Annika Northman: Part Two

Chapter 19: Klein

I suppose on some level I've always known Eric keeps a file on me. He's him, after all. Eric, he's very careful about documentation – precisely-worded contracts, receipts with highlighted dates, photos taken from a dozen different angles of this or that piece of property. Such things were staples of my childhood. Well, not staples. More like sprinkles, tiny details scattered through my everyday life that I paid little attention to because they were in the world of adults or vampires and Eric was in control of all that. My point is, of course he would keep a collection of my records, the various official-looking papers that are a natural side effect, I think, of living in the twenty-first century. Even for someone like me.

But I hadn't truly thought about this, hadn't had reason to, until after Dr. Ludwig came to the club a few nights ago because of my sleepwalking. Per Eric's request, she took the opportunity to deliver my vaccination records as well. He glanced over them as Ludwig, grumbling, hobbled out his office door, and then he said something to me – That wasn't so bad, was it? – as he walked to his file cabinet, a giant grey box against the wall. I pointed out that we still didn't know why I had sleepwalked, and he pointed out that Ludwig doubted any underlying medical condition was to blame, and as he said this, he opened the top drawer of the cabinet. I couldn't see into the drawer from my place on the couch, but I heard papers rustle as Eric moved his hand over the folders or binders or whatever exactly is in there, and he soon found what he was looking for and slid the vaccination records into what must have been their proper place.

I almost asked about it, my file – or files, even – just out of curiosity. I didn't, though. Something, something inside my body that's a bit more cautious than the rest of me, jumped to my throat and shut a door before my voice could get out. This something didn't tell me its reasons. But it was certain of itself.

And now I stand in Eric's office, the file cabinet before me. It's taller than I am by a foot and twice as wide. Maybe that's why I feel like it's challenging me. Although I don't know if that imaginary challenge would be to look in the cabinet or not to look in the cabinet. I just know the stupid thing seems mocking.

I glance at the door. I left it cracked open. I doubt Pam will be finished with Yvetta anytime soon, but if by chance she is, I'll hear her heels clacking down the long stretch of hall between the basement door and the office's.

Unless she doesn't want to be heard. Or unless she decides she feels like running and simply appears here like a magician.

Neither of those things are likely to happen. If Pam has no reason to be silent, she won't bother. Same thing with running. I'm just worrying, as is the natural reaction when one does something one is not supposed to.

It's probably Eric's blood making you act like this. You could always blame that.

Or you could stop hesitating and stop worrying and do what you came in here to do.

Right.

I take hold of one of the chairs in front of the desk and drag it to the file cabinet. The legs of the chair scrape and wail against the concrete as if in protest. I don't listen, though, and once the chair is situated properly in front of the cabinet, I plant my foot in the seat and lift off from the floor. Then I'm tall. Or – less short, anyway.

I curl my fingers around the cold handle of the top drawer and tug, checking behind me, inching myself back as much as I dare to make what room I can for the drawer. Like the chair, the drawer doesn't seem to approve of my moving it, although the sounds it makes are more squeaks than wails. They're screeching sorts of squeaks, though, as if there is a creature inside the cabinet digging its nails into the metal, desperate to keep the drawer closed and the cabinet's secrets safe.