Count Rises to Five: Mysterious Disappearances Continue.
They watch, somber, as the Captain reaches for his corkboard; paperclipped to this latest article—as with the others—is the missing person's report that it corresponds to. The station is eerily silent, everyone waiting for someone else to speak first. Five glowing faces smile at them from beneath multicolored push pins, ranging from 4½ to 40. Each new report is a failure, a spreading stain on D-11's previously spotless record.
It makes no sense; it never does, does it? Kidnappings are senseless in the same way as murders and arsons and rapes. Senseless, without purpose—all crimes means little, in terms of purpose, except to those who are directly impacted. And, in another way, to those who must bear the weight of its knowledge.
D-11 falls into the latter category, mundane office days thrown into disarray by a growing string of vanished souls. Witness-less crimes reap little reward; clueless questions are met with equally helpless stares. Class, religion, lifestyle: each story is diverse, with no connection between the victims. Even last known locations don't coordinate into any pattern, the (now) five markers laid at random across the map.
Law enforcement can only cling to the one coinciding fact: each victim was an outsider, stopping overnight on their way to elsewhere. They wandered into the forest for differing reasons, at different times on different days, and sometimes seasons apart. One, an aspiring photographer, wanted to capture the spring foliage. Another had the habit of pre-dawn jogs, no matter the weather. A third read about the nature trails in a town center brochure.
No matter the reason, the villagers are adamant about only one thing—they had to have wandered from the main path. Their forest is infamous; there have been other disappearances in the past. But never this many, and never within the space of a single year.
The Fae , say the historians. In the old days, they were simply faeried away to… to somewhere else. Or the—
Dark magic, the elders chuckle, a tired sadness written into every creased face. Dark magic, they used to say, left over from the Picts, the Romans, who-knows-else. It may be so; who can tell? Or, you know, they say that there's—
Ravines, the rangers nod with shared sympathy. There's plenty of little pockets to get lost in, if you don't know the way. And, God forbid, if there's water in the bottom? You'll never know if a body's down there or not without falling in yourself.
Every D-11 officer has encountered the same stories, each told with the frank, detached tone of innocence. Hints of truth wrapped in age-old fairy tales, recounted so often that no one could pinpoint where the rumors began. They take turns digging in boxes of files, squinting as the close-set typewriting becomes cramped, handwritten scrawl. They trace the village back to its roots in pre-plague England, poring over lists of the original inhabitants. They come to the same unfortunate conclusion.
There is no reason to suspect foul play in Cheddar.
"Listen." Captain Barnes isn't the sort of man who must rely on shouting for attention. A former high school heavyweight champion, he has a chest the size of two grown men and the robust tone to back up any threats he makes. Still, what he lacks in grace he makes up for in civility; in the D-11 station that includes assuming that everyone else is too busy to listen to him.
Everyone turns as one to face the cluttered desk, glancing fearfully at equally startled, concerned faces. It's clear everyone dreads the same thing: a sixth victim. However, good news or bad—the captain won't be rushed. For a long moment he stares at the corkboard behind his desk, pinching the bridge of his nose. The room is still.
"Listen," he begins again, sighing heavily as he turns to face them. His hand scrubs over two days' worth of graying stubble, pale eyes failing to scan the contents of his cluttered desk. "I don't remember a damn thing anymore," he chuckles wearily. "Who's turn is it?"
A collective murmur of relief leaps from desk to desk, everyone relaxing just enough to offer weak laughter in return. It's followed by a slightly louder thrum of muttered voices, throats clearing and elbows nudging as they jostle for anything except first place. Office drudgery is normally a bad thing, but no one has the heart to continue to harass the Cheddar villagers. They clearly don't know anything, and despite continued patience it's evident that the authorities are outstaying their welcome.
And besides, it's heart-wrenching to drive past the lone roadside memorial, to comb the hotline tips for anything useful, to tell the hopeful families that no, there have been no new leads since yesterday. It's true that every team on the squad has to take their turn, but if it can be delayed for as long as possible….
"Sir, my team ran the maze last." One officer, Bentley, finally offers. "It's the kit—er, it's Eddie's turn." Halfhearted snickers break out among the ranks, heads turning to look towards the far-left corner of the room. The 'Kitten Patrol', they've been dubbed, though not many dare to use the term within earshot. Said 'kitten' is a young blonde, her cheeks round with the last remnants of childhood despite other features proclaiming her a bonafide woman. Her hair ruffles, shoulders hunching as she becomes aware of the eyes on her; still, she refuses to acknowledge their inquisitive stares. Her blue gaze centers, completely focused on the captain's gleaming badge.
"Right, right. Edward." The man in question, leaning against the wall, quickly stands at attention when addressed. "You know the drill." Captain Barnes peers at them, tilting his head with a wry, knowing smile. "Take Kitten here for a walk in the woods, why don't you?" The corners of his eyes crinkle, rife with the shadows of his usual self. For a moment he looks on the verge of laughter, but within two blinks his visage has reschooled itself into something more appropriate for the occasion. "Seras? Simon?"
"Yes, sir."
"See if you can ferret out some new information from the villagers. Remember your training, and don't hound them for longer than necessary. I want the three of you to search the trails again, too. It won't hurt to give it the once over. I want an immediate report on anything that seems out of place, no matter how trivial."
"Yes, sir!"
