THE WEST COUNTRY
Emerging from the underpass after the attack, Justin found Freya waiting for him outside the doors of the old warehouse they called home. The signs around warned of radioactive waste; an effective way to scare off humans. She hopped from side to side, excitement burning her up.
"That was amazing! Arnaud says if we head out next Friday, we can join them again. And this time I'll be ready for any bitches coming for me. I'm going to hunt for myself. I want to feel what it's like when the life drains out of them and—"
Justin pushed past her. Home was an optimistic description of the warehouse. His last human habitation didn't qualify in the top ten of anyone's list of "Places Where I'd Love to Live", but the warehouse's only resemblance to a home was a fridge in the corner that until now had been stocked with bags of fake blood.
The bags had run out three days ago. Hence, his adventure outside. He'd only meant to look for other stocks, naively imagining the supplies were as easy to buy as a pint of milk.
Idiot.
Inside, he switched on the light, its bulb flickering. He and Freya had done their best since they'd been here. He built rough beds and chairs. She found insulation lagging in the roof they used as rough upholstery. Previous occupants had left behind a massive pile of books, comics and magazines. Otherwise, they might have died of boredom, too nervous to venture outside.
He sat on his improvised bed. "Come here."
Freya's face lit up, dismaying him. Sharing space with someone who worshipped the ground you walked on exhausted him. The old Justin might have found her attractive—glossy black hair, oval faced and light coffee-coloured skin. Well, coffee-ish. She shared his ashy greyness, though that was now less obvious thanks to their recent infusion of proper blood.
Justin discouraged her as gently (and sometimes not so) as he could. He had, however, assumed responsibility for her.
"Freya, I don't want to live like this," he said. "I'm going to hand myself in."
Snuggled against him, she stiffened.
"But they'll destroy us!"
"No, they won't," he said the words with more conviction than he believed. "There's an amnesty for vampires as long as you turn yourself in within a month."
Yes, even the authorities recognised how powerful the drive to kill was. And forgave it. He hoped.
"You've seen them!" Freya protested, referring to state-licensed vampires. "In chains. Curfewed. Despised."
He nodded. "I can't live with myself if I kill."
More squawks of protests, but half-hearted ones. Maybe the tedium got to her, too. Someone once described war to him as ninety percent boredom, ten percent terror. An apt summary of twenty-first century vampire life.
He let Freya curl up with him, the two of them sharing his makeshift bed that stank thanks to the lack of washing facilities. When she reached for his crotch tentatively, the opposite of Cordelia's confident action, he shoved her hand away. Half an hour of escape beckoned. Thrusts that might drown out fevered thoughts. But a one-off wouldn't satisfy Freya.
And weird as it was—he was one of the undead, too—a bloodsucking girlfriend crossed a bridge too far.
Freya drifted off, her head under his. He nestled his chin in her hair, wishing the sight of that woman—eyes wide open and accusatory—would banish itself from his mind. That, and the way he kept returning to the surge of power he had felt as his teeth ground through the boy's neck. Imagine doing that time and time again.
Somewhere above him, Alice tutted. Don't imagine it. Think of something else.
An easy enough instruction. The secret he hadn't told Freya, even though it ate him up inside all the time. If he turned himself in, he must stand a better chance of finding out what had happened to his twin.
*****
They turned themselves in the next day. Walk into any cop shop hands on your head and the officers will summon Vampire Security all too willingly. The guards turned up half-an-hour later and bundled them into a van, Justin praying that he hadn't made a massive mistake.
The van dumped them at a processing facility far away from human eyes. Stumbling out into a courtyard—watchtowers, guards, high walls and barbed wire all around—Justin's heart thudded painfully against his chest as he swallowed fear. The "amnesty" might well be a myth, designed to bring in unwary young vampires and blow them up.
"Processing facility" was too gentle a name. Every guard there looked trigger-happy. The "drive a stake through the heart first and ask questions later" kind. And who stood up for vampires, organising inspections to buildings such as this, clipboard in hand and complaining that the place's intimidating appearance might terrify newly converted vampires coming in?
