Hel
"Call me Helena again, and you and I will have to revisit our little agreement, starting with sweet Elaine."
He stops beside the car.
Again.
I turn slowly, already regretting giving him the satisfaction.
He looks at me for several seconds, his expression caught between disbelief and exhaustion.
"You really are incapable of leaving anything alone, aren't you?"
"Not when it's entertaining."
"You've just threatened to involve my wife."
"It was a suggestion."
"A threat."
"A suggestion with consequences."
He shakes his head. For the first time since I've known him, I see something almost ordinary in his expression. Annoyance and it's strangely comforting.
"Get in the car," he barks.
I raise an eyebrow.
"You're giving me orders now?"
"No. I'm trying to get us out of this alley before I have to explain to someone why I'm standing beside an unconscious woman at three in the morning."
"Technically, she's sleeping."
"Technically, you're a menace."
"Technically, Father, you came back from the dead."
He opens the passenger door.
"Get in."
I smile and slow blink as I fold to his charming attempt at control.
"Yes, Father."
His eyes narrow.
"You're doing that deliberately."
"Obviously; it's what I do."
I slide into the driver's seat, and he gets in beside me, closing the door with a quiet click. For a few moments neither of us speaks. The silence is different now.
Before tonight, silence between Michael and me had always felt like a battlefield. Every pause contained a challenge. Every glance was a question neither of us wanted to answer, but now there is something else beneath it.
Knowledge.
I know what he is; he knows what I am, and that makes everything considerably more complicated.
"So," I say, pulling away from the kerb, "how exactly are we going to explain your resurrection?"
"I haven't decided."
"That's reassuring."
"I'll tell Elaine I was called away."
"For three weeks?"
"I've had parish emergencies last longer."
"She'll know you're lying."
"She already suspects I lie."
"Well, that's romantic and reassuring."
"It's marriage."
"Same thing, occasionally."
He looks out of the window and I happen to catch the faintest hint of a smile before he fights it off.
"She's going to ask where I've been."
"And what will you tell her?"
"The truth."
I glance at him.
"The truth?"
"Some of it."
I can't help but laugh a bit since the truth will likely get him sent to an asylum.
"Ah. The actual truth or the priestly definition of truth."
"I've never claimed to be good at this."
"No," I say softly. "You haven't."
The road stretches ahead of us, empty and dark. Ashford disappears behind us, while Millbrook awaits beyond the horizon.
Home.
The word feels strange in my head.
I've had so many homes, so many names, so many lives, and I learned long ago not to become attached to places because places eventually become graves.
Yet Millbrook had been different. I'd allowed myself to settle. I'd learned people's names. I'd even sat in the diner and watched the same woman open the bakery every morning. I'd bloody memorized which shopkeeper complained about the weather and which one secretly enjoyed it.
Yes, Millbrook was the strongest little town I've ever allowed myself to hatefully love. I'd learned the sound of the church bells and even begun recognizing Elaine's footsteps before she entered a room.
I'd become comfortable and that was dangerous. Comfort makes creatures like me careless.
"Why Millbrook?" Michael asks suddenly, pulling me from my daze.
"What?"
"You could have chosen anywhere."
"I liked it."
"That's not an answer."
"It is."
"Hel."
I sigh.
"Because nobody there knew me."
He watches me quietly.
"That's the point of starting over, isn't it?"
"Usually."
"But not this time."
"No."
The admission comes too easily. I don't like it. He turns back toward the window.
"You made friends. I think that may be why. Perhaps they gave you hope that a normal life could be possible again."
"Don't exaggerate."
"You cared about those people."
"Some of them."
"Thomas?"
I don't answer.
Thomas.
The boy in the boathouse. Fuck. His frightened eyes and confusion—the moment his fear became something tangible, I had told myself he was simply food.
A convenient source. He was simply a broken human who had wandered willingly into the darkness, but Michael had seen him afterward, and, for some reason, that made it harder to lie to myself.
"He's alive," I say eventually.
"Yes."
"You made sure of that."
"Yes."
"Why?"
Michael's jaw tightens.
"Because someone should have."
I stare at him for a beat, but he doesn't elaborate and I don't ask.
There are some answers that reveal more by remaining unfinished. The first signs of dawn begin to stain the horizon by the time we reach my old apartment. I pull into the parking space and turn off the engine. Neither of us moves.
"Well," I say. "Here we are."
Michael looks up at the building.
"You're sure you want to go inside?"
"No."
"Good."
I glance at him.
"Why do you keep saying that?"
"Because people who are certain usually aren't thinking clearly."
"That's remarkably philosophical for someone who just spent the evening hiding in an alley."
"I've had a complicated night."
"Haven't we all?" I say as we finally get out.
The building is silent, too silent and I stop at the entrance. Michael notices my apprehension.
"What?"
"Nothing."
"You're lying."
"I'm always lying."
"Fair enough."
I push the door open, and the smell hits me immediately. A combination of dust, old wood, and stale perfume, and of course, beneath it: blood. Very faint, but still I freeze. Evem Michael's expression changes.
"You smell it."
I nod.
"Where?"
"Upstairs."
He moves first and I catch his sleeve.
"Don't."
His eyes meet mine.
"Why?"
"Because whatever happened here, I don't think it happened recently."
He looks at my hand on his arm, then at me. I let go.
"Sorry."
"You don't have to apologize."
"I'm not used to people standing beside me."
"You're going to have to get used to it."
The words are so matter-of-fact that I almost laugh. Instead, I follow him upstairs. My apartment door is closed, and the lock is intact.