Nine years old, maybe. Average build, red hair in two plaits down her back. White blouse, blue polka dots and lace hems. Khaki shorts, pink sandals half buried in the sand as she squats. Her face is stoic, solemn in contemplation of the flowers laid out on the ground before her.
It's that expression that propels Seras through the gate and into the playground proper. Being both the youngest and the newest, she is left with the Cheddar her teammates don't want to handle—that is, the boring part. They've abandoned her on a barren stretch of highway, waving her towards the lone neighborhood on the horizon before burning rubber in their hurry to reach the heart of the village.
Determined to do her due diligence, she knocks on every door, peering hopefully into the darkened, curtained windows and leaving, defeated, when it's clear no one's home. It makes sense; most adults would be in town on a workday. Any children old enough to fend for themselves—or with older siblings to look after them—are gathered in a sandy lot near the woods.
It's a playground only in the barest sense of the term: a ground dedicated to play. A single row of chain-link swings, creaking in the breeze, and a lone slide covered in a thick layer of grime. A basketball goal with no net stands sentinel against the far fence. The only other structure is an iron climbing cage, a half-circle encrusted with flaking rust.
It's here, in the center of the cage, where she squats, chubby fingers spread over skinned knees. She's oblivious to Seras's curious gaze, scowling as she stares at a foxglove. The sand around the cage is disturbed, a small moat dug in a large, oblong ring a few paces from the bottommost bars. The other children are near the slide, its ladder groaning as they clamber over the sides in a spirited game of king of the hill. It's only this child who is excluded, though she seems neither lonesome nor troubled by this development. She's lost in a sea of her own thoughts, barely stirring when an adult shadow obscures the sun.
"Hello there." A quick flash, startlement, plaits flying as she turns. Tawny eyes catch the gleaming badge, pinned squarely flush to her breast, and she relaxes. The police, a woman of authority. Safer, presumably, than an unmarked stranger. An acceptable intrusion. "You're here by yourself?" she asks.
"No." A quick retort—not rude, merely concise. "My brother's over there." She nods to the children swaying on the slide. "He's winning." A passive, leaden pause falls between them; silent, they watch a gangly redhead wrestle with a child the size of a small boar.
"I see." Seras kneels in the sand, ignoring the grit beneath her slacks. Somewhere between child and adult, the world's textures become an annoyance; where she fidgets, trying to keep from making a face, the girl is an immovable statue. "You didn't want to play with them?" The child shakes her head, pointing obstinately to the flowers in neat rows before the toes of her sandals.
"Nope." She stands, brushing the sand from her bare legs and squinting up to meet the inquisitive blue eyes gazing back at her. "I haven't seen you 'round here before."
"Nope," Seras parrots. "You wouldn't have; I'm only visiting for the day."
"Oh." A beat. "You're helping the normal police." She chews the end of one carrot braid, tasting the hair before letting it drop over her shoulder. "My oldest brother is one of them," she admits, hanging her full weight from the rusty bars. The sand gives under her heels, digging smaller divots that uncover a bottom layer of earth. "His last name is Dauriac." A vague memory surfaces: a splotchy young face, not much older than herself, and a sparse copper mustache. "You're D-11, right?"
"Yes, I am."
"'s what I thought." Satisfied with this interrogation, she dusts the sand from an oxlip and offers it through the bars. It lays, demure, a pat of butter against the spotless white of her police gloves. The delicate petals are already fading from the summer heat. "Be careful," the child advises, leaning on the cage as if it were a bar counter, "it's from the forest, so you ought not take it past that ." She points with placid calm to the moat just beyond Seras's patent leather boot.
"And why not?"
"Magic stops at the circle." She chews her thumbnail now, teeth working the sand from beneath the white half-moon. "Iron, too—'s poison to fairies, didn't you know?" She didn't, as a matter of fact. Part of her wants to grin at this fairytale logic, so clearly lifted from the same stories her elders offered the authorities. But the girl's grim tones of devout sincerity won't allow anything, even a smile, to spoil the mood. "That's why I'm here."
"Sorry?" A correlation? "I'm afraid I don't follow."
"It's from the forest ," she repeats painstakingly. "I forgot we weren't supposed to go now, so I went to pick flowers like I always did. Scottie found me and got me out before anything happened." She nods to the redheaded boy, now engaged in a swing-and-jump competition. "I don't wanna get eaten, so I put them here and Scottie n' Geordie n' Ian all dug a magic circle for me. See, my gran said that if you take something out the forest, that can draw 'em out. It'll be able to find you."
"What will?" Seras feels a glimmer, a buoyant pebble in the pit of her stomach. There is a hope, however small, that this girl might say something the adults hadn't. Grown men and women are too wary of self-image to be fully forthcoming, especially if the stories were 'for children and old men'. But stories are steeped in truth, no matter how convoluted. "What will find you?"
"Whatever it is that eats people," she says, brow wrinkling in amused sarcasm for this oblivious outsider. Without further ado she climbs the inner cage, lifting herself easily from an upper opening as if to prove, once and for all, that she is a willing participant in this endeavor. "So, anyway, don't take any flowers out of the circle." She concludes her instructions with a grunt, bumping down the outer ring of the cage and landing solidly, but without grace, on the sand.
"So, what you're saying is—" She's astonished that she is encouraging this kind of indulgent fae talk. Surely I don't believe this? The strangest part is that a small piece of her does believe. It's a deep seated, primal wariness that sits in shadow at the back of her mind, whispering that the girl speaks truth. A portion of scripture from the orphanage floats, unbidden, to the forefront of her thoughts.