The guards split him and Freya up, shoving him into a tiny breeze-blocked cell. Narrow bed, the wooden slats widely spaced so the thin mattress sagged through. Sink in the corner. No toilet for obvious reasons.
Justin jammed his pillow around his ears to block the screams, often inhuman, and the odd explosion. A sulphuric stink that hung in the air. Vampire destruction. Two guards returned every hour on the hour.
"Did you kill?"
He and Freya had sorted their stories beforehand, rehearsing what they would say. Deny, deny, deny. "Cordelia and Arnaud destroyed any witnesses," he'd said to her, "and that compound is in the arse-end of nowhere. Way beyond the safe boundaries. The people there can't access police or Vampire Security services. If the guards ask you about what you did before now, say we stuck to the warehouse and only handed ourselves in when the blood supplies ran out."
"No, I didn't kill."
Technically correct. The young guy had still been alive when Arnaud grabbed his body off Justin. Voice flat, he repeated the words every time. Amnesty or not, it was better to err on the side of caution.
On day three, starving and unable to stop himself shaking, they led him into an interview room. Was this it? Had they found out about the compound and the trail of destruction he and the others had left?
A woman sat in the room, dressed in a suit instead of the regulation black cargo pants, Kevlar vests and black caps the guards wore.
"Justin, take a seat," she gestured in front of her and pushed a bag of blood toward him. He snatched it from her, ripped it apart and drained it in seconds, uncaring when the stuff dripped from his chin down his tee shirt and stained his palms.
The woman wrinkled her nose in distaste.
"I'm Carly Wang. Forgive me if I don't shake your hand."
She gestured at the screen behind her. It showed his once-upon-a-time human health record, red stamp "unvaccinated" at the top. At the top was a picture of Justin—his white Arsenal FC strip with its red lines that looked remarkably like trails of blood, and a couldn't-care-less expression. A stranger.
"According to the information we have," she said, turning back to face him. "You have, or rather had, a brother."
Justin stiffened, the blood pooling in his belly.
"Lewis," he croaked, "is he dead?"
"You tell me, Justin. We can't find him."
Palms flattened on the desk, she leant forward. "Where is he?"
This question he could answer honestly. "I don't know," he said. "Haven't seen him since our mother arranged for us..."
"Ah, yes," Carly's voice dripped scorn. "Grania. Sold you, didn't she?"
Pointless to protest, even if what Carly said concurred with his own thoughts. Grania might have handed them over for what she thought were the right reasons, but she'd pocketed money for Justin and his brother.
"Twins are closer to each other than normal siblings," Carly said. "Vampire ones can use telepathy, can't they? Is he nearby?"
If only. Justin had heard the vampire twin mythology, too. Not being with his twin made Justin feel as if someone had removed his arm, the imbalance making him dizzy and awkward. In the last four weeks, his mind had screamed for his brother.
The lack of response haunted him. The upside of submitting to the state licensing programme was meant to be discovering Lewis's whereabouts. If Carly had no idea where he was, Lewis must be at large.
Free and unlicensed.
Carly tried another tack. "Your poor brother. He must be terrified. Dumped in the West Country, desperate and starving hungry. Vampires are immortal, so the books tell you. But if they don't feed, they only last four weeks. Tops. Is he nearby, Justin?"
He shook his head. "I've no idea."
More questions along the same lines. She flashed up a film of a starving vampire, skin wizened and yellowed, breath coming in sharp rasps. "Immortality is not what it's cracked up to be, I've always found."
"Never thought it was."
"Where's your brother?"
Ad finitum. She asked. He said, "I don't know". It was Carly's job to round up, she said, all those idiotic vampires who fancied they were now living on the Twilight set and free to attack who they wanted. Not so. Unlicensed vampires lasted an average six months on her watch.
After what felt like hours, she said he could go.
He got to his feet.
"We will find him, Justin," she called out as he left. "Your twin. And if we find him now that he's been on the loose for more than a month, you know what happens, don't you?"