CHAPTER TWO
He felt sick. He stared at the newspaper clippings, and it was as if he was reading about someone else. Except he knew he wasn't. He could feel it, that part of him, that part of him that was terrified of death and would do anything to avoid it. That part of him that very much felt that eye for eye was applicable – even if he was too much of a coward when it was turned on him.
He could give, but he could not take.
Unbidden, memories of his early years with Herrick came, more clear than his memories of before. Before the mud and blood, before the bombs and bullets.
Why?
Why were his most shameful, evil days the ones he could remember with the best clarity?
He should have died back then. He should never have made that deal with Herrick – the deal that had been broken a moment later, his men lying beneath him in a pile of death, and he – he still breathing.
He should never have gotten involved with them again. Never tried to change anything, never taken over. After Herrick's first death at George's hands he should have run, run far away, hidden as deep as he could.
He should have told George and Annie what had happened, about the explosion, about it all, and they could have helped him. They'd helped him a million times before, why hadn't he gone to them then? Why had he listened to Daisy, gone with Daisy? He knew better. He always knew better.
So many should haves.
But Annie had saved him yet again – saved him as only she could, doing something he wished she'd never had to do. She'd killed for him. His tormentor was gone for good, and could not be brought back this time.
And now – oh, but now.
He'd already committed one of the greatest crimes of his long, bloody career. And he hadn't had Herrick along to blame for it.
How could he ever atone?
They treated him differently, now. Not better, not worse, but differently. There was no more yelling (of that he was grateful) but instead there was silence. Looks. Awkward moments passing in the hall, staring at each other, and then George, or Nina, or Annie turning and going away, as if they no longer knew what to say to him.
Annie sat with him at night, sometimes. Knees drawn up, shoulder pressed to his. They were silent then, too, but it was a comforting silence.
He'd meant it when he told her that they were forever. An immortal vampire and a ghost? It would never end.
He was contaminating them all.
Nina, at least, was apart from it. She'd never cared for him, hated him even, and he didn't blame her. In fact – as desperate as he'd been before to escape – he felt now that when it happened, it would be fitting. Of course he wanted to keep that day as far away as possible, he still had a healthy survival instinct, but it would be fitting.
He just had to keep it from happening.
And then – as if he couldn't ever catch a break – then that woman showed up, asking questions about the Box 20 Murders, and now he's connected. Someone had given his name, and Annie was going twelve directions trying to find out who and also trying to prove it wasn't him.
The comforting silence was no longer comforting, nor silent.
Now her presence was like a brand on his soul, reminding him of what he had done and how unworthy he was of her.
She wanted him to go to the police, frantic that he explain so that he could be cleared, somehow oblivious to the fact that a vampire in a police station was impossible and dangerous. She was too desperate, and every time he explained about the photos and security cameras she got angry.
He knew she was scared.
So was he.
He was terrified when that lady kept poking around. Terrified when she found the notebook, which he'd forgotten open on his bed and she had found. Terrified as he took it from her, then burned it page by page late that night when everyone was asleep.
He was so tired. So angry. So scared.
He hated himself.
But he came from more than a hundred years of looking out for just himself, whatever that meant, and habits were hard to break.
Annie was furious with him for giving the lady the runaround, but he was too frightened. Too angry that she wouldn't let it go.
Too angry at himself.
And then she found out.
It was wrecked. It was all over. She demanded that he turn himself in, but he couldn't – and somehow he couldn't make her understand. If he turned himself in it was the end for not just him but everyone.
He'd never cursed his vampire genes more. How much simpler it would be if he was human and could just let them arrest him.
They came for him, but he got away. Out the back, through them, despite Annie screaming at him to give up and give in.
Prison was not going to fix what he did. It would make it worse, so much worse. And he couldn't – he couldn't do that to George and Nina. He couldn't let the world discover Vampires and Werewolves. It would ruin his friends' lives.
He ran.
He ran and he ran.
He ran East.