From the mouths of children and infants….
"But what about us?" she interrupts herself, trying to regain sense in the face of this folk madness. "You touched the flowers with your bare hands. And I touched them with my gloves." She opens her palms to show yellow grains of pollen dotting the white cloth. "Even if we leave the flowers in the cage, we're going to be carrying a part of them with us all day." The girl considers this blithely, looking at her own hands with knitted brows.
"Well?" She shrugs, turning on one heel to scrape her fingers over the iron bars. Flakes of rust sprinkle like snow, coating the digits along with sandy grit and earth.
"That'll do," the child says, with an air of finality. She looks up, waiting for Seras to follow her example. The tiny voice implores her to do it, despite the logical side of her brain demanding a reasonable explanation for ruining a perfectly good pair of gloves with rust. An awkward silence ensues as she strips the gloves from her hands, beating them against the cage as lightly as possible so that flurries of pollen rise from the fabric. It's not the most elegant option, but it works well enough that she's rewarded with a gap-toothed grin.
"Now that that's out of the way," Seras begins, trying to reclaim her role as an investigator, "can I ask you a few more questions?"
"Guess so." A shrug; it's clear that this is a normally evasive child. She is unwilling—or unable—to openly defy an adult's pestering, but the interrogation is starting to annoy her. Unless the subject is carefully navigated, she might turn surly and refuse to speak.
"Have your parents ever mentioned anything about the woods?"
"Just that we aren't supposed to go there anymore. People are missing." She toes at the sand, staring over her shoulder at the abandoned flowers in the cage.
"But no one's mentioned anything more? Not even your brother?"
"Nope." She seems sincere enough, but then a flash of remembrance lights her soft irises. "Wait, well—my gran, she told my brother that the police ought not cross the wall when they go looking for the missing people. But I never seen no wall," she adds quickly, "and I've been deep in the woods, camping and stuff." She shifts her weight nervously, uncomfortable with the recollection. "Gran says weird stuff sometimes. Maybe she got confused."
"Maybe," Seras agrees, but her heart does gymnastics behind her sternum. This is new information! She's been over the case file time and time again—they all have—and a wall was never mentioned. Perhaps Officer Dauriac, like his sister, thought that his grandmother was confused and dismissed the warning. "But thank you for telling me, anyway."
"Mm." Her eyes flick towards the swings; Seras glances up to see the children dispersed, the redheaded boy making a beeline for the cage. He pauses uncertainly when he sees the badge, hovering anxiously and scratching a scab on his forearm.
"Oi," he blurts out, clearly trying to ignore Seras's presence. "'s lunchtime, and I'm hungry. If you want a sandwich, you better come home."
"Okay." The girl takes one last look, craning her little neck to meet Seras's eyes. "Good luck, ma'am."
"Thank you. Be careful on your way home," she adds, watching her slip over the sand as she runs to meet her brother. He grabs her wrist when she's close enough, steadying her and then half-leading, half-dragging her back towards one of the shuttered townhouses lining the far end of the street.
It only occurs to her after she turns towards the highway that neither asked the other's name.
The forest is where her senses come alive.
The trail is well worn and clearly visible, winding south towards a gulch that houses the stream coursing beneath Cheddar bridge. However, nature hasn't given up the fight; the path is sandy beneath her boots, trodden gravel giving way to dust that will, in time, envelop it fully. If not maintained, the trail could easily dissolve back into the forest that birthed it; it would take less than a single lifetime.
Above her head the sky is emerald, branches shielding her from the worst of the afternoon sun. The shade is welcome; the dappled sunlight is warm on her forearms, but her cheeks are already pinkened from its morning kiss. The breeze lifts her bangs, bring the fresh aroma of pine sap. Immediately after is a mustier scent, something more suited to earth: decay. Season after season of fallen leaves, moldering beneath the wide caps of the fungus it feeds. It lingers on the back of her tongue, odd but not unpleasant. It is only the course of nature, nothing more.
She stands ramrod straight on the path, muscles straining as she tries to make herself as large as possible. Her eyes can barely see the blue tip of Simon's cap, bobbing along a twisted hedge as he scours the eastern side of the path. Behind her, Eddie investigates the western side; she can hear his crunching footsteps snapping twigs as he traverses along the trunk of a fallen tree. He curses, stumbling over something—brambles—and the muted thud of his hand falls against the rotten trunk.
She is a beacon, a marker to signify where safety can be found. It would never do for a member of D-11 to become the next victim; the PR fallout alone would be hell enough. Failure is not an option; they're there because they are the best. They will find the killer, or the bodies, or… or something. Anything.
They have to.
"Damn it all." Eddie's cap slaps his trousers, fabric on fabric. "I don't get it!" His steps grow louder as he returns, crunching leaves broadening first to softer dirt, then the loose, slippery gravel. Seras turns nothing towards him but her attention, eyes still locked on Simon in the distance. "I don't get it," he repeats, voice hoarse with subdued frustration. "We've checked nearly every hot spot on this trail, and we've got nothing to show for it but dirty gloves and sweat. I don't like it."
