The Case of the Vampire Money

Dearest Aurelia, I have done this deed in your golden name.

Teeth pierce deep, and a poison called wealth drips from hung mouths. A currency of life when given, and a gamble when lost— but there is an inheritance when we share it.

Deep in the caverns of my brain, I hold a small space for awe and a gentle nod to acknowledge such internal appreciation. Here, I have crowned my journalistic marvel toward Jonathan Harker. Not entirely for the fascination of Jonathan continuing to write despite the menacing disillusionment that The Count inflicts upon him, nor due to his aloofness that somehow perfectly amplifies his powerful vernacular. No, these can simply be attributed to ‘dumb luck’ by an even dumber man. My awe comes from the sheer notion that despite everything, he always found time to write and never overlooked a single detail. He never quickly summarized or constrained himself to return later. He just wrote, for better or worse. Jonathan Harker possessed an enviable trait of being able to write on a train.

How can one ignore the bumps, the whistles, and the woman casting their judgmental, pretentious, slanted looks while yammering away on her business calls, even though their ruby-red heels are kicked up towards the ‘quiet car’ sign? If Harker could manage this, I know he wouldn’t even flinch at NJ Transit’s fundamental muted windows, dirty seats, and sandy floors. Harker could write merrily away— jesting where a menacing feeling should be approaching.

But alas, there is one way Jonathan is less fortunate than I (besides, of course, the whole ‘mental snap’ incident, but then again, ask me about my time in Hell)— I am taking the train home from the conclusion of my story. I have already lived and conquered the agony— both mentally and physically— of Arlington River’s Vampire problem.

So, I figured I’d use this grueling train ride home to write to you of my first true deed since my arrival— The Case of Vampire Money.

Now, a few evenings after I wrote you last, brought me to a rather strange situation— a family dinner. Crowded around that small kitchen table, we sat stuffed like demons in line for punishment.

Although, Aurelia, it may be beneficial to utilize this seating arrangement to provide a brief overview of everyone and their daily functions— and how they’ve intertwined in my own story.

To my left sat Kai, dressed in their leather and chains— though I did notice the sharp black tie hanging loosely from their neck. They had plans to meet with their brothers later in the evening. They were vague about the details of this occasion. Still, they offered Amanda and I a heavily detailed itinerary of how the house should run in the morning without them, and of course, what to do if every negative reality came true. I shoved mine in my nightstand drawer (I refuse to hold any assumptions of my life, especially since the present of their absence was yet to be seen by their narrow eyes— and this could be summed up to mere guesswork) … Amanda tore it up right in front of them.

Amanda sat beside Kai, reading and editing her own very detailed list gathered from subjects and suggestions of the meal— her itinerary for the morning. I had asked her for a copy of this document for reference, and she responded by throwing her pen at my head.

Now, beside Amanda, sat Thomas, whom I have recently come to call Seward, in a vague attempt to play the great Van Helsing in my formingproduction of Dracula. I figured the more I pried about the compatibility of her being my mental hospital informant, the easier it would be to explain the role and existence of Vampires to her.

Seward had been over the night prior to our shared meal, eager to share a glass of wine with Kai to debrief about the influx of patients that had come in, all with the same symptoms, and all with an inexplicable inability to conquer any of them with any known medication or counseling. Kai happened to be in a rather heated discussion at this time, quarreling with Amanda about something she had bought from an antique store.

I, wishing to escape the vicinity of this argument and the impending headache crowding my already impaled thoughts, was eager to escape downstairs— especially with the incentive of a glass of wine. Kai, for the first time that entire evening, stopped talking and called me over. Seward, wanting nothing but peace from her torment, agreed to my company and instructed me to meet her downstairs when I finished talking with Kai. In the shadowy corners of a shag carpet and a dirty bookshelf, Kai explained that Seward was not to know anything about any supernatural occurrences and told me that they could see my desire to further question the patient we had seen the day prior.

“Listen, and learn, Que,” they said, “Your voice does not belong in whatever narrative you are building, let life, and the freaking natural order that is literally my job to uphold, happen.”

