FOUR | UNSPOKEN

Careful not to disturb the body, we swung into action. My Dad pulled out an on-the-go first aid kit from his thigh pouch, and my Paps checked for a pulse while I hovered above her mouth, listening for any signs of breathing.

Her hair was wet, straggly, plastered to her sallow face. Her cheekbones stuck out, gaunt, and there were ugly, deep-set bruises filling her eye sockets. I didn’t have a second to feel anything for her: no pity, no sadness, no repulsion. I had a job to do, and, as we worked to revive her, I did feel a tiny swell of pride at our quick response, and at our flawless teamwork. I squashed it down as soon as it arose; there was no time to feel pride, not when there was a life on the line.

Her lips were blue. She started to shudder, my Dad slamming his hands onto her chest behind me. Her head bounced, rolling onto one side, and my eyes narrowed in on a large bite mark scraped across her exposed neck. It was dark and gruesome, almost black in the dawn light against her pale skin. This hadn't been done merely to feed; this was an attack, wild and vengeful.

“Vampire bite,” I said, my tone empty, emotionless - focused. “She’ll need blood.”

“I’ll call an ambulance,” my Paps said. “Keep trying.”

“We will,” I replied curtly, and then I bowed my head, blowing air into her sodden lungs. Her chest expanded, but it took on no life of its own. She was waterlogged, and her lips were chalky, frozen beneath mine. She tasted like stale water, like algae, and I was about to give up when I heard a tiny choking sound, right in the back of her throat.

She thumped lifelessly against the ground, her ribs creaking beneath my Dad’s hands, and then it came again: another muted, breathless noise, almost like a too-thick throat closing around air.

I pressed my ear to her mouth, desperate to hear anything, any struggle, any attempt to come back from the brink. I heard my Paps on the phone as though through a long and winding tunnel, and the thump-thump-thump of my Dad beating on her heart, begging it to start pumping again.

Some brains, I was sure, would have gone into shock. Some would have blocked it out as the ambulance arrived, loading her wilted, soaking body onto a stretcher and taking her away. Some would have collapsed with relief as she’d taken her first breath on her own, spluttering and coughing, water spraying from her cold berry-blue lips, but not mine. I was there, and I was focused, every step of the way.

Until after they’d taken her body away. Then, as we’d walked back to the cars, finishing the loop around the lake in case there were more victims, more lifeless, limp bodies half-drained of blood, my vision had begun to blur at the edges, my focus wavering, turning foggy.

“You okay, Callie?” My Dad asked. I nodded a response, unable to muster up the energy to do any more than that.

Every pull of my muscles dragged, and my weary bones felt as though they couldn’t take each next step as it came. My eyes were heavily lidded, barely open wide enough to see the arching sunrise, the bloated red sun hanging fat in the dawn sky.

Something about her had felt off. There was an itch at the very back of my head, just out of reach always, a horrible, niggling feeling that something wasn’t right. Perhaps it was Trigger’s certainty that new vampires had arrived in Seafall. Perhaps it was the fact that she’d looked dead – truly dead, with waxy skin and hollowed cheeks – and I’d blown air into her lungs, breathed life back into her empty body.

Then a single thought pierced through the veil of my consciousness: I was being foolish. We’d found a body, and, with any luck, she would live. They’d found her I.D. card, found her name, but I’d let it wash over me, unable to see her body as anything more than a task. She had been hurt, and now she would be okay.

But there were others out there. That was what snapped me back to reality, what hardened my gaze against the fierce sunlight, against its glittering reflection on the lake, cast into a thousand shards like diamonds and scattered.

This life was easy. It was black and white, good versus evil. The supernatural was bad, and we had to protect the innocent from what they didn’t know about, had never heard of. The burden of knowledge that we carried ensured that we carried out our duties. Even if a civilian saw it, saw the evil at hand, they wouldn't - and often simply couldn't - comprehend it. I’d lost focus today and, though it had cost no lives, doing so in the future could. 

I had a responsilbity to keep focus, to keep moving, working. I'd been brought into this life, and there was no shirking that, not now. I knew what I needed to do, what I had to do, and I did it, every day, without question. I'd allowed myself a lapse in judgement, and, however brief it may have been, keeping my focus on my duty was imperative.

I couldn’t jeopardise anyone else’s safety like that. I wouldn’t.

I swallowed thickly, my throat scraping uncomfortably. My mouth was dry. My parched lips parted, and I ran my tongue over them. The morning air had a bite to it, and it clung to the damp patches on my dry lips, sapping my body heat from my extremities. 

Seeing a body had never shaken me up like that before, and she hadn’t even died. Something had got under my skin, and I had to get it out. I’d been fine this morning, and better than fine during the fight last night. The dawn stretched before me, but it held nothing: no promises of a new day, of a new life. This was my lot, and, for the most part, I was happy with it. One measly body, one insignificant, injured girl was no reason for me to feel out of sorts for the rest of the day. Unless... unless there was. 

I shook myself. Now I really was being foolish. There was no use thinking about such things. I was fine; overtired, if anything, and overworked, between my shifts at the diner and hunting. A night off was all I needed, and tomorrow I’d be back to my best form. One of Harper's home-cooked meals and an early night, and I'd be fine. I'd be back to my normal self. I smiled to myself, a quick, flashing grin, easily convinced.

Being a hunter may not be in my blood, but it was who I was. I’d been brought up by two hunters, two hunters that had travelled the word in the pursuit of various supernatural creatures, ranging from wendigos to ghosts to shifters. I was fine. I would be fine.

“That was some good work today, Cals,” my Paps chirped as we reached the cars. “A very quick response. That might have been what saved her.”

“Thanks, Paps,” I smiled, a little wearily. The thought of a ten hour shift at the diner was less than appealing, but at least it was relatively stress free. I doubted any more lifeless bodies would turn up