"We'll just have to keep looking," she replies, attempting a light, matter-of-fact tone. Often, Eddie wants someone to argue with him, a soundboard to bounce ideas off of in his effort to think. But he doesn't take the bait; his pale gaze roams over the dancing shadows, shimmering light highlighting uneven patches of forest floor.
"I don't like this ," he corrects himself quietly. "It feels like the damn woods are watching us." She knows what he means, even if he doesn't have the words to say it. There's an uneasy stillness in the air around them, like a sinister grin felt rather than seen. It makes her want to turn her head, searching over her shoulder for something that isn't there.
However… she can't believe that they're truly being watched. Perhaps it's only the local legends; there's no denying any D-11 member wouldn't be caught out in the woods alone, not now. It's not mind over matter, but mind against itself—superstition could not be allowed to win the battle against logic. Shadows are tricky things, after all; trees with eyes are the stuff of nightmares and horror films. But sound reasoning doesn't stop the hair on her arms from rising in retaliation to a shudder that slips, slower than a lover's caress, down her spine.
"Maybe there are," she mutters instead. A ridiculous notion roots in her mind that, should she avert her gaze, Simon will be gone when she looks again. I will not turn away, she thinks obstinately to herself, narrowing her eyes against the urge to blink. I can control my fear. But I will not turn away.
Of course, Simon trudges back to the trail with no problems, palms smeared with mulch. He shakes his head at them, scratching his blonde sideburns with a shrug. Wordlessly, the three of them walk together down the path towards the final "hot spot": the fifth victim's last known location. They fall into their usual order: Eddie leading, Simon at the rear, and Seras following a full two steps behind thanks to their longer strides.
She can only guess what they must look like in public, a hapless rookie tagging after the seasoned officers like a forlorn puppy. She hears the laughter muffled behind gloves, knows the whispered nicknames that send bile rising to the back of her throat. They see her as a baby animal, adorable but only playacting at being an adult. It makes her sick to her stomach, the knowledge that it will take nothing short of a tragedy for them to see her as a fellow officer in arms.
Perhaps this is why she makes a conscious effort to catch up, to overtake, jogging ahead to the bend still measured in neat lines of police tape. It turns before a sharp drop down to the gulch, the stream sparkling in the late afternoon sun. It's closer to dusk than noon, now; in the fresher breeze she can detect the hint of something floral. Wild roses , she thinks, closing her eyes. Behind her lids are pink sandals, buried in the grainy sand.
"I'll take a turn now," she calls, eyeing how Eddie's hand keeps straying to his arthritic hip. She's already had to traverse down empty neighborhoods and interview children in lieu of their elders; it's not fair for her to spend the remainder of their workday as a living statue.
Simon opens his mouth to argue, but a nod from his superior is enough to send him trudging towards the western edge of the trail without a word. Eddie takes her place, hands deep in the pockets of his trousers as another nod sends her scurrying towards the eastern edge of the forest. When she reaches the gravel's edge a childish impulse overtakes her; she nearly turns back to make sure that she's not alone, that they won't vanish the moment she leaves the safety of the trail.
A fear, however irrational, is still a fear. And fear can, must be, subdued. Inhaling sharply through her nose, she again catches the sweet aroma of wild roses. An abandoned trellis, forgotten by time and reclaimed by the forest? Or did the birds bring seeds from the surrounding countryside?
If she can't find a clue in this godforsaken forest, she can at least find a few flowers to lift her spirits. Small victories, Seras. Small victories. The untamed grass tickles her calves through the trousers as she steps from the path, gaze locked purposefully forward.
She waits until the trees envelop her fully before turning to find Eddie—or his cap, a smear of blue amongst the leaves. Reassured by the sight, her earlier determination resurfaces with a new vigor; she picks her way through the tree line, eyes trailing the ground. The loamy soil holds the shape of earlier boot prints, remnants of the officers that came before. None are small enough to be a woman's shoe—their victim is female, size 6½.
The sun flashes in her eyes as she moves, shining at an angle as it continues its descent. The light dazzles her enough that she's forced to stop, blinking the dark spots from her vision as she turns away from the worst of the glare. She focuses first on a small sapling barely 'round as her wrist; it's in the process of being strangled by a large, leafy vine of thorns. The leaves fairly glow in the open sun, their broad, veiny tops turning back and forth in the—
Wait. It's like the children's game. One of these things is not like the other. One of these leaves is different, subtly so, just enough that even an eagle-eyed investigator might not think twice….
A miniscule snatch of cloth, torn in a shape that too closely resembles the vines pointed leaves, in the same soft green hue. The breath catches in her throat as she bends, one boot sliding on the leaf-strewn floor as she angles herself to put the vine at eye level. The shadows shift as she lowers herself to a child's level, balancing her arm on one solid knee. There. A single sandal print, hidden so well that no one, save a toddler, could have noticed.
She wants to jump and shout, filled to overflowing with triumph at her own short-lived superiority. She, Seras Victoria, has done what her superiors could not! Cynicism is the only thing sharp enough to stem the flow of elation. She knows that she should call the others, that they should all work together rather than squabble for credit. But she also knows that the credit would go to Eddie, or her two partners, and she would once again be left in their shadow. Any attempt to object that she furthered the case would be scoffed at as the whimpering of an overeager rookie.
Resentment bubbles briefly in her chest, white hot and bitter enough to silence the outcry of rationality. Casting a quick glance over her shoulder, she sees Eddie's cap; it is a beacon, assurance that her fellows still exist, that they have not been spirited away like the others. The others that she is one step closer to finding….
