I was used to seeing the sun peak up over the mountains in the morning, just as I was used to biting my nails in anxious habit. I'd been sitting at my window for hours, perched in a worn armchair with an unopened book on my lab. Somewhere on the other side of the windowpane, my brother was in danger. He was fighting the creatures that he and few others could see.

Not ten minutes after the first rays of sun had lit up the sky, Thomas' figure sauntered out from the treeline. His shirt was torn at his shoulder, and there was a smear of blood on his forehead, but other than that, he seemed okay. I tossed the book at my bed and made my way downstairs, tiptoeing near the edge of each step so as to keep the creeping at bay. Mom was upstairs, having fallen into a sleeping-pill induced slumber hours before. The nights Thomas went out to patrol were hard for her, even harder than they were for me.

"What are you doing up?" Thomas asked as he stepped through the back door, wiping his mud-coated boots on the carpet below. I grimaced, knowing Mom would yell at him about dirtying the kitchen in the morning. "It's five A.M."

I shrugged, "Wanted to make sure you made it back."

He laughed, walking towards me and ruffling my hair with the palm of his hand. "I always make it back, what are you so worried about?"

"Nothing," I said, frowning. "And don't touch my hair."

"Okay, okay." He said. "You should try and get some sleep. I'll drive you to school in the morning, so you don't have to get up for the bus."

"Thanks." I said, already heading back up the stairs. I stifled a yawn.

Every two days, Thomas went out on patrol. Per mom's request, he made a point of telling me as little as possible when it came to the slayers. He'd been working with them for the better part of a decade, starting even before our dad had died. In all that time, all I knew about the people he spent his nights with were that they were mostly younger than him, save for one or two, and that Thomas and my mom did everything they could to keep me far, far away from them.

When I'd started high school, my mom had enrolled me in the private school in the next town over rather than the high school that was only a few streets down the road. I wasn't stupid; Thomas had gone to that high school, and that was where a lot of the other slayers went, I was sure. Mom said it was because it was dangerous for us to be around them; unlike Thomas and our dad, we couldn't see the monsters they could.

Dad used to say that could change, if I was unlucky enough. Mom was human, always had been, but I wasn't. Like Thomas and my dad, I had slayer's blood, but I didn't have the sight. Thomas had been born with it, able to see the zombies from the time he could walk. I was different.

I waited until I heard the sound of the shower running before I climbed into bed, eyes heavy with need for sleep. There really wasn't any reason for me to stay up on the nights he went out; all it meant was that I would feel relieved when he came back in the mornings, and then exhausted the next day at school. Even with a thermos full of caffeine and money to buy more, I often found myself drifting off at my desk or unable to focus on powerpoints. It did nothing good for my grades, that was for sure, but after Thomas' not-so-stellar record from when he was in school, I could have gotten straight D's and still be the star of the family.

I woke up a little more than three hours later, changing out of my pajamas and meeting Thomas downstairs. Though I'd certainly put minimal effort into my look for the morning, he'd done even less, sporting checkered pajama pants and messy brown hair. I would have bet a hundred dollars he'd just crawled out of bed and was planning on crawling right back in after dropping me off.

I climbed into the front seat of his truck, glancing down at the toolbox that sat just in front of my feet. Aside from a single hammer, there was nothing but blades in there. It was what he called his "on-the-go" kit, for emergencies when he couldn't quite make it to the base before fighting off a hoard. If anyone who didn't know about what lurked in the shadows of night opened it, they would think he was either a killer or an overly enthusiastic hunter.

Thomas dropped me off just in front of the school doors, the bright green banner with the crest that matched the one on my school uniform unmissable in the center. He looked up at it through the windshield, chuckling to himself, "Sometimes I'm really glad mom sent me to the normal kid school. See you later, freak."

I rolled my eyes, waving as I stumbled up the stairs. I spent the day struggling to keep my eyes open throughout every single class, and the majority of lunch hour napping at the edge of a picnic table while my friends ate beside me. They'd long since gotten used to my near-daily antics, and the worried questions and come and gone weeks before. Amanda, a girl I'd known since my first day at Worsner's Academy three years earlier, had once asked me if I was a closeted druggie who slept during class because I spent my nights high. It'd almost taken a drug test to convince her that wasn't the case.

Half-way through my last class of the day, Thomas texted me to say he was heading to the base to hit the gym, and he probably wouldn't be home when I got there. Though I hated to admit it, and was even a little disgusted with myself, I was jealous. The base was just another thing Thomas and my dad had shared that I'd never gotten the chance to be a part of. Though I'd spent the years up until dad died training with him in the backyard, kicking at pads and punching at air, Thomas had gotten to spend the nights hunting with him. They'd done it all together, from weapon's practice to ashing monsters. Thomas had even been there the night he was killed.

Mom had always been a little crazy, and Dad used to say it was all his fault. Though he always said it with a smile, there was a sad tinge to his voice every time, as though it wasn't completely a joke. She was human, and he'd brought her into this world, told her himself of what dangers the nights held. The fear was too much for her; she was scared of them, scared of being attacked, and scared for her husband and son every time they walked out the door.

I was fifteen when Dad died, just a little over two years ago. Thomas had come home late the next morning, after hours of mom and I sitting in the living room scared out of our witts. He was covered in blood, and the moment he walked through the door, I'd known. It was obvious in the way his shoulder's hung, in how he couldn't bring his eyes to meet ours. Thomas blamed himself for that night, even though no one else did. It wasn't long after that that I'd started staying up to make sure he got home. I'd missed out on one goodbye because I'd been asleep; I wouldn't miss out on another.

But despite the fear and the fretting, I wanted to be a part of that world. I wanted it just as badly as I wanted to go to parties with my friends and play sports after school. I wanted it just as badly as Thomas hoped I would never have it.