I ventured downstairs, ensuring I still had my small notebook and recorder in my front pants pocket— a habit I picked up during one of my hellish escapades that ended with three of my backup journals catching fire.

Seward is a wonderful conversationalist, especially under the influence of the sweet nectar of red wine. I listened to many words from her eager tongue and pleasantly took Kai’s advice as I listened. We discussed modern ideals of politics, television, modifications of journalism, and the role of technology in the structure of society. Holding my ignorance of the modern world like a stone upon my back, I allowed her to slowly chip away at it, easing myself and the tension in our relationship with each spark. We talked about art, ethics, law, war, and peace— until finally, I was comfortable enough to teach her something.

“Have you ever read Dracula?”

Dracula is one of my favorite pieces of literature of all time, and I owe (in the sense of literary meta-ness) all thanks to Mina Murray Harker. If she had not had the wits to piece together each journal entry, each diary, each transcribed recording, we would not know how all these seemingly misplaced stories come together into one horrifying conclusion.

I relate myself to the merits of Mrs. Harker, and find as such my responsibility to you, dear Aurelia, the same as to any John, Lucy, or Abraham.

I digress. Once I divulged a rather wine-prejudiced retelling of one of history’s greatest works, I informed Thomas that she rather reminded me of Seward.

She laughed and made a rather convenient remark that ‘if her patients were merely vampires, she’d get the garlic out and be done with them.’

I told her I found it found it funny she had not tried it yet, considering all of their symptoms— including paleness, fatigue, rapid aging, blood lust, and blood draining. She asked me how I knew about the blood parts, and I told her I just saw that look in that girl’s eye when Kai took me to the hospital the other day.

This was not the truth. Here, Aurelia, I must admit my first wrongdoing. The evening I wrote you last, I found myself in a spell of disdain for all foreseeable movement. I was itching, but I also knew dear Seward could not yet weave into my plan.

That week, I gave Sammy a job— a simple job to start the apocalypse. First, I needed Pestilence. With pepper beneath her nose, I had her cough and sneeze throughout the house. Then, I brought in famine, telling Sammy to pretend she was so ill that she could not eat. Then came war, having her be irritated and vile toward anyone who dared cross her vengeful path. Then death. Not, of course, in the literal sense, but having her demand isolation from the world, locking herself in her room— with only I to care for her.

I am truly proud of my Sammy. In a mere week of living upon new soil, she has already adapted, blooming into a flower that softens my eyes. I imagine our paths like magnets, drawn by opposite attraction— a life of wonder to end in Hell, to raise a daughter born in Hell with a life to live upon a wondrous land. She is curious about her new life, talking and questioning like any child would do— and yet remains so loyal to me. Amanda has even said Sammy elected to use my last name, Montgomery, for her school forms.

I exploited this loyalty to infiltrate a hospital and steal patient files under the guise and convenience of daylight. Perhaps it is I who needs to adapt to the proper role of a father.

I digress. Seward had every right not to believe me when I gave the reason of intuition for something as accusatory as blood lust— especially in a world so certain of the nonexistence of anything outside of their scope of understanding. However, and I am aware it may have just been the wine in the moment, I do believe deep down, not even Seward believes there is a normal explanation for anything she sees.

“Come on,” she said, sloppily standing and linking our arms together as she dragged me out the door.

We walked down the road to the center. Not leading me inside for answers, as I assumed, she instead approached a white fence on the right side of the building, tapping a small grey screen with a small card that hung around her neck. She told me that when she was a janitor here, she needed full access, and they trusted her enough not to revoke it from her when she upgraded to a desk attendant.

“For emergencies,” she said with a prideful smile, “Getting the leg up in this blossoming friendship seems pretty important to me.”

I recall flooding with a heat so harsh I had to turn away from her. I, nor you, should fool it for attraction, no, Aurelia, this was something different. Seward had this cadence to her, this glow I so greatly admired. She is witty and wise and explains things not condescendingly, but rather with this intrigue, a delicious gift she is excited to give. I’d never tell her this, but I am so glad she recognized herself as a friend so early on, or I may have feared our immediate platonic bond might have been the delusions of living in isolation and hatred for centuries— or perhaps that sweet red wine.