Stepping cautiously around the footprint (it won't do to ruin evidence), she edges into the sparse animal trail that winds, unseen, between the thorny vines. The print doesn't seem deep, or dragging—the walker wasn't in a hurry, at least at this stage. Orienting herself in the same direction, she creeps down the trail in a half-squat.
That's when she sees the gate.
It's not the sort of gate one would imagine in the middle of a forest. All, rising a full head above her, with iron bars that end in sharp, rusted pikes. The scrolling fretwork is intact in places and broken away entirely in others. There's a padlock, rusted through as well, with a thick chain the size of her fist. On either side of the gate, running north to south, is a crumbling wall of solid brick. Ought not to cross the wall.
At first, it seems that there's no way the victim could have passed this way; perhaps the police had ways of crossing the wall, but not a teenage victim on her own, dressed for a nature hike. The padlock is secure, and the wall holds no further clues. Looking down, Seras sees flakes of rust littering the dusty forest floor, directly beneath the center bars. But that's not all: a gap in the bars, just large enough for a girl her own size to squeeze through.
Suddenly, in her mind's eye, she sees.
A girl, fifteen, annoyed. Her mobile has no service here, nothing to distract her from Mum and Dad and her annoying siblings. She needs to use the loo, rolls her eyes when Mum points to the trees with a laugh. She wades far enough to secure privacy, but not so far as to lose her way. Squats behind a tree, next to a sapling that snags her shirt. Angry, ripping, cursing under her breath. Sees—sees what, the gate? The wall? Something catches her eye nevertheless, enough for curiosity to win over common sense. Her fingers curl around the iron bars, rust falling to her feet.
Mischief, impishness prevails. Maybe she anticipates laughter at her family's frantic expense. Maybe they never cross her mind as she slides, easy as you please, through the gap and into… into what?
The forest floor on the other side of the gate holds no footprints.
I can fit through. The thought is dangerous, in a way she doesn't quite understand. The child's words are in the back of her mind, an elder's solemn warning against crossing the wall. Even more persistent is the repeated caution from Cheddar's inhabitants— don't leave the trail .
"That's ridiculous," she mumbles aloud. Even if she did believe, there's no way of knowing if this wall is the one in question. And although she would have to look away from the trail in order to pass through the gap, she'd be able to see it easily from the other side of the wide iron bars. And—the icing on this preposterous cake—the wall isn't big enough to hide anything, or anyone, over five feet.
As a member of D-11, superstition and fantasy cannot be allowed to hold sway over rational thought. It's absurd enough to have this conversation at all, even with herself. With no bodies, there's no guarantee that the victims aren't alive somewhere. This is a situation in which every second counts.
It's a smaller hole than she thought, and for one panicking moment she is afraid she'll be caught between the bars. Her trembling thighs scream as she holds a squat, fighting to fold her chest through the gap. It wouldn't do for Eddie and Simon to see her stuck in a gate; that alone rouses her determination. Sucking in her breath, she grits her teeth against the ache in her limbs and quite literally pops through to the other side.
Bloody— She climbs to her feet with a grimace, dusting soil and leaves from her rear before looking through the gap. The trail is still there, Eddie's hat visible through the trees. Of course… why did I doubt it? Shaking her head at her own naivety, she turns to investigate the opposite side of the wall.
The roses. Dozens, hundreds of them, stretching as far down the wall as she can see. Yellow, red, pink, white, even purple. They don't seem wild at all, but rather like a misplaced florist's display. The fragrance seems headier on this side of the gate, filling the air until nothing else remains but their thick perfume.
A deep burgundy one, sitting in a nest of white and peach, seems to call to her. Unthinking, she plucks it from its resting place, bringing it to her nose for a deep sniff. Velvet-soft petals brush her nose and she smiles, pleased that she managed to meet both her evening goals—she found clues and roses, not or.
"It's rude to take what doesn't belong to you."
The voice gruff, guttural. It's not Eddie, or Simon. Startled, she looks up from the rose… and up, and up, higher than her head and still some. Her heart skips a beat, then another, sputtering back to life and choking her lungs in an effort to catch up to time. Her bowels freeze, the icy sensation dropping to her toes and sending her legs into jellied spasms.
It's a beast.
There's no word for… for it. Large, black, with four limbs longer than her torso. Each paw is easily the size of her skull. Its teeth are impossibly large, glistening white in the pink expanse of its gums. Where there should only be two eyes, there are eight; more open along its shadowy, sinuous body while she watches. She can't hide from that many eyes—she hardly knows where to look. Suddenly it's all too clear why the bodies are missing. This beast wouldn't leave a mess; she could be swallowed in a single gulp, clothes and all.
She stares at the beast, because she's never seen anything like it before, and probably never will. Her life has been broken from years into seconds, maybe a full minute if she's lucky. It watches, waiting for her to make a move with the polite disinterest of a chess partner. And what move will she make?
She could scream, of course, but what's the use? Even if her partners could hear her, they would never find her in time. In a split second she'll be gone, and their bodies would only add to its count. She could attempt fighting, but that's equally laughable. Bullets won't stop a beast. She could cry, but she's not the type of girl to do that easily. Besides, sympathy and pity have no place here.