He found a car, running just outside of a pub, and he took it. Without a thought, with a twinge of remorse. He left all the cash in his wallet where the car had been, and fled, driving as if the devil himself was after him.
Annie was right. He had to give those people justice. But not like that.
He couldn't give Annie what she wanted. He couldn't give society what it wanted. But he could give what he could.
The white cliffs were beautiful, even in the gloom of evening. A few people were about, not close enough to see features or anything, but around. Taking walks, holding hands – normal, real people.
It was fitting, for him.
He stood at the top, looking down – down at the crashing waves. It was peaceful, quiet. He stood, letter crumpled in his hand, carefully folded, more carefully written.
The wind blew.
He pulled off his leather jacket, folded it carefully, and set it on the ground. He sat down, pulled off his shoes. Set them neatly on top of the jacket. Pulled off his socks, folded them (what a laugh, he'd never folded his socks in his life). Then he stood. He felt the piece of wood in his belt, a thick piece he'd found when he'd pulled over, looking for something, anything wood. He'd broken the end. It was sharp.
"'Scuse me?" An old man touched his elbow – face concerned, lined, worried, knowing. "It don't have to be this way, lad. You're still young."
He must have come up while he undressed, but Mitchell didn't care. He just smiled. "No, not really."
"Oh, come on." The old hand was warm on his arm, rough from years, rubbing up and down. "I know things look bleak, but in another day or two it won't be so bad. You'll see."
Mitchell turned, letter still crumpled in his hand. He was going to leave it on his shoes, but he held it out instead. "Could you take this?" he asked. His voice was weak, like his throat was failing.
"What is it?" The old man took it, staring down at the folded paper. "It's addressed to the police!"
"Yeah." Mitchell smiled, sadly, wearily. "Make sure they get it."
"But…"
He didn't wait. Didn't hesitate. He ran, as he'd always done. Into the air, three steps, the shout of the old man an echo behind him. Air around him, rushing, rushing, freezing, no substance to it, nothing to it at all. His dead heart was in his throat, a moment of panic shooting tears to his eyes, and then he hit. It was like hitting ice, hard and frozen, shattering his legs and driving the breath from his lungs.
When his senses returned to him he was beginning to float up again, and he pulled the stick from his belt. His hands were numb, and nothing felt real – and yet it was all so crystal clear now.
Without thought. Again. Without hesitation.
He gasped; wood separated muscle, split ribs. He felt his heart pumping frantically against it, and then – then it all began to fade away, to fade, like he was dissolving into the foam.
I'm sorry, George. I'm sorry, Annie. I'm finally protecting you. I hope you understand.
They were his last thoughts.
George came home to find Annie in hysterics, curled in a corner of the kitchen, hands on her ears, sobbing.
He closed the door, and rushed forward. "Annie?"
She looked up at him, face blotched and wet, and sobbed, mouth opening without sound.
"What happened?" George asked, grasping her shoulders. "Annie! What happened?"
"Mitchell…" she gasped. "Mitchell…"
His mouth went dry. "What? Mitchell what? What's happened?"
"He did it…" she choked, fingers curling into George's sleeve, desperation in her eyes. "He did it, George, and the police came, and he ran – he ran from them and I don't know where he's gone!"
George stared at her, and his heart sank. "They found out."
"Yes, they…" she stopped. Her eyes grew wide, and she blinked, shaking her head. "Wait – what? You – you knew?"
He didn't answer, but he did look up towards the door. "We need to find him."
"George!" she shrieked.
"Annie, if the police catch him first it's over, it's over for him, for me, for Nina…"
"He killed all those people!" she wailed, not understanding, and he could understand. He could. But after Herrick, after what he had come to realize then, he couldn't blame his friend. He knew Mitchell had done awful things in his past, had even enjoyed it at one point, but he'd also been there when the guilt and the goodness had been too much, when his friend had sat weeping all night, silent and grim. He'd been there when Mitchell had played the go-between, trying somehow to play both sides and keep those he loved safe. He had to believe that there had been more to the Box 20 murders than he knew, because he knew Mitchell. He was moody, he was an arse, but he was at heart good, even if the vampire in him wasn't and sometimes got the better of him.
