Chapter 2
Karen had a family once. A soft spoken mother who sat quietly by the fire in the winter time, darning socks in the warm flickering light. And a father, who would barge joyfully into the house with his eyes sparkling and cheeks glowing from the blisteringly cold winds outside. He’d pull her mother from her task and spin her happily around the small dwelling, singing in his deeply timbered voice.
Winter is hard for her these days. When a blizzard comes in and dumps a blanket of snow over everything the city becomes unrecognizable. The pristine white wonderland is reminiscent of the snow draped landscape of her childhood. The only real difference is the lights from the street-lamps reflecting off the ice crystals. They’re not quite the same as moonbeams coming down from the night sky. She presses her forehead against the freezing glass, gazing out across the white expanse, memories flooding her.
The winters had been long and dark in her parent’s village. The softly falling sunshine during the short days had been cold against her pale skin. She still wonders what it must be like to bask in warm light. She steps away from the window, moving back to her couch and flicking on the television. Channels whiz by as she searches for something she hasn’t seen, an onerous task. She watches movies constantly, cooped up in her apartment the way she is. The tropical beaches look like liquid gold slipping between the toes of lovers as they walk along the turquoise ocean front, the sand not so many shades removed from the sunkissed color of their skin.
She supposes it’s better this way. It’s not like she can miss something she’s never known. Her heart already aches constantly for things she can’t have, why add one more to the long list? It isn’t long before the people on the screen are embracing passionately, clinging to one another in a desperation Karen almost never sees in real life. That’s something she does remember from long ago, strong arms holding her, lips pressed hotly against her skin.
As usual, the hunter’s face comes to mind, the line of his jaw under her light touch jumping to the forefront of her thoughts. She doesn’t even know his name, but she’s drawn to him, toying with the idea of going out into the snowy night and tracking him down. Just to take a look, just to see him one more time.
He was gone when she woke in his apartment. A scrawled note taped to his coffee pot telling her to rinse her cup in the sink before leaving and to never come back. The handwriting was thick black slashes against the pale yellow post-it, as uninviting as a dispassionate command could be. She doubts the wolf ever wants to cross paths with her again.
The loneliness gets to her sometimes. A long life filled with constant solitude is like a death all on its own. She wonders if this is what corpses feel like, closed up in their mausoleums, in their polished mahogany caskets. The blue light of the TV flickering against her skin makes her feel like a ghost, like she’s going to disappear at any moment. Not that it would make much of a difference, no one ever sees her anyway. When she’s not actively hiding, the decent men she meets on her nights out only see her as a simperingly sweet flower, something to shield from the harsh realities of the world. Thinking about it looses a sharply bitter laugh tinged with hysteria. It feels like the walls are pressing in, like the air is slowly being sucked from the room. Panic bubbles up in her chest.
Turning off the TV and silently walking to her closet, she trades her soft kitten-print pajamas for a head-to-toe white outfit, tucking her long blonde hair up under a beanie. She almost laughs when she sees her reflection in the mirror. She looks like a reverse cat-burglar in a cheap heist movie. It’s not her intention to go looking for the hunter, she doesn’t have a death wish, but if she does find him she doesn’t want to be seen. She just can’t stay inside any longer, not tonight.
Frank hates snow, despises every little flake that falls from the sky, hates the way the air feels thick with cold moisture. The chill seeps through his boots, through his heavy leather jacket and settles in his bones.
But he goes out anyway, watches over the blanketed city as the white shit continues to fall from the sky. It’s not even that productive on nights like this. Even the bloodsuckers stay inside where it’s warm, probably curled up under electric blankets watching holiday movies while he's out here freezing his ass off.
He finds himself walking through back alleys, looking for the few homeless people who haven’t been able to take cover of some kind. The winter here is harsh and losing a couple fingers to frostbite isn’t going to make a tough life any easier. Frank’s already pulled one man out of a drift of snow, silently carrying the elderly man ten blocks to the nearest shelter.
He’s taking a break now, pulling a long drag off his cigarette as he walks through the park. A tiny bit of his hatred for the season slips away. The place is a dreamscape, soft white snow piling up on benches, white light bouncing around until it catches the few icicles hanging from tree branches. It looks like a postcard, something they would sell at those touristy kitsch carts he sees rolling around Times Square.
He smokes the cigarette down to the filter, flicking the ash off the end before pocketing it. He doesn’t like leaving traces of himself, especially not when everything looks so clean and white, when any little thing lying on top of the fresh snow is like a neon sign declaring his presence. He doesn’t even like the fact that he’s leaving shoe prints, but it’s starting to snow again, filling the waffle patterned holes almost as fast as he can make them.
No one is stirring tonight anyway, the park as quiet as he’s ever seen it. Even the few vagrants he expected are long gone, fleeing from the rapidly dropping temperatures. He’s almost ready to pack it in for the night and let mother nature take back her city, however temporarily. Just as he’s about to turn and leave, a sound catches his ear, so faint that he wonders if he imagined it. The sound weaves its way through the falling snow a second time, tinkling lightly against his eardrums. It’s a woman’s laugh coming from further in the park.
Intrigued, he tucks his hands down in the pocket of his jacket and trudges through the snow to investigate. It doesn’t take long to find her, following her happy sounds. The closer Frank gets, the clearer the sounds become. She’s not just laughing, but singing softly to herself. He rounds the last curve in a path coming to a clearing, and he sees her, a kneeling angel in the powdery snow under a cluster of wrought iron street lamps.