"Who gave you permission to gather my roses?" The voice is masculine, though perhaps a beast has no assigned gender. The rose is still in her hand, poised beneath her chin; lowering it slowly, she watches some of its eyes follow the motion. Others remain locked on her face. All rational courses of action seem worthless here; fumbling, she gives up and chooses the irrational route: engagement.
"I didn't realize they were yours." Internally, she's a stammering, trembling mess. But her voice sounds calm to her ears, without fear or horror. It's shock, she knows, but she's willing to ride the wave as long as possible. "Would you like it back?" Four of the beast's main eyes make a peculiar motion, quirking a nonexistent brow.
"No." Before she can move he sits, sphinxlike, before her. The wall is to her back, one massive leg caging her on either side. Her hair lifts in the fetid breath from its open maw; she tries not to breathe through her nose. There's still too many eyes to watch at once, and her unease ripples into foolhardy annoyance.
"What am I supposed to look at?" she huffs, unthinking. "Can't you have two eyes like everyone else?" Her breath sticks in her throat the moment the words leave her mouth; a moment's reflection is all it takes to discard her fear. Her fate is already sealed; does it matter how rude she is now?
A deep, throaty rumble turns her bowels to water, but the beast doesn't strike… yet. In fact, it seems to be laughing at her. To her immense astonishment the eyes close, one after another, until only the two largest on its skull remain. They glow with an eerie crimson light as it leans towards her, sniffing in a single deep breath that pulls the fabric of her uniform from her skin.
"You're terrified," it announces, amused.
"Wouldn't you be?" she manages to reply. The rose is twisted in her hands, a single lifeline. "Imagine minding your own business, only for something twice your size to sneak up on you out of nowhere."
"I wouldn't know," he growls, ears flicking lazily. "Nothing has been larger than me in some time. And nothing has ever been able to sneak up on me."
"Then consider yourself lucky." Her annoyance is back in full force; she disliked braggarts, beasts or no.
"Hmm." It stretched its mouth open, wider and wider, until she could map the join of its jaws. She braces herself to be eaten, but it yawns before licking its chops. "I've decided," it says, "that you'll be punished for stealing." She vaguely wonders when it had the time to think. Perhaps it's a diversion. She's so busy mulling it over that she nearly misses its next sentence. "But… you're too interesting to eat, Police Girl."
"Police…?" The jeered moniker takes a moment to sink it. Then, all at once, she feels the same bitter anger that 'Kitten' always caused. " Police Girl ? And I'm the rude one? That's mean!" Another rumbling growl sends her heart racing, although now she can recognize it for the laughter it is. It raises a paw, and she barely has time to understand what the beast means to do before it strikes.
The last thing she feels is the sensation of flight, the trepidation of broken bones, and then the world darkens to nothing at all.
Nothing is forbidden; she's allowed to go where she pleases here.
Here is a castle—old, large, and terribly beautiful in a historic sort of way. The ancient stone halls look as though they ought to be dusty, covered in cobwebs and all manner of creepy-crawlies. The grounds should be overgrown, as much an extension of the forest as anything else. And yet… it's not. It's both clean and efficiently managed; she can tell when things are moved or polished, the scent of lye soap wafting from the laundry. The orchards are pruned, the shrubs trimmed, and the jardin à la française tended with pride.
However, despite this efficiency the place seems abandoned. For the first week or so she did little but wander, searching in vain for another living being. She found nothing but the air. Perhaps air wasn't a proper word, though. They're more like ghosts, spirits; they, she thinks, for there's definitely more than one. She's learned their personalities, reading moods by the way they ferry her from place to place when the hour strikes. They can be gentle, coaxing, or demanding, anything from the softest breezes to the fiercest gales.
There are two in her bedroom—the suite she first awoke in. They play good-cop-bad-cop with her, one attempting to shove her headfirst into dresses while the other indulgently offers men's trousers. She chooses trousers more often, if only to save herself from the oppressive heat of multiple petticoats in midsummer.
The one in the main hall shoos her from the gleaming suits of armor; she once dropped a sword and was caught in a blustering whirlwind so dizzying that it left her eyes rolling in her head. She'd been more cautious from then on with things that weren't inherently hers, not wanting to face another hurricane force scolding.
Countless others roam the many halls, lifting her hair as they pass by unseen; she believes she is a favorite with some, the ones who take a moment to brush her arm or pluck at her clothing in greeting. She has no way of knowing what she's done to earn their favor; perhaps they're just happy to see a new face. They're her only company, and she likes to think of them as her friends, talking aloud to them as she goes about her day. Someone's always nearby to lend a hand, and they know every inch of the castle. They even seem to know what rooms she's not discovered yet, delighting in her growing fondness for the house and it's oddities.
She has no way of knowing how long she's been here, or how long the beast plans to keep her. Sometimes it feels as though years have passed, countless days marching by like a parade. Other times it seems like minutes, maybe an hour; in her mind's eye she can see Eddie waiting for her on the trail, hands in his pockets. Her life is at a standstill, held in eternal suspension.
A rose, encased in glass.
"You like roses."
There's no question that this is a dream. Seras saw the man before her only this morning, staring dolefully from a dusty frame in an ancient portrait gallery. Although she's never seen him before—and judging from the armor he wears, has been dead some time—there's something familiar in the way he holds himself, broad shoulders bent as he cleans blood from his sword. A curtain of kinked black hair falls across his angular jaw, hiding most of his expression.