If, during a full moon, he had killed a camp full of people – he would hope that Mitchell would understand. Knew he would, actually. That it wasn't George, wasn't in his control, but was the monster in his skin.
He could do the same for Mitchell.
It didn't absolve what had happened. But he could try, anyway.
He tried explaining this to Annie, but he knew there wasn't time, and so he left her there, in the kitchen, still frantic and crying. He passed Nina on the walk and told her to go in to Annie.
Nina would not understand; he knew, in his heart of hearts, that Nina never would. Not fully. She'd been less hostile, it was true, since the incident with Herrick, but she still didn't truly understand.
His heart beat a thunderous cacophony in his chest and ears, pounded through his arms and legs. Panic clawed at his mind and heart.
Where had Mitchell gone? Had he been caught?
Where was he?
He searched all day, and all night. He'd found no sign of his friend, heard no news – good or bad. When he finally returned Nina and Annie were listening to the radio as well as watching the tv, seeing the news, hearing the report of the chase – seeing the sketch an artist had made of the wanted man. It wasn't Mitchell, but it was a close enough likeness that he would be recognized.
George rubbed his face, nerves feeling frayed and exposed.
The light of dawn was prickling in through the windows, and he hated it. Hated the light, though he had no clear reason why. Hated the sound of the radio, the voices going on and on about the dangerous murderer.
"I'll turn it off." Nina murmured.
"No!" he snapped. Across the tv was a headline, breaking news – the death of the Box 20 Murderer.
His knees went weak.
"Police still haven't found the body of John Mitchell, who, according to eyewitness accounts, jumped of his own accord from the White Cliffs in Dover. A man spoke to him moments before, trying to help, but to no avail. John Mitchell left a letter in his care, asking him to deliver it to the police."
"Oh no."
George couldn't look at Annie. Couldn't move.
"No – no – he wouldn't." she moaned, grabbing the back of a chair, her face pale. "Jumping wouldn't kill him, right? I mean he's – he's a vampire, vampires don't die from jumping. He couldn't, he couldn't be –"
Nina tried to touch his arm, but he pulled back. Turned and rubbed his face. "I – I can't – "
He couldn't what?
"The letter, it seems, contains a confession, and an apology to the families of the Box 20 Massacre." An image appeared on the screen, crumpled paper, covered in Mitchell's own letters. George stared, reading even as the reporter narrated it.
To those left behind,
There is nothing I can do to undo the pain I have caused. I killed those people, that day. The Box 20 Murders were my doing. I had suffered a personal grievance, and in my anger and hatred I did something unforgiveable. I cannot ask for your forgiveness, but I give you my apology. If I could go back and undo what I did, I would.
I wish I could pay for their deaths, but I can't. Nothing will cover what I've done. All I can do, is make sure it doesn't happen again.
To those who thought they knew me – I am so sorry. I am so sorry. This should have happened a long time ago. This time, I'll make sure it sticks.
J. Mitchell
"No – no – George, it's not true." Annie was wilting, sinking to the floor, but George could not comfort her.
"What does he mean? He'll make sure it sticks?" Nina asked, her voice low, knowing but needing to hear it to understand it.
George pulled in a harsh, painful breath. "It means – he's truly gone." He felt frozen, moving without meaning to, turning, unblinking as he looked at the two people left in his life, staring at him as if he had all the answers. "It means he figured out how to give them justice – and keep us safe."
"So – he really did it." Nina murmured. "Those murders. He did them."
"Yeah." George laughed, a terrible thing to do – but it was without humor, without anything.
"Why?"
He looked her in the eye, looked at Annie, poor, heartbroken Annie – and he shrugged, his own heart crumbling within her. "I guess we'll never know."