Aftermath (30 page)

Emma's Story

As I drifted off to sleep on Friday, I wished myself back to the park.

I wanted to see the strange man in the gray wool overcoat. He smiled at me in my last dream and told me to trust my instincts. Not that I understood what he meant.

Suddenly, I found myself sitting on the swing again. I rocked back and forth. The sun warmed my face, and the swing’s slow momentum lulled me into a quiet place. I had so many unanswered questions—like who the man was and why I dreamt of him so often. Was I supposed to know him?

When I felt a presence, like a shadow hovering over me, I knew the man was there.

“You called?” He looked the same as he did last time.

I stopped swinging and stood quickly. “I… I want to know who I need to be patient with. And why you call me Elizabeth. And what is your name?” I rambled, getting everything out all at once.

The air was cool, cooler than when I was alone.

“He is in your heart, Emma. You prefer to be called Emma, don’t you, Emma Elizabeth Bennett?”

I nodded. “Yes, thank you.”

“It is he that must be patient now. You will find him. You are getting closer. Simply trust your instincts.” The man looked toward the empty, wooden play structure.

“What does that mean?”

“You will soon learn of things that may be difficult to comprehend.” He paused for a brief moment, staring ahead of him. Clouds grayed the sky, and a cold breeze swept up around us. “You must be willing to listen. The answers will come from within.”

I looked down for a second. When my eyes searched for the familiar man again, he was gone.

Ben's Story

I can’t believe Claire didn’t fancy the bangers and mash.

Molly’s sarcastic tone interrupted my thoughts. Claire and I crossed the street. It was after bar time by London standards, and most pubs were already closed. Molly eavesdropped earlier and knew Claire didn’t care for the traditional British dinner.

That’s why I should have gone with you,
Molly continued.
I would’ve enjoyed a good British meal.

Is that right?
I shook my head.

Well, it was worth a try. Sitting on the sidelines is rather boring.

I’ll keep that in mind.
Claire and I turned onto Piccadilly.

Oh… just so you are aware, Emma chose not to attend the football game with her aunt as originally planned,
Molly said.
However, she’s fine. I propelled around her house to ensure it’s fully secure. Chester reported she’s asleep. Happy?

Yes. Thank you,
I answered. Claire chuckled.
Hey, tell Bianca I need the London address for Henry Nichols. She didn’t answer her page earlier.

I’ll have her send it over; she just got back. She spent the evening with Trent again. I think she’s hoping for an invitation to the high school dance.

Claire smirked at the comment. We stood at an intersection beside another couple. The streets were mostly quiet and vacant. A few men waited for the light on the opposite corner.

At least Bianca fit in.

Are you enjoying London? Taking in the sights?
Molly asked as the pedestrian light turned green.

It’s nicer than I expected… at least the area where Victor was allegedly spotted.
Claire and I continued walking.

Hmm… I noticed it changed since I lived there,
Molly said.

I thought you refused to take any missions in London.
Claire looked at me with suspicion in her eyes.
Are you holding out on something?

No. But I did manage to squeeze in a day trip. It was wonderful being back.

What? I slowed my pace.

When was this?
Claire asked. Her tone turned serious.

Um, several years ago.

What time of year?
I questioned.

Winter, I think. No, perhaps spring.

Could it have been March?
Claire glanced at me.

Like March 31
st
?

Perhaps. I can’t quite recall. I was there just a few hours. Why so precise, Benjamin?

What assignment was this?
I asked.
Claire stopped mid-stride in front of Starbucks.

Oh, it was nothing, really. Commander E had me running from site to site, doing some training for new recruits. It was the first time I met Bianca, actually.

Bianca was in London?

Claire’s face went pale.

Hmm… yes. It was a simple field excursion. There were a dozen or so trainees. I’m sure she doesn’t even recall meeting me, now that I think about it. We weren’t formally introduced until her induction following her completion,
Molly answered.
What aren’t you telling me?

Molly finally sensed Claire’s reaction.

Victor was spotted here on March 31
st
, fifteen years ago.

Where was this sighting?
Molly’s thoughts were lower than before.

Near Green Park.

Off Piccadilly?
Her tone became sharp. Memories of her life with Victor flowed from her mind to mine. Images of a once-happy couple flashed before me like a slideshow. As Molly’s gruesome death approached, I shielded Claire from the details. The scene resembled the street Claire and I just passed.

I thought he killed you in Whitechapel.

He did. But in our first life together, we lived on Half Moon. My friend… gosh, what was her name? She lived around the corner from us. Was it on Down Street? Oh, dear… I can’t recall.

Down Street? We’re headed to Down Street right now,
I said, holding my breath.
Molly, I need to know everything. Where you lived. Where you visited. Dates. Friends. Acquaintances. Everything.

Emma's Story

I tossed and turned, waking up several times during the night.

The first time was after midnight when I heard the gentle hum of the overhead garage door, followed by footsteps on the stairs. Chester raised his head momentarily when Aunt Barb checked in on me and whispered goodnight. I must have dozed off quickly because I didn’t remember answering her. An hour later, I was awake again. Lying in bed in the dark, all I could do was think about the football game at Northwestern. The one Melissa invited me to. The game everyone I knew was going to—even Lucas.

I should have asked my aunt. I fluffed my pillow and tried to get comfortable. Would she let me go? My mind traveled to what I’d do on Saturday night without Claire in town.

When I came up with nothing, I realized, I just had to go, too.

Ben's Story

By the time we reached Down Street, it was too late.

