Author's Note: This story will be updated on Tuesdays and Fridays; I have already written it, and done much of the editing, so I can promise you I'll be consistent. If not, feel free to run me over with a shiny silver volvo - or a bright yellow porsche.

Chapter Two:

The Corner of Johnson and Colley, Winter, 1939

The road was narrow. The windowless walls that towered on each side kept it in the shade, and it would have been tempting to call it an alleyway, if not for the sign on the corner: Johnson and Colley. Johnson Street was wide and welcoming; filled with the bright stalls of a marketplace and storefronts representing a variety of trades, it was busy and noisy and the midday sun poured into every corner. Colley Road, situated between a questionable wine merchants' and a tiny store touting costume jewelry, was dank and nearly empty. Water dripped from the icicles hanging from the pipes along the walls onto the dirty street; the puddles were like ponds in the middle of the snow covered pavement. Over the din of the patrons of Johnson Street, you would hear nothing of the activities of Colley Road – but in the shadows, if you looked closely behind stacks of empty wooden crates and used barrels, you would see the hasty movements of clandestine business.

Between that questionable wine merchants' and the tacky jewelry store, dealings were less honorable. Colley Road wasn't as well known to the wealthy as the marketplace, but to those of us who had all but lived on the streets, this was the place to sell our wares.

Wares. I shuddered at the thought, though to any observer it would just look like my thin dress didn't cover me properly from the cold – it didn't – but I had grown numb to the chill. I had hoped never to arrive at this place – to become one of those people. Growing up in a Catholic orphanage, there was a stigma to those people. Maybe because we were the lucky ones that didn't have to sell ourselves to live.

But now, I did. Standing as far away from the entering customers as I could, I watched the hushed interactions, the quick discussions and stealthy movements away from the narrow road. Could I really do this? Maybe if I sunk back further towards the wall, no one would see me, I wouldn't have to do this. But I needed the money; I was hungry, and the lady in green – I never did learn her name – wouldn't let me stay another night without reimbursement.

Standing there, in that freezing almost-alleyway, I felt an odd sense of foreboding – like I had crawled into a pit I was never going to come out of; today was the third of January, my birthday, though that hardly seemed significant anymore. The afternoon was wearing on; more "customers" would be arriving soon. I'd have to step away from the wall at some point. Still, my feet resisted my brain's commands; I didn't want to move away from here. I was terrified, and so my thin shoes sank just a little further into the snow.

I tried to reason with myself. I was worthless anyway; nobody wanted me, nothing that I did would ever amount to anything. I knew that; the harsh reality had been drilled into me my whole life. Nobody wanted to be associated with me; nobody bothered to give me a second glance.

Maybe no one would give me a second glance tonight. Maybe this wouldn't prove to be lucrative – and I would have to find another way to pay the lady in green that had given me a place to stay.

Except, I was only here because I'd already exhausted all my other options. No one would give a girl like me a job. There were too many of us around the city already, too many of us desperate for money, who would do anything for bread. We were uneducated, unskilled – and the worst – we were girls. There was nothing else for us.

"Missy."

The snarl caught my attention; a man was looking straight at me. He was a large and broad, and his black hair stood on end from the wet of the snow. He pushed his hand toward me; a single dollar bill – more than I had seen in a month. I took it without thinking; before my mind caught up, he was already turned around, and I was going to have to follow him.

As I stepped away from the wall, yet another part of me began to worry. There was supposed to be a little bit more discussion to these transactions, wasn't there? Did he know that this was my first time standing out here in the "alley?" Would that affect his choice? Maybe it was better that he didn't know.

He was tall and dark. Mysterious, but not in an alluring way; there was something almost sinister in the sneer he had worn when he handed me the faded bill. His face was messy, unshaven, and his hair a little bit too long and unkempt. His clothes were nondescript, as if he wanted to fade into the rest of the world, not to be seen. I was certain his attempts were in vain. His face was pale – not sickly, and not albino – and his teeth were the purest white, creepy behind his grim smile.