She sat me down on a worn wooden bench, leaning against the far-right wall of the building. Reaching for a flashlight in my pocket, I illuminated a garden blooming around us. In some parts, the flowers opened brightly amongst fresh green grass, whereas in others, yellow grass curdled shy buds.

“This is the community garden,” Seward explained, grabbing her leg to lay it atop her other bent knee, “Some people come back more than others, but the patients, they adore it. They’d be out rain or shine if they could.”

“Does the vampire come down here?” I asked, paying closer attention to the open concept and the climbable white fence.

“I know what you are thinking,” she said, staring intently at a red rose straight before us, “And no, she’s considered restricted,” she paused, fiddling with the keycard around her neck, then stifled a laugh, “Don’t vampires burn in the sun anyway?”

“Not in that one’s state. They have been marked as devout, loyal to someone somewhere. If it meant burning, they’d feel it no worse than what you define as a bad sunburn.”

I promise, that bluntness was the wine.

“Quinn, please don’t be crazy,” Seward said, “I deal with enough crazy every day.”

We finally met eyes, and I immediately filled with a sunken feeling— Kai’s words pounding in my skull.

Your voice does not belong in whatever narrative you are building, let life, and the freaking natural order happen.

“Then why bring me here?”

“To remind you that this is reality.”

With a heavy sigh, I retreated.

“I suppose I just got so caught up in the idea of a logical explanation for all the crazy. Though I suppose to you, vampires seem rather illogical. But, to me, it seemed like an answer to all the madness I have stumbled upon. I want a life for Sammy here, not more fear.”

I suppose much of that is true. I never wanted Sammy to feel as if a mysterious danger was lurking around every corner. My hope was for Sammy to discover a home, a place to put down roots, where magic, curses, and hellfire were not the likely causes of concern. But, Aurelia, if I want to keep my promise to you, then I must hold off on providing my Sammy such peaceful words for just a bit longer—this I regretfully acknowledge.

I, however, will not deny Seward such peace.

As I stood up to leave, Seward’s arm reached out for mine.

“You are a good person, Quinn,” she said, “I did not bring you here with me to make you feel like a fool, or force you to open up, I brought you here to see my world, and hopefully begin to see the world through your eyes.”

I turned back around to hug her— a motion I did not know I was still capable of. For a moment, my hand latched onto her card. The very card that could get me the definite answers I needed for you, dear Aurelia. It would have been simple and painless, a simple thievery I was accustomed to every day of Hell— but Seward is not a demon, nor even a common man. She is willing. She is someone who led me down avenues I was not meant to see, avenues that could risk her livelihood just to remind me of humanity and humility— what a rare lesson to be presented before me.

For all that I have shattered in my time living and dead, I cannot shatter such a heart.

I let the key to everything drop from my shaking hands.

“Let me walk you home.”

______

This brings me back to dinner— precisely twenty-four hours after I made the decision to exclude all potential variables from my plan.

Now, beside Seward sat her wife, Briar. I know little about Briar except for her poise and an Arthurian imbalanced maturity in a round table of chaos. She can hold intelligent conversations and wears velvet gloves practically everywhere— even to simply hold a glass of water as she listens intently to every word her wife says. She also owns a bookstore in town, which I have rather exciting plans to visit with Seward today— once I am off this blasted train.

Once dinner concluded, Briar requested that I help her tidy things up to get to know her better. Everyone else took such a unique offer of freedom from responsibility to run off to their respective conclusions for their evenings. I picked Sammy up to kiss her goodnight, then handed her back to Amanda. When I turned back to Briar, she handed me a plate.

“Don’t kiss it,” she teased— though her tone was rather droll.

In a mere moment of suds and silence, Briar asked me why I had begun to call her wife Seward. I had also discovered Briar is rather intelligent when it comes to literature— though she prefers more modern works that she calls “romantasy” (which I am also meant to indulge in when I meet with Seward and her today).

I told her I thought the name (Seward, not romantasy) was clever.

