I was walking home from a day of work that was, by definition, uneventful. I worked in a back-alley bar, serving cocktails and having the chance at multiple sex partners. Of course, even if the school wasn't against my having a life, I would've said no. No matter what I did, or how lonely I was, or how pissed off I was at Dean for apparently getting over me so quickly when I was mourning the loss of my entire life, I still had unnecessarily strong morals.
Anyway, I was walking home from work itching at my curly-brunette wig and generally hating everything that seemed to represent happiness that managed to surround me. My cell phone rang a generic tone that I only recognized because of its distinctly painful blandness. I reached half-heartedly towards my purse for it; I was probably ten minutes late and Susan, Mrs. Pendle, was 'just checking' on the edge of hysteria.
Of course, a glance at my cell phone told me I was wrong. It was from a contact labeled 'Elmo' – Allan. He knew only to call me during an emergency and with uninhibited panic I answered, "Hello? You there?" I didn't risk saying who it was, in case it wasn't actually Allan on the phone. I just needed to hear my brother's voice, just to be sure it was him.
The other end was full of static, an annoyance at best, but through the muffled crackling and the occasional second that the line cut I could make out Allan's panicked voice. "Car… h…. gah…. Az…"
I didn't need to hear much more than that; the 'Az' was all that was necessary. The line cut off completely at that moment and, rather than waste my time standing in the middle street like a stereotypical blonde, I ran the last five blocks to my 'house' at an unnatural sprint. "SUSAN!" I knew instinctually where my Watcher would be – the kitchen. She was always there when I was done my shift, eating a sandwich for dinner like that was what she actually wanted. "Susan," I gasped at her, the front door still hanging ajar, "All… Allan needs help."
"Carrie," Susan scolded, her body tuned in to mark every mistake I made. She scooted for the front door, leaning out carefully to make sure that no one was standing out there, listening to our important conversations. Like we ever even talked. "Now, what is it you're rambling about?" She only asked me once she had closed the door, locked three of the five locks, and sat back down to her dry turkey and pickle sandwich.
"Allan, I have a bad feeling that he needs help; I need you to call whoever is taking care of him." I had to be careful not to mention that I knew this because I'd kept his number with me at all times. That spelled out trouble more effectively than any pit-stop that might make me late.
"Nonsense, Carrie," Susan, flipped her hand at me, shoeing away my feelings with an easy flick of her wrist, "Trust that Allan is safe."
"Has anyone checked on him recently?" Like, the part five minutes recently, Suzie Q.
My Watcher wiped at her the nonexistent crumbs on her bottom life as she tried to respond and laugh at me at the same time, resulting in a lethal combination that might result in my snapping her neck, "Even if he had been checked on, I wouldn't be updated; it's too dangerous, you know that. Where did this come from?"
"I have a bad feeling," I explained, "I think Allan's in trouble; please, can you call someone and have them check on him?"
"This is complete and utter nonsense, Carrie; be sensible. What, do you have a psychic connection with your brother?" Susan laughed at that, an annoying mixture of bells and a bubbling potion. I wanted to scream at her that I had technology, the ever-elusive cell phone, but I bit my tongue as she continued to twitter at me, "Tell me when you can tell the lottery numbers, Carrie. The school is running low on donations."
My jaw dropped in unadulterated amazement as my Watcher stood with her plate, totally ignorant to my instincts. I try to tell her that something is going down, and the bitch complains about the economy. Really, feeling that the last remaining member of your family is in danger isn't that unheard of. "Aren't you going to check it out at all?"
"And nurse these silly delusions of yours? Not at all."
The plate clattered into the sink, crashing into the metal and making me jump much more than was acceptable for a Slayer. Susan raised an eyebrow at this, but I could only glare back at her. I didn't even have the heart to offer an excuse; she deserved to be apologizing to me for being officially dumber than a hunter. And hunters think they can do my job without superhuman help. Some of them can…
I shook my head, it wasn't the time to think about Dean. I had to decide what to do about Allan, and I had to decide before tonight.
It turned out, as I trudged up the stairs in my black stretch pants and forest-green T-shirt with a logo on it, that I didn't have much of a decision to make at all. I had a general idea as to where Allan was living: around the big pine forest in New Jersey where everyone spots the Jersey Devil. I remember thinking how ironic it was and teasing Allan, in my mind, about not letting the bed-devils bite.
I could easily hop a train to New Jersey. If I did it right, Susie Q wouldn't even know I'd left. Hop on the train at twelve thirty, be in New Jersey by two o'clock at the latest, quickly swing by a few of those towns, and be back by six. Sure, I'd be beat tomorrow, but it'll be worth it to see that Allan was alright.