As I walked behind him I knew that the huddled bystanders were watching. Now in the light, his skin was so pale it was almost luminous, and he kept to the shadows as if the sun would sting. I had to scurry along to keep up, and almost slipped in the icy patches more than once. I doubted this man would help me up though, if I did fall. Something in his manner was decidedly uncivil.

We arrived at a boarded up building – once a one-room home squeezed between the other larger buildings on the street – and, eager to get out of the cold, I almost ran through the door behind the man. I hadn't seen his eyes, but the moment the door closed behind him and we were standing in the dark of the derelict house I decided that maybe it was better that way. I didn't want to remember today, or tonight, or tomorrow. I could not think about what I was doing; I could only keep telling myself that I needed the money.

No turning back now, I reminded myself as I stepped towards the man's outline in the unlit room. His shoulders were drooped, and at first I thought he was tired or too tall for the room, before I turned my head the slightest bit, away from a sudden cold draft.

I had been wrong. The man wasn't bent; he was crouching, like a cat about to pounce. In the sliver of light, streaming through a crack in one of the boards on a window – where the draft must have come from - I could see a slice of his face. His teeth were bared – ominously sharp – and his jaw was tight as if in anticipation. I should have realized that moving forward was a mistake, and that the last thing this man wanted from me was sex, but all I thought about was my mantra; I need the money, I need the money.

I stepped forward once more, so that we stood close enough to smell each others' breath – hopefully temptingly close. I heard him inhale sharply, and I hoped that he wasn't repulsed by the stench of a girl from the streets. I turned my face upwards, pasting on a sultry smile, desperate for my jaunty movements to fade into seductive swayings.

Instead, all the breath whooshed out of my lungs. I began to stumble forward, catching myself on his rock hard arms, and propelling myself backwards – as far away as I could. His skin had been cold – as cold as the snow outside – and as unmoveable as stone. My hands ached more from touching him than my ankle did from being twisted, and I clutched the dollar bill tighter in my left hand.

"Please," I begged, perhaps subconsciously for my life, or maybe just for this process to be quick. Nonetheless, instead of unbuttoning my dress like I had intended, I backed further away – though the room was small, and there wasn't much distance left between my back and the wall.

It was from that angle that I finally saw his eyes in the light. I hesitated in my scuttling away, instead of doing the sensible thing and running. They were unlike any eyes I had ever seen; instead of brown or blue or green or gray, they were the deepest of wine reds. A dark ring outside the irises was growing, becoming blacker as his strange smile became more pronounced.

Still, once I'd taken in the extraordinary pair of eyes, I searched for emotion behind them. I saw not lust, but hunger. Suddenly, something clicked in the back of my mind, and I realized now that I should worry. The bared incisors, the cold solid skin, the hunger – the face was somehow unnatural.

His threatening red eyes bore into me; I didn't need the sliver of light to know that he wasn't seeing me as a human, or even as a prostitute.

I was his prey.

This wasn't worth a dollar anymore. Maybe all he wanted was to push me around some; I tried to think of reasons for this non-human behavior. As I kept drawing blanks, he kept moving forward – step by menacing step – and I begged once more – this time for my life - my voice breaking.

"Please."

He seemed to pause for a moment, as if taking my desperation into consideration, before moving forward just as stealthily as before. "No," he barely breathed out, but the seductively sweet scent was enough to freeze my thoughts.

I don't remember how long I stood there, both terrified and captivated. It could have been a minute – it could have been days. All I can recall is a horrible pain, moving slowly – like a fire crawling across my skin.

And then a noise right outside the door – the familiar sounds of a scuffle, a street brawl – and the man was gone. But the pain wasn't.

I was going to die.

I was going to die.

I was going to die, and that was okay, because my life was worth nothing.

Especially not that stupid dollar that I still clutched in my left hand.

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