“If you are trying to be clever with me, Quinn,” she said coyly, “then don’t play me a fool.”

Before I could even ask her what she meant, she informed me. Briar, with a rather deadly precision, told me that Seward had told her about the vampire comment I had made the evening previous and that she quite simply did not trust that I wasn’t a “delusional maniac.”

“I have built trust with Kai and Amanda to not need to understand their… disarray. You are new, you are uncertain. Make me certain.”

I rather like Briar’s word cleverness. She is precise and cold.

Her words coiled around my skull that night as I tucked Sammy gently into her bed. Sammy, in her traditional illumination, talked breathlessly about her plans with Amanda in the morning, and although I truly tried to listen, my mind continuously wandered to the more pressing matters of its pounding.

Once I was certain Sammy had fallen asleep, I too drifted into my sanctuary slumbers in the form of escapism. Shutting the door quietly, I ventured downstairs, traveling carefully past the delicate slumber of our small quiet street. Following the same path and flickering streetlights Seward had led me down the night before, I made my way to the hospital.

Despite the colorful sign on the door informing one about the all-day hours of operation, I was smart enough to know that going through the front door, especially during this peculiar hour of the night, was not wise.

So, I went through the garden. In a strong attempt to climb over the fence, I noticed that for some reason, it was left perched open, just enough for me to slide through.

Suspicion drowning in my thankfulness for this easy entrance, I made my way through the side of the building, where the door was conveniently left unlocked. The hallways were quieter than I recalled. With little pressure of fear, I delicately made my way up the stairs, recalling each patient’s room number from their file began with ‘Upper Level.’

It was there, beneath the pale glow of fluorescent lighting and the softened appearance of tired eyes masked in darkness, that I saw her. She wore a long ruby velvet coat, laced in delicate black roses— as dark as her eyes that studied me with such conviction. I knew her only of legend, of stories of Vampires arriving on Hell’s doorsteps, the mother and tormentor of Vampires, Vivian Scarlett.

“Quinn Montgomery,” she stated, accompanied by a sly smile. As the light flickered, she advanced— utilizing such a baptism of darkness to accelerate towards me. When the lights were restored, I found myself sharing breath with her dagger, which gleamed with gold and rubies— positioned with precision against my throat, “Now now,” she said with the conviction of a troubled mother, “What is the scribe of Hell doing here?”

I attempted to choke out my response, but with the frustration of a moment of her time wasted, she dropped the dagger, twisting it around her hair.

“How do you know who I am?”

“We have a mutual friend,” she said dismissively, “I am more curious about who you’ve become. Friend or foe?” she asked, tilting her dagger side to side.

“What was I to you before?”

“Everything.”

A new voice rang in my ears. That of a young man, with piercing hazel eyes. He wore a long navy coat, covered in an assortment of pins and badges. Atop his head, a bandanna pulled down his messy hair and framed his pale face, and sharp white teeth covered in red blood.

“Christopher?”

“Hello, Montgomery.”

What was once written here, and now scribbled amongst the frantic spills of hot blood to my ears and thick ink to the page, was a rather mortifying confession of my history paralleled by this mysterious foe. It was words of desire, regret, and disdain—crevices of light bleeding in the bricks I built for you, Aurelia. What only matters from these words, however, is the story you need to know, Aurelia, and for that I apologize.

What must be known are three simple facts of the case that revealed themselves during our reunion:

Vivian and Christopher are siblings.

Vivian’s power comes from her blade, with the power to create vessels of consumable life for her brother and herself— the very origin of the vampire lineage.

I let them get away.

In a state of hypnotic exhilaration, I ran with no vision towards an elusive mirage, a fleeting dream I could not catch from induced slumber. Now, I recognize that it may appear imprudent to forsake my initial objective; however, a persistent voice urged me that if I could simply eradicate the source of the vampires, it would be more of a service to you, Aurelia. Beneath faded lights and crooked paths, I chased after shadowy darkness. I guided myself by the sound of Vivian’s maniacal laughter— it carried behind her through the chilling gusts of wind that threaded my ears.