I stare at it keenly.
"That wasn't how I left it."
"How did you leave it?"
"Open."
Michael's hand moves beneath his coat.
"Do you have a weapon?"
I look at him and let out light scoff.
"I am the weapon."
"Right."
He opens the door, but nothing moves. The apartment is almost exactly as I left it. Almost being the keyword here. My books are still scattered across the table, and the half-empty bottle of wine remains beside the sofa.
There's a jacket hanging over the back of a chair, and in looking in that direction, I notice the bedroom door is slightly open. I look over at Michael signalling that I'm entering with or without him.
Something feels wrong; not dangerous, just wrong.
Michael closes the door behind us.
"Check the rooms."
"I don't take orders."
"Then consider it a suggestion."
I roll my eyes and walk toward the bedroom; nothing. Bathroom; nothing. Kitchen; nothing and I return to the living room; Michael is standing beside the fireplace holding something.
A photograph.
I recognize it immediately and my stomach drops.
"Where did you find that?"
"Behind the grate."
I take it from him. It's old; very old.
A photograph of me, not Helena Blackwood. Someone else. Someone I haven't seen reflected in a mirror for more years than I care to remember. Standing beside me is Vera. She's smiling brightly, and there's a glint in her youthful eyes.
A commemorative piece of life before everything went wrong. I turn the photograph over and there's writing on the back.
My hands go cold.
You cannot run from what you are.
I stare at the words and feel Michael moving in closer.
"Vera?"
I nod.
"She was here."
"How do you know?"
"Because she always leaves messages."
"What does this one mean?"
I look at him.
"You really don't know her?"
"No."
"That's probably why you're still alive."
His expression hardens.
"She wants you."
"She always has."
"Why?"
I look back at the photograph.
"Because she made me."
Michael goes silent. I can feel his eyes examine me.
"You said that before."
"I know."
"What does it mean?"
I place the photograph carefully on the table.
"It means I wasn't always this."
He doesn't move.
"Then what were you?"
"Human."
The word feels foreign and almost obscene.
His face changes.
"You were human?"
"Yes."
"How? How long?"
"Long enough to forget what it felt like."
He takes another step toward me.
"Who changed you?"
"You already know."
"Vera."
I nod.
"I didn't know we could turn people. Why, though?"
I look toward the window. Outside, dawn is beginning to spread across the rooftops.
"Because she wanted a sister who couldn't leave her."
Michael's expression softens. For some reason, that makes me angry.
"Don't."
"Don't what?"
"Look at me like that."
"Like what?"
"Like you feel sorry for me."
"I don't."
"Liar."
"Yes."
We stand there, staring at one another; then he says something I don't expect.
"You're going to have to trust me."
I laugh loudly; the sound is bitter.
"That's funny."
"Why?"
"Because you're married."
His brow furrows.
"What does that have to do with trust?"
"Everything."
He looks away. For the first time, I notice how tired he really is. Not exactly physicallytired but rather worn down by years.
"Michael."
He looks back.
"Why did you come after me?"
He doesn't answer immediately.
"I told you."
"You wanted to protect Thomas."
"Yes."
"That's not enough?"
"No."
I wait until finally, he says, "Because I knew what Vera was going to do." My breath catches.
"You knew she was coming?"
"I suspected."
"Stop saying that."
His mouth twitches.
"Fine."
He looks at the photograph.
"I knew enough to understand that you were in danger."
"And you came anyway."
"Yes."
"Why?"
His eyes meet mine.
"Because you were alone."
I don't know what to say to that, so I say the only thing I can.
"You're an idiot."
"Meh, I've been called worse."
"Probably by Elaine."
"Usually."
I smile warmly. It happens before I can stop it. A genuine smile, and Michael sees it. He walks over to me for an embrace, and I rest my head on his chest for a second. Neither of us says anything, and he steps back abruptly.
"We need rules."
I groan.
"Again?"
"Yes."
"Fine."
"No feeding in Millbrook."
"Agreed."
"No feeding on anyone connected to my parish."
"Agreed."
"No manipulating Elaine."
I stare at him.
"That's your rule?"
"Yes."
"Fine."
"And you don't use Thomas again."
The humour disappears from my face.
"I wasn't planning to."
"Good."
"Anything else?"
He considers it.
"No lying."
I laugh.
"That's impossible."
"Then no unnecessary lying."
"Better."
"And if Vera contacts you—"
"I tell you."
"Yes."
"And if she contacts you?"
"I tell you."
I extend my hand.
"Then I suppose we're partners."
He looks at my hand.
"Temporary allies."
"Partners sounds better."
"Temporary allies."
"Coward."
He takes my hand anyway; his grip is warm. So human. So steady, and for reasons I don't understand, I don't want to let go, and neither does he. For one suspended moment, the world outside the apartment disappears.
There is no Vera, or hunger, or church, or Elaine. No centuries between us; just his hand around mine. Then he releases me.
"We should sleep."
I raise an eyebrow.
"Separate rooms, Father."
"Obviously."
"Just checking," I say, flirtatiously.
He walks toward the hallway then stops.
"Hel?"
"Yes?"
He looks back at me.
"If we're going to survive this, you need to understand something."
"What?"
"You don't have to run anymore."
I stare at him, but he disappears down the hallway before I can answer.
I look down at the photograph on the table. At Vera's face, at mine, at the message written on the back. 'You cannot run from what you are.'
For the first time in centuries, I wonder whether Vera was wrong. Maybe I don't have to run. Maybe I can stay and fight, and perhaps the most terrifying thought of all—maybe I don't have to do it alone.