"I do." The buds she admires are tightly closed against the cool air, but distant birdsong colors the otherwise gray light of pre-dawn. There's no trepidation as she walks towards this stranger, pausing only when she's in danger of encroaching his personal space. He pours attention into the blade the way another man might pamper an automobile. He stops only when her feet do, chin rising so that his eyes might meet her inquisitive stare.
His eyes are blue, like hers and yet starkly different. Her eyes speak of summer mornings, while his are the dusky midnight of deep winter. The rising sun, peeking over the tall pines, hits them with a scarlet gleam. It's enough to make her shiver; he turns his gaze back to the weapon on his lap.
"Are you content?"
"I'm… well kept." It's not a lie. "I ought to be thankful, I suppose," she adds piously. She might have been eaten straightaway, instead of taken back here—wherever here is. She has an entire castle at her disposal, and sylphs for servants. But she does wonder if being eaten was the better choice; at least then she wouldn't feel like the beast's version of a pet canary.
"You are not content, then," the lord surmises. He holds the sword to the light, studies it. "What is it, then, that you desire? You might ask for anything; should it be within your keeper's power, he would provide it. Surely you know that."
"All I want is to go home." A poignant silence follows her words. She looks up to see him watching her carefully, an indefinable expression trapped in the creases of his face. He's older than the realized… or rather, hardship has taken its toll on what would otherwise be a handsome visage. He stands, lifting one enormous hand, and she expects to be clapped for her insolence. But he merely rests it, palm down, on the crown of her skull.
"There's not much time," he remarks cryptically, voice distant with an emotion she can't describe; as she moves from deep sleep into a doze, she fancies that it's loneliness.
The beast comes every night, normally when she's eating. It never sups with her, but acts interested in watching her devour the magnificent dishes whipped up daily by the kitchen windstorm. At first she's afraid to speak, then cautious… then stubborn. But she doesn't take long to break; after all, it's the only thing here that can talk back.
Not that it talks much; it seems content to let her chatter, reclined on the stone floor in the dining hall. She can't help but wonder why it saw fit to keep her alive—to keep her at all. Perhaps the silent breeze wasn't proper company for a beast, either. Or perhaps she's amusing, fascinating, in a way she can't comprehend. It offers no explanation, and she never asks.
Normally it leaves once the meal is over, bidding her a good evening before vanishing into the forest. She detests watching it leave; she tries to convince herself that it's for a judicious reason. After all, he's probably looking for new victims. But she's also lonesome, and can't deny it.
One night it changes the routine. Rather than leaving immediately after her supper, it turns one massive paw to the side and doubles back into the dining hall. Startled at the deviation, she freezes, rooted to the spot. It stops only when it's close enough that she might touch the shaggy fur (not that she ever would, considering it something of a taboo).
"Police Girl."
"Yes?"
"Would you ever consider joining me?" The question alone throws her for a loop.
"J-joining?" She wants to say that the thought had never crossed her mind, but… what is he referring to? "Do you mean, like… a walk in the woods?" Her voice sounds small after its deep, echoing growl.
"No." It steps closer, forcing her to back away. "Allow me to drink your blood, and you can be as I am." As I am? A beast? The blood curdles in her veins.
"I don't want to," she blurts out. I don't want to be some eldritch nightmare! her mind screams. Immediately she flinches, waiting for snapping jaws to close in around her. So far, she's avoided being openly defiant to the beast; however, this is to go directly against its wishes. Surely her amusement factor, if there ever was one, is at an end. But it merely turns away, as if the conversation held little meaning in the first place.
"It is your choice."
Oh, if only that had been the end of it! She would have been too grateful to let the matter pass, to go about this new normalcy and never speak of it again. But each night the beast comes, and it will ask:
"Will you join me?"
"No," she answers, contrite at first and then annoyed.
"And I wish you wouldn't ask me," she snaps, déjà vu wearing thin on her nerves. She no longer fears being eaten alive; in fact, she hardly fears the beast at all. Once glance at the multi-eyed creature is enough to tell her it's mood, often before it opens its maw to speak. She can calm its fury with blithe quips, and keep it entertained with stories of human folly. The growling laughter no longer sends her into a shiver.
But oh, if it would only stop asking that question!
"Hmm?"
"It's just… I hate telling you no." She pauses, reflecting. Before he can reply, she adds, "But I just don't want to be a… whatever-you-are. What are you?" she asks, realizing with a jolt that she's never wanted clarification before. For endless seconds it stares, all eight of its main eyes locked on her. She stares back, content to wait.
Then the beast lets out a sigh, sounding more human than animal in that single breath. As it turns to leave, it answers in a tone she's heard before; its familiar in a distant way, barely remembered, and certainly from a human mouth.
"I am a monster."
"You consider yourself cruel to deny him." Today the lord studies an elm tree, hands locked behind his back beneath the wide expanse of his cloak.
"Him?" She joins him, peering into the leafy branches, but sees only leaves. Whatever captures his attention, it's not for her to discern. "Who?"
"The monster." She blinks; so it is male, then.
"It's not that," she replies, slowly. "I just wish he'd ask for something easier." She toes a loose stone on the path, flipping it before kicking it into a flowering shrub. "I'm not keen on becoming some hairy old mutt." This makes him laugh: a rich sound, loud in the quiet dawn.
"And who's to say you'd be one?"
