewalk was useless. Too much foot traffic, even at—he checked his phone—10:51 PM. The city's nightlife was just getting started, and any trace of Charlie's passage had been trampled by hundreds of sneakers and questionable life choices.
According to the notes Simon had taken, Charlie's apartment was seven blocks from here.
Might he have run there?
It was a possibility… and Simon needed to startsomewhere.
Unsurprisingly, the building was in the poorer part of town. When Simon got there, he realized that the front door's lock had been broken, probably some time ago. In the meantime, someone had wedged it permanently open with a chunk of wood.
Inside, the elevator had an OUT OF ORDER sign that looked older than Charlie.
Simon took the stairs.
By the fourth floor, the hallway carpet had given up pretending to be carpet and settled for being a vague suggestion of floor covering. Simon found 4B at the end, next to a window with a small hole in it.
The door was locked.
Simon knocked, then knocked again when there was no response.
Then he picked the lock. It took him less than a minute.
The studio apartment was maybe three hundred square feet, but someone had tried to make it home.
Discount store string lights zigzagged across the ceiling. A twin bed pushed against one wall had a patchwork quilt. The fabrics seemed mismatched and naturally the bed was unmade, but still, it looked vaguely cozy.
It definitely didn't look like a vampire's lair.
Simon shifted his gaze to the walls, catching on a print of Van Gogh's Starry Night and a calendar with red circles around night shifts at the Stop & Stock. Last Thursday had "Brent - sushi night" written in small handwriting, then crossed out.
There were photographs too. Charlie grinning with an older couple at what looked like a graduation, Charlie and a muscular guy (Brent?) at the beach, Charlie in a ridiculous Halloween costume Simon couldn't identify.
In the corner, a small bookshelf sagged under its load. Fantasy novels with dragons and swords, a dog-eared copy of something called "The Name of the Wind" that looked like it had been read a dozen times, a self-help book about finding your purpose after twenty-five tucked between cookbooks. On top of the shelf sat a collection of smooth stones, a snow globe from somewhere called Bellingham, and a coffee mug that said "I don't rise and shine, I caffeinate and hope for the best."
That one almost got a chuckle out of Simon as he moved on to the kitchenette.
It consisted of one hot plate, a small sink, and a mini fridge. The dishes in the drying rack had collected dust—cleaned but unused since Charlie's turning—but next to them sat a potted succulent that had somehow survived against all odds. A sticky note on the mini fridge read, "Remember to water Marvin" with a smiley face. Marvin, presumably, was the succulent.
On the small table by the window, Simon found more books. Two more fantasy novels, a guide to meal prep on a budget, and underneath them…
A notebook.
Simon picked it up. The cover was plain black, edges worn from being shoved in and out of a bag. He opened it.
Day 3 (I think?)