I was uncertain when this game of cat and mouse would end until I finally came across a stone building, marked by a small light flickering from the first window. Using my hands to feel around the building, I found a point of entrance. Finding the door to be unlocked, I gently stepped inside, hoping stealth would be my benefit— that was a mistake.

Immediately upon my entrance, the entire room was illuminated by the glass flames of a chandelier. Before me, a grand staircase of velvet green— and atop it, Vivian Scarlett. Her coat accentuated her proud stance as she whipped it aside to take a few steps down the stairs.

“How would you tell my tale, Montgomery?”

Before I could speak a word, she unsheathed her dagger from her belt loop. With a sharp thrust, she caught it on the stair railing, dragging it down with her, sharpening her blade with each strong step— and with each step another clever quip of her sharp tongue.

“Would you call me a girl steered wrongly by her love for her dying brother?”

“Would you call me the instrument of great evil?”

“The mother of all Vampires?”

“Greedy?”

“Heartless?”

“Ruthless?”

Before she could take another step, I stumbled backwards— my brain fervently trying to reconfigure where I had found myself, a way to succeed in my mission with my life and dignity. It was with such a fumble of my own stance, I found myself caught in strong arms— Christopher’s arms. Without a moment to react, I felt a thick rag touch my trembling lips.

The last thing I heard was Vivian’s voice— “I suppose at some point every author sells out and writes an autobiography.”

When I awoke, I found myself in a rather uncomfortable chair— my legs and arms bound. The light came from a single bulb with bright intensity that hung from the ceiling. Besides my seat, nothing else occupied the room— but the walls. On every inch of each of the four walls, a small photograph was hung— a vampire in their transition state.

“I remember each one.”

Christopher stood in the doorway, studying me for a moment before entering the room and gently closing the door behind himself. Sitting cross-legged before me, I winced at his presence, a shell of the man I once knew— a stranger I loved.

We sat in uncomfortable silence for a few moments, our eyes the only thing to focus on, less the horrific photos on the walls. When I could not endure his miserable glow, I jerked my head to the wall, trying to focus on the small white space between each photo. But my eyes could not handle such an unknown, so hesitantly they raised to look at a young woman— except her greying hair and tired face would tell anyone else otherwise.

“I try to remember and honor each one.”

My eyes pounced back to Christopher, “How dare you?” I seethed, every sympathy I have ever felt for him drained by such unforgiving words, “How dare you?” I lunged forward, slamming the feet of the chair on the tiled floor, looking back at the girl on the wall, “Honor them? You ruined them. You trade other lives for your own. Denied them even the sad human life expectancy so that you can live unnatural lifetimes. Deny them the dignity to think for themselves. Deny their loved ones the ability to bury a body and say goodbye to someone whom they instead hope and pray to get back,” I began to choke back sobs— hanging my head low.

Christopher got to his knees, trying to touch my face, but I turned away, “Monty please,” he whispered, “Help me.”

Buried in my knees, I felt Christopher begin to cry— trembling as he lifted his body back up, “My sister,” he whispered, “She told me it was medicine all those years ago. I did not realize until it was too late. Got me addicted to it. I can’t stop… I want to stop… but she’s my sister Montgomery… Montgomery, she’s my sister… she just wants to protect me, she’s so blinded by it… she doesn’t….”

“When we met… all those years ago… when I was alive?” I interrupted.

“I was long dead, but, Montgomery, with you, I felt alive for the first time in so long. Even before I was bedridden and promised death… you were my essence, far more powerful than any blood her blade can wield.”

A moment of silence, a steady breath, a feeling of betrayal and pity I could not quite grasp.

As if on cue, we heard the piercing steps of Vivian’s heeled boots from down the hall. Leaning close, Christopher’s voice laced between my ears, “Kill me,” he begged, “Kill us, I’ve been so scared, but I think you’re my sign.” With not a moment to react to such a request, our ears perked at the click of the doorknob. Christopher jumped up, leaning against the nearest wall— an angry look naturally molding on his face. I hung my head back low.