Hybrid scents filled the air in the blocks surrounding the five-story building, but the flat was vacant. Opposite the fireplace was a plain black couch with a white, crumpled sheet, pillow, and blanket. The two bedrooms were empty. Beds were unmade, as if the occupants left in a hurry, some still warm to the touch. Remnants from the hybrids were everywhere. Clothes and personal items accounted for four men, all average height and build, based on sizes of shirts and pants hanging in the closet, though their wardrobe was minimal.

Molly watched in thought as we toured each room. She initially commented on how charming the residence was outside, but when she saw the bland interior white walls with cheaply framed mass-produced prints, she called it tacky. Red-patterned drapes flanked the bay window in the living room, with similar bright drapes in each bedroom.

I picked up a T-shirt from the laundry pile on the floor. It had DNA residue, which shared its original human owner, an Irishmen in his early thirties with previous signs of leukemia. A pair of dark jeans and a linen shirt found in the master bedroom belonged to a British man in his late twenties. He was the youngest among them, converted after cancer treatment proved unsuccessful. The other men had similar terminal illnesses at the time of their conversion.

“Here,” I said, tossing Claire the pile of clothes that I collected.

“Eww. That’s disgusting.” She dropped it to the floor. “I can smell body odor on them. Why would you give that to me?” Her forehead wrinkled when she glared at me.

Molly’s chuckle infiltrated our thoughts.

I waited. Couldn’t she put the puzzle pieces together?

“Because,” I answered firmly, hoping I didn’t need to explain it, “they’re not like the hybrids in Westport. Each of these hybrids was sick at the time of their conversion.”

Claire’s glare changed to a blank look when Molly elaborated. Humans in Wisconsin were stripped of their lives prematurely. Those in London were already terminally ill. Victor gave them a second chance. “Or, at least that’s what he probably told them,” Molly added.

I wandered through the empty rooms after clearing the apartment and dispatching the local Sleeper Agents to canvas the surrounding five-mile radius. Every piece of unopened mail on the kitchen counter, including the monthly rent, was addressed to Miss Mary Nichols. She was the woman in red at the pub. There was no sign of any human, no unknown scent or lingering presence.

Despite that, I was convinced this was Victor. He had to be using Henry Nichols as his alias. Who else could it be? And the woman, Mary, who was she really? Did he compel her to obey? How many other humans did he have at his disposal?

Reports from agents came in, ending my internal dialogue. Each of the four hybrids exited in opposite directions from the flat. All trails led to tube stations, London’s underground subway, where their odor diminished amongst the electric current from the rail system. It was obvious they knew what they were doing, and I wondered how they knew we were coming.

***

With agents assigned to monitor the premises, Claire and I went in search of the other residences throughout London. The address of a Victor sighting proved to be a dead end. The two-bedroom flat was completely empty and on the market for sale.

Our second stop was Molly’s first home with Victor, during her first life with him. It was a prestigious mansion on Half Moon back then. Centuries later, the building was converted to a hotel and there was no sign of Victor, hybrids, or any other immortal, for that matter. It was another dead end.

The employee at the hotel’s front desk nodded as Claire and I walked out.

“Have a good evening,” he said.

I thanked him and held the door open for Claire. The pre-dawn air was chilly and refreshing as Molly’s thoughts relaxed. A faint, sweet cotton candy aroma met my nostrils momentarily.

A hybrid.

I tracked the weak, sporadic scent down the street and around the corner, Claire following behind. A small, concentrated dose of its odor caught my attention and then vanished. Like a drop of vinegar, pungent and strong by itself, yet weak and lost once mixed in a bucket of water.

The smell’s source came from a residence on White Horse. I ordered Sleeper Agents to set up a perimeter around the building, while Claire and I prepared for entry.

Molly’s gasp startled me, as she viewed the images in my mind.

What is it?
I asked.

That’s where my friend lived,
she mumbled.
Oh… what was her name?

I nodded to Claire, signaling I was ready, despite Molly’s rambling.

Mary!

Her comment caused Claire to jump.

Mary?
I asked.
You remembered her name was Mary?

Claire chuckled aloud, and an agent beside her smirked. Molly really needed to shield herself with that kind of comment. It would ruin her credibility, if she didn’t.

Yes. But I can’t remember her last name.

Okay. Umm, mind if we proceed?

Sorry.
I felt her blush, as she shielded herself from the others. Finally.

The home was a large, three-bedroom flat with two reception rooms, as Molly called them when I referred to them as living rooms. She walked with us, mentally, while we searched the premises. She was pleased to report this was the same home Mary lived in all those years ago. I commended her memory and laughed at her juvenile demeanor after we cleared it, having found no trace of a hybrid.

At sunrise, we had only one address remaining, the one Bianca provided for Henry Nichol’s home on King Street. The residence was impressive from the exterior. Topiaries lined the second-story balcony, with flowerbeds hanging on black, wrought iron fencing along the wide sidewalk. Ivory bricks in staggering sizes and positions trimmed arched windows in a monochromatic color scheme. It was bright, clean, and classy.

Inside, the third-floor, open concept layout was equally awe inspiring. A baby grand piano sat beside a window in the oversized reception room overlooking St. James Square. Two bedrooms, each with private baths, were decorated in a modern, simple style with expensive artwork throughout the apartment.

While Claire and I checked each room, Molly bounced in thought from us to Sleeper Agents that joined us in our sweep. Her shriek not only caught my attention, but that of all agents within the empty residence. Everyone froze.

What? What is it?
I asked, annoyed. Did she remember her friend’s last name?

It’s… it’s…
Molly stuttered. I scanned her thoughts and located the source of her sudden fear. There, on the bedside table, sat a small, antique photo frame with an image of a young woman with dark hair.

I rushed to the bedroom and picked up the picture.

It’s me,
Molly finally spit out.