No, but that one did sort of slaughter the mood.

“Sorry if I was a downer,” you say to Andy as you walk towards your car. “Just the blood stuff and … I really hate the bitch who did this. I swear, if I get my hands on her …”

“You and me both, sister. I dunno’. Maybe I just shouldn’t have said.” She doesn’t even look like she believes that.

“No, it’s better to know.” You fumble with your keys, drop them, then pick them back up. “Fuck, I am way too wasted to drive.” She opens her hand and shakes it a little. “You had AT LEAST as much to drink as me.”

“Yeah, but I recover fast, remember? Since I’m a low-rent superhero. And your ass still got all that drunk blood up in you, give me the fuckin’ keys. I know how to get to Workwick.” You surrender and toss her your keys, which, to her credit, she does catch without any effort. She throws her bag in the back seat before buckling in, by which time you’re already half-collapsed in the passenger seat.

“I really am a monster …” you gripe, almost to yourself, as Andy starts to drive.

“Only literally,” Andy argues, in less than a comforting manner. “Oh, hey, phone.”

“Right, for when … I’m not a drunk and sulky …” you groan. You unlock your phone before seeing Andy waving you off.

“Just write it. I just have burners, nowhere to save a number.” You look at her askance for a moment, then dig up a pen and a piece of paper from your glove compartment.

“Alright, Ms. Bond,” you mumble as you record your number on the back of a bill for repairs you never bothered to throw away. “Got a lot of people after you?”

“Not sure …” Andy answers sincerely without taking her eyes off the road. “But I intend on keepin’ it that way as long as I can. Should think about doing the same. Until you come down on a side, anyway. Never seen a vamp have any problem getting cell service.”

“Do you really think I’m a monster?” You wish you sounded more confident, your voice cracking a little.

“Like I said, only literally.” She glances at you, rolls her eyes, then continues. “You’re a vampire. Bio-dead person, walking around, drinking blood. Monster. Doesn’t mean you’re a bad guy. I’ve hunted normal people way worse than you.” The statement catches you a bit off-guard.

“Like, and killed them?” She nods, no apparent hesitation.

“I hunt evil things. That’s a monster eatin’ folk, a guy who’s setting homeless people on fire for a laugh, bank manager who serial kills blonde tellers that remind him of his sister … it’s my job. Someone’s gotta’ do it, and the cops in Northwoods aren’t brimming with competence.”

“Why do you do it?”

“Satisfaction.” She takes the next corner hard enough you’re not sure if you’re bothering her or this is just how she drives. “Since I could see them, I got this … restlessness. I got the eyes to see and the means to clean up, that’s more than most. Plus, I’m at the ass-end of average lifespan. Most people like me, two months to two years. Figure my number’s up soon. Can at least leave the place better than I found it.”

“… how did that happen? Seeing things?”

“Kismet,” she states plainly, pulling up behind your hall. “Your stop, ma’am.”

You consider pushing it, but you’re too tired and distracted to do so meaningfully. Besides, if she’s willing to tell you she’s killed actual humans with hints you could probably draw a line to … what she doesn’t want to share is probably pretty damn personal. You manage to stand up out of the car, still a little loose on your feet, and make your way towards the hall.

“Stay safe, loser!” she yells once you reach the door, waving. It idly occurs to you that she still has your car, but honestly, it’s too late in the evening to care. She pulls away as you step inside.

Your hand rests on the handle to your dorm. You want to turn the knob and open it. You want to go inside and see Eva and crash into bed. Guilt wells up when you think about her, though. Of course you’re messing with her. She does so much for you, you think you just bring that out in people? What makes more sense: she’s just that selfless, or you’re basically brainwashing her? You shudder.

Stepping into your room, you can hear the buzz of the cheap TV the two of you bought over the summer. That probably means she’s still up. As you close the door behind you and head towards bed, you find her sitting at her desk chair, staring at the TV.

“Hey, what’s going on?” you ask, breaking her attention away from whatever she’s watching. When she looks up at you, her face is … it’s not quite sad. Or angry. She looks almost worried, but … no, she’s afraid. Of what?

“Look,” she says softly, pointing to the screen. You pull out your desk chair and sit next to her, taking in the news report playing on the TV.

“- one of several students to go missing in the past two months. Local authorities urge anyone with information to come forward, for the good and safety of your community,” the reporter says, on-site at what looks like somewhere on campus. You can’t recognize it immediately, but what’s unmistakable is the picture of Kurt on the right side of the screen. “Missing: Kurtis Smythe, Workwick College Student.” Oh, that’s not great.

“What about Atlee?” you prompt, eyes widening. Eva shakes her head, then points again. After a few more seconds, you understand why.

“Thanks, Trisha. Missing students at Workwick have been a rising concern since the vanishing of Elias Compton in mid-July, an engineering major who disappeared while engaged in summer classes. The latest missing student, Kurtis Smythe, was last seen Sunday evening, at an event held by the Kappa Beta Gamma sorority. Leadership of the organization had this to say,” the anchor narrates before footage clearly recorded earlier plays.

“It’s horrible,” a too-familiar voice says. No. That’s … no, that’s impossible. “Kurt was a good friend to our house, to me, personally. And that someone might have hurt him …” She’s dead. “I don’t know who’d do something like this, but I give my word as Kappa Beta Gamma president of our Workwick chapter, that our sisters will do everything we can to try to see him home safely.” Her face remains composed in a mask of sincerity and concern, a weak and sad smile at her last sentence calculated to elicit sympathy and admiration. The rest of the report is just vague buzzing.

You almost drained her. You watched Eva break her neck. She was dead. What the actual fuck is Atlee doing up and alive, talking to reporters? Where the hell is Kurt?

“No one stays dead these days, huh?” you hear Eva try to joke as your stare, wide-eyed, at Atlee. The weight of the morning sun pushes you towards sleep even as you scramble to make any sense of your first victim’s gaze staring back at you from the TV.