Vivian walked inside, looking from her brother back to me, “Did you two have fun catching up?” she asked slyly. With a sharp nod from her brother, she crouched down before me, dragging her dagger along my legs, “How about you catch up for eternity? How about I turn you right now, and you become my brother’s personal juice box?”

Christopher jumped forward, “No!” he cried, his voice wavering back into a timid breath, “No, Vivian, we need him alive.”

“Why?” she turned her head harshly to Christopher, “Did you go soft, Kit?”

“I merely want to know why an embassy of Hell has risen on Earth.”

It was a clever lie, one that brought us all time, as I silently endured each question and threat Vivian spewed from her venomous tongue. However, there was one small problem— I had no flicker of a plan, not even a spark to ignite.

It was when Vivian announced that she had far more gruesome ways of making me “squeal” that I was jolted by the blatant fate that had other plans for me. From downstairs, we heard a gunshot and a scream from a familiar commanding voice, “That chandelier is tacky as Hell, Vivian!”

Amanda.

I called for them, informing them I was upstairs with as much volume as I could muster in my panicked state. Vivian, amidst an unnerving miscalculation in her self-assured plan, turned to her brother, “Didn’t you lock the door?”

“You were supposed to,” Christopher said carefully

Vivian sprang upward, lunging at her brother, “Obviously, I wasn’t supposed to because I would’ve done it.”

I continued to yell. Agitated, Vivian dragged my chair and leaned me against the wall— holding her blade to my neck, “Not a sound.”

This was not a problem because at that moment, Amanda made an entrance loud enough for a thousand displays.

“Wee Woo the five-o’s here!” Amanda slammed the door open, holding two antique guns in her hands. Kai sauntered in after her, studying the two people before them.

“Vivian and Christopher,” they said calmly, “Pleasure to see you again. I see you’ve also met my good friend Quinn Montgomery.”

“You knew?” I asked, but was immediately silenced by a tug on my hair.

“No one move,” Vivian said, wielding her dagger forward in a frantic motion before jabbing it back atop my neck, “Or I slice the scribe.”

Amanda lowered her guns, placing them cautiously on the ground, “No trouble here.”

“My sentiments exactly,” said Kai, taking a step forward, “Let my friend go, and we go back to living amicably.”

Vivian dropped the chair, tossing her dagger aside. Kai raced toward me, snapping their switchblade open and beginning to scrape at the ropes.

“What the Hell is going on, Que?” Kai whispered to me.

“I got kidnapped,” I said curtly.

“That is not what I meant, and you know that.”

“Kai, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“The meeting,” they huffed, cutting with more aggression, “The current threat to the present… the meeting with my brothers … It was all about you… It’s you,” they hit my chest. “What the Hell on Earth did you do?”

I stared into their hazel eyes, a mirror of my pitiful display. A thousand words bleed in my mind— multiple open wounds of desperation and a mortified need to bandage each one.

It was then that I heard the scream. Kai whisked their head around, as we peered on to a rather unexpected sight. Amanda somehow burned Vivian, her throat searing with black smoke as she turned back to us.

“What the Hell?” Vivian croaked, falling to the floor. Amanda pried the ruby dagger from her hands, sticking it in a small sheath on her belt.

Amanda loomed over her smugly, staring directly at Kai.

“Kai,” she said, trying to contain her laughter, “You majorly… majorly… screwed up. Told me not to go to the antique store and buy a vampire-repelling pendant. Said ’wearing that is just gonna draw their attention to you, blah blah.. I made a deal to protect us blah blah.. that will just kill you… Well, look at me, alive and well, whilst you are distracted by your man’s bondage.”

Christopher pushed past the display, laying his sister’s head in his lap, “Will she be okay?”

“Oh,” Amanda said, “Totally forgot about him, hang on.”

“Wait!” I said, frantically flailing beneath the frayed ropes until finally I could break free and stand, “Wait,” I repeated, “Give us a moment.”

Amanda and Kai looked at each other for a moment. Then Kai looked at me. From their pocket, they pulled a small silver blade with an engraved wooden handle, “A gift from my brothers,” they said with a wary smile.