"It— he did. If he drank my blood, I'd be like him." She makes a face. "I'm fine with two eyes." The lord arches a brow at her, jaw working pensively. He cracks his neck, a distant expression evening the tired planes of his face.
"He's used to asking for what he can't have." The words take her by surprise. "Forgive him."
"There's nothing to forgive."
"You wouldn't be like him, in any case." His left hand finds her head; it's a favored gesture of her dreamtime companion, fueled by some sort of fond affection.
"Why not?" She shifts beneath the gauntlet; it ought to have been heavy, but the weight is comforting.
"You're far too human."
"Why?"
Out of all the questions that might have escaped her, that one is the most unexpected. It's even enough to stop the beast in its tracks, ears twitching in genuine curiosity. If it were more canine, she might have expected it to cock its head at her. But it merely waits, expecting a continuation of the thought that fell, unbidden, from her lips. Unused to being the center of attention this way, she has to clear her throat before adding:
"I mean, what's in it for you?" A valid question, seeing as it's not offered a single motive for its actions since coming across her that fateful day in the forest. It hesitates, but not nearly long enough.
"Blood," it answers, complete with a sinister grin that shows off every tooth in its mouth. But that won't deter her, not anymore. Time and exposure have more than softened the power of its terrifying visage; it can eat her, and might still, but she no longer expects it to harm her any more than it would one of the invisible servants.
"I don't believe it." Her admonition is punctuated with a wry grin. "If that were the case, you could have eaten me long ago and been done with it. Unless, of course," she adds, offering the smallest of concessions, "you were attempting to fatten me up. But if that's the case, you've not done a very good job. I'm the same weight I was when you brought me here."
"Hrnm." The beast's growl is sharper than usual, betraying annoyance… or perhaps agitation. Not at all dissuaded from her campaign, she presses on.
"So, what is it? Why do you want me to be—how did you say it? As you are?" She crosses her arms, planting her feet to prepare for what may become a debate. "I won't answer you until I hear a reason." This is enough to pluck the beast's ire; she finds herself standing down a face full of long white teeth.
"A whim , then," it snarls, the syllable lost in the deep rumble of its throat.
"I don't believe that, either." To tell truth, the snarl did loosen a thread of unease in her stomach. But if she's not bold, if she falters even the slightest bit, she'll only aggravate the beast further. It likes shows of strength, even if they're from a small, weak, human girl. "You could just say the truth: you don't want to tell me. But you'd have to, eventually." This earns her a bark of laughter, snapping jaws too late to hold it in.
"Is that a threat?" it chuckles. There's really no better word to describe the rolling vibration of laughter emanating from its chest.
"A promise, she vows. "And one you'd have to make before I let you drink my blood. If I did—and that would be a whim, by the way, not whatever you've been cooking up for months—then you would have to promise to give me honesty in return. Enough to tell me why you want me to be like you, at least."
"Not that it would ever work in your favor," she shrugs. Her tongue works over a half-remembered snatch of dialogue, one of the wispy remnants of her deep, wandering garden dreams. "I'm too human." This shocks the beast. Not startlement, or astonishment, but true shock , the kind she's never seen from it before. It actually takes a step backwards, eight crimson eyes widening to gape at her in stark disbelief.
"What?"
"I'm too human," she repeats, using the same blasé tone. "I would never become a true monster—not that I think you're one," she amends, "but those are your own words, you know." The beast is silent, watching her with a new attentiveness that makes her wary in return. Then, slowly, the massive tail gives one sweeping wag of approval.
"You're right," it admits, begrudging. "You're far too human."
The phrase strikes a chord; her jaw loosens in preparation to drop as she sees, truly sees, for the first time. There are no words, her mind is blank. The dining hall rings with silence as each sizes the other up with newer eyes. Tentatively she reaches out, her forearm slowly disappearing into the thick fur at its breast. She's not entirely sure what she's seeking, only that she's confident she'll find it.
She finds the wide, flat sternum, warm skin housing an emptiness within. There's nothing, no flutter pulsing beneath the tiny expanse of her palm. The beast's chest rises and falls with even breath, like an automaton with no soul—no, that's not entirely right. A soul stares at her from those red eyes, but now she realizes that there's more than one definition of heartless . She thought herself suspended, in stop-motion, but this beast is the true prisoner. It's locked in time, existing outside of the ever-changing flow.
"Police Girl." Her fingers vibrate with the force of its—his—voice.
"Yes?"
"Will you join me?" When she doesn't answer immediately, he lets out a soft, tired huff. "The choice is yours. It's always been."
"I know." She finds herself on a precipice, facing eternity.
A child squats in the sand, safe beneath an iron cage.
Eddie stands on the trail, hands in his pockets as he watches the sun.
A lord waits for her, standing in a dawn that he will always covet, and never be able to greet.
"What is… your name?" The tenuous words waver between them.
"The last human to know me called me Alucard."
"Alucard. Not very creative."
"He was not a creative man." She laughs at that, fingers closing around a handful of fur. It's soft, luxuriously so; it no longer feels taboo to let it slide through her fingers. She has a feeling his hair would feel the same, will feel the same; perhaps he feels there's not enough human left in him to change back, but she can prove him wrong.
"Well then, Alucard." Her back is against a crumbling wall of roses, but when she reaches for it, nothing finite remains. She swallows, understanding for the first time what is meant by sacrificing one thing in order to gain another.
For the form of this world is passing away.
"I will join you."