My legs felt weighted down as I dragged myself into a seven-eleven at four that morning, the slightest bit of brightness on the eastern horizon. It turned out that I wasn't as close to the action as I thought I was, and that Allan would be a little harder to track than I originally gave the school credit for. This town was the last stop I could make tonight if I even dared to hope to get back before Susan woke up.
The man behind the counter was tall and black with deep-brown eyes that were openly judging me as I staggered in. What was I doing there at this time of night? I obviously wasn't from anywhere in town. Instead of pretending to browse and pick up something small to start the conversation, like a chocolate bar or a soda, I blatantly staggered the few feet to the counter and slammed Allan's picture, one thing I'd been able to save from the fire and the grubby hands of wanna-be male slayers, down onto the counter. "Have you seen this boy around here?"
The cashier glanced down before judging me again suspiciously. "Why?" His voice was deep, deeper than his eyes had let on. That is, if eyes correlate to voice in any manner. It's too late for this.
"He's my brother; I've been looking for him to surprise him on his birthday. Does he live in this town?"
The cashier picked up the picture, then, squinting at it before nodding, "I know him, down on Folly Oak. Big white house – can't miss it."
I nodded, a barely-audible thank you escaping my lips as I staggered out of the door. I'd become spoiled, apparently; I don't have to pull all-nighters when I have no friends to distract me. Now I'm up almost twenty-one hours and I'm stumbling like a sick drunken penguin. Maybe not a penguin. See? I'm too tired to even come up with a good metaphor, and I'm an English major!
By some strange stroke of luck, I remember seeing a road by the name of Folly Oak on the way into down and, in my sickly-drunken gait, found my way back to it. The big white house, which the cashier had so kindly described in so little detail, was almost six blocks down, and in those six blocks I woke up. The closer I got to Allan, the more worried I remembered to be. At four in the morning I expected it to be quiet, but as far as I could tell most of the lights in the house were on. Was that a precaution, did Allan have twenty-four hour surveillance, or did something go on?
Then again, if there was all-night protection, there should be all night sounds too. Even standing just in front of the house from the edge of the street I couldn't hear anything. My body tensed and, deciding that either someone was in there protecting or someone was in there trying to kill my brother, I slid up towards the house and quickly, quite loudly, kicked the door open.
The house was plain, that is it was except for the blood that immediately caught my attention. It had slowly started dripping down the staircase and was forming the smallest of puddles at the bottom. Fear forced my neck upwards before I could think to be scared, and I was greeted with the sight of a dead redheaded girl, one of her long arms falling down the stairs as her head bled onto the first stair which had formed the small river of blood that I'd seen.
"Allan," I called, mostly hesitant. No thinking about where I was stepping, I turned and walked around the first floor where I found one blonde slayer and a man with a snake on his arm. They had both been stabbed, the girl in a bedroom on the first floor and the man in the kitchen. "Allan?" All I could think to do, in spite of my training, was panic; I hadn't been worried about noise, so I know Allan has heard me. And that means he's not coming down because he can't.
Upstairs I found one more body and, although I'd thought for a second it had been Allan because of his dark hair, the face was all wrong and he looked too strong. I combed over the second floor again, awkwardly stepping over the redheaded girl.
"ALLAN!" The scream was desperate as I stood, dejected, next to the dead girl at the top of the stairs. Her eyes were closed and I was left completely unsure of where to look or what to do to get my brother back; he's been taken, I know he has. Someone doesn't just waltz into a house with two slayers, a watcher, and a wizard and let a regular human slip away down the street, possibly screaming bloody murder.
As if my frustrated scream had summoned them, the door which I didn't even remember closing was kicked open and, a few seconds later, police-people in black clothing and bullet-proof vests barged into the house, their arms locked and their guns pointing towards the floor. "Freeze!"
Of course, when you're a Slayer with a knife that may or may not be strikingly similar to the murder weapon, standing in blood next to a dead body at four thirty in the morning, the last thing you want to do is freeze. Actually, the last thing you want to do is throw your pocket knife at the police-people but you shouldn't even consider that as an option.
And, quite aware of what I should be doing, I instead stood there shocked. The idea that Allan had simply gotten lost blew my mind once it hit; some part of me expected it to be Allan running through that door, avoiding the blood for fear of it staining his shoes. He's probably just gone to a party – that was his style.
Careful of the blood, the policemen rushed the stairs, grabbing me and shoving me around. I had half a mind to fight them back, and I would've if the other half of my mind was even registering thoughts. It wasn't, though. And that was a big problem.