Then they stepped outside.

“She’s just stunned,” I said, gingerly approaching the siblings. Kneeling down alongside them, I showed Christopher the blade, “This is a permanent solution… do you still want that?”

Christopher stared at his sister, then back at me. With staggered breath, I watched his rich blue eyes begin to water, “Yes.”

I do not have the strength, dear Aurelia, to log in superfluous details about what occurred next.

I will leave you with Christopher’s final words…

I am excited to be reunited with the sister I once knew… with her gentle smile and cherished love. I always imagined my peace with her. Somewhere we could forever play in fields of green… and our greatest worries were scraped knees.

____

The next moments are blurry. I know Kai helped me burn their bodies, sweeping their ashes into an old jam jar Amanda found in the kitchen. I know I held the jar close on our quiet walk home, filled mostly by Amanda’s wit, going on about how she is the greatest magic antique collector and is wasting her talents working a part-time job and going to high school.

I remember going downstairs to pick up Sammy, who had been left in Briar’s care during Kai and Amanda’s rescue. She told me Seward had just called her to inform her that, miraculously, all those undiagnosed cases had complete turnarounds. I thanked her for watching Sammy.

“Certainly,” she said with a smile.

I remember placing the jar on my nightstand, then tucking Sammy tightly into bed for the second time that evening. I kissed her forehead, and stared at her innocent smile— knowing the privilege she had of the whole new life ahead of her— one that Amanda would help her set up in the morning.

I remember Kai pouring me a drink. They sat stoically for a while, staring at an empty frame on the wall, “I’ve been meaning to put a photo in there,” they said, breaking the silence I was rather fond of.

I nodded, “Yes.”

Without missing a beat, Kai pounced, “What possessed you to go after them?”

“I wanted to protect everyone.”

“Bullshit,” Kai said, taking a long sip of their drink, “The Quinn I know only protects themselves. They don’t have a kid to be responsible for… they don’t try and play the hero.”

“You’re right,” I admitted, touching the glass to my lips, “This is someone else, someone whose secrets I cannot reveal.”

Aurelia, here is where I beg that one day, when I present you with these writings, you find space in your blessed heart to forgive me.

“What I can tell you is the promises I have made,” I put my glass down, and reached for Kai’s, removing it from their shaking hands, “Sammy was presented to me right from the womb of her mother, who is now promised a frivolous, greedy, eternal life on earth. She sold her daughter’s soul, not her own. I promised my Lord that I would raise her to prepare her soul for his slaughter— a promise I could not keep. I instead promised Sammy I would free her from her fate, a promise I could only make by making another. A promise to someone I cannot say, but of whose actions I must do. I must do a hundred good deeds in her name, slaughter a hundred evils so that she can be pure enough to come to Earth alongside us and break this cycle.”

Bewildered for a moment, Kai opened their jacket, pulling a small flash from an inner pocket. Taking a long swig, they then tried to hand it to me— which I declined.

“The Quinn I know doesn’t make promises.”

“The Quinn you knew is long gone,” I said, grabbing the flask before they could take another sip. Screwing it shut, I forcefully pushed it into my pocket, “So here’s another. I, Quinn Montgomery, promise to keep you and your family safe. You are my blood now.”

After that, I retired to my bed, picking Sammy up from hers, and laying her down in my own. Holding her close to me as my mind beckoned to rest, I allowed myself one final promise— to scatter the ashes somewhere where Christopher could finally find peace with his sister.

Which brings me back to my current seat on the train. I am left with one last thought of my reflection on Jonathan Harker— in his story, evil was evil. To do my deed to you, Aurelia, I must also see things in a binary— good and evil/black and white. However, I cannot dispel the feeling that perhaps the maker of a hideous evil was made by a good intention of a sister whose core flaw was loving her brother too much. Perhaps I should pick up a copy of Frankenstein at the bookstore today.

My stop is approaching, and I fear the train will not give me as much time as I’d like to walk off gracefully if I do not start walking now. I have a whole day ahead of me, and I do not wish to waste a single moment of this simple life.