She’s putting the finishing touches on a rather rotund snowman, scrambling around the loose powder, looking for a pair of twigs for arms. Triumphantly, she excavates what she needs, jamming the crooked branches into the sides of her fat companion. When she stands, planting her hands firmly on her hips to look at her creation, Frank’s heart stops for a second. For him, there’s no mistaking who she is, the lines of her body immediately recognizable even if the flowery scent of her didn’t waft up to him on a draft of air.
Frank closes his eyes, focusing on his other senses, listening carefully. There’s someone else watching her, a dark presence hiding in the thick bushes not too far from the path. It’s someone all too human, heavy breathing reaching Frank’s ears ominously. When he steps into the bushes’ line of sight, the breathing catches on a frustrated grunt. Frank tenses, ready to pounce on the voyeur if he makes a sudden move. But it’s a retreat that Frank soon hears, leaves rustling as creep runs away.
He looks back to the woman. She doesn’t even have to hunt, it seems, for the disgusting assholes she feeds on. The city is ripe with men wanting to hurt women. He feels a twinge of respect for what she does, in her own way keeping the city safe. He wonders if that was her intent tonight. She’s just out here… singing and playing in the snow? If it’s some kind of lure, he’s the only one taking the bait. Quietly, he makes his way down the path toward her.
The lilting melody dies on her lips, her head snapping around to look up the path. Even at a distance he can see the fear in her eyes when she notices him, the way her body tenses with the urge to run. He’s beset by the very real need to put her at ease, involuntarily reaching toward her.
But she doesn’t run, instead merely curling into herself slightly as she takes a step back. “I’m not hurting anyone,” she says defensively.
He doesn’t know what to say. Suddenly the only thing he can see is her big blue eyes staring up at him, the only splash of color in the sea of white around them. Did he noticed how beautiful she was before? Her skin is like porcelain, creamy white with only the faintest tinge of pink at the cheeks, eyelashes catching the snowflakes swirling around her. He has the strangest urge to snatch the cap off her head just so he can see her blonde hair falling around her shoulders. He shakes his head, clearing the errant thoughts. “Just making the rounds, ma’am.”
Her shoulders relax a bit, but she still stares at him suspiciously. “On a night like this?”
He shrugs, gruffly replying, “I don’t really get time off.” He moves closer to her, approaching slowly as if she’s a wild animal. He doesn’t want to spook her. His gaze flicks down to her bare hands, fingers long and graceful, the beds of her nails delicate little half moons. “Aren’t you cold?” He can’t hide how much he hates the low temperatures, his question is bitingly short. He runs hot, but instead of making him better withstand the cold, it’s like everywhere it touches him is an insult.
She shrugs, self consciously tucking her hands under her arms. “I’m used to the cold… and… It’s not exactly an issue these days anyway.”
She’s inching away from him, eyes darting down the path trying to route an escape. He doesn’t mean to be so openly probing, but he was never one for subtlety. It’s clear to the both of them that he’s trying to figure her out, to pry loose some information that will finally tell him exactly who she is. Know your enemy. It’s the mantra of hunters. At least, he tells himself that’s why he’s out here.
He’s kicks himself for the harsh way he sometimes speaks. Consciously shifting tone, he moves closer to her, softly asking, “Who’s this?”
He points to her creation, raising one eyebrow curiously. She blushes under the light of the lamp and it warms him to the core, pushing away the chill that’s settled in his bones.
“This…” She bites her bottom lip, thinking for a moment before answering. “... this is Boris.” She reaches out, affectionately drawing a crooked little smile on the snowman’s face. “He’s a butcher. Sure, he puts his thumb on the scales now and then, but no one really cares because he donates a goose to the orphanage every Christmas.”
Her answer is playful, but there’s a note of wistful truth to her words, and he wonders just how many people she has tucked away in her memories. He laughs. “Boris doesn’t have any eyes.”
She looks at him in surprise, eyes widening at his amusement. The wind is whipping around both of them now, snow coming down harder. Visibility is dropping quickly. She gestures to their surroundings. “He won’t have much to see in a few minutes.”
Frank looks up, contemplating the intelligence of staying out much longer. It’s getting to where he can’t see much of anything, not that he’s ever relied a whole lot on sight. Sounds and smells always seem to be much more accurate indicators of danger. He looks back down, only to find that she’s long gone. Barely noticeable footprints darting away from the path and into the woods, already disappearing in the falling snow.
Later that night he dreams of her, tucked into his bed after a long hot shower. He's a lucid dreamer, and he knows it isn’t real, but she's soft and pliant against him, blonde hair cascading down and brushing against his chest as she leans down over him. He gives in to the fantasy, reaching up to thread his fingers through the soft mass.
When they kiss, he feels the whisper of her fangs against his tongue, a thrill of fear riding along the pleasure. There’s something about the danger that revs his engine. He's had plenty of softly sweet lovers, plenty of feisty ones that like to bite and scratch, but never someone who could probably kill him at his most vulnerable.
He groans in frustration when he wakes. Rays of afternoon sunshine coming through his window tell him he's slept far later than usual.
He checks his phone for messages, expecting nothing after such an uneventful night, and is surprised to see a handful of voicemails and texts from a fellow hunter. Murdock. We have a problem. Meet me at the bar at six.
Frank curses. He sure as hell needs his coffee before dealing with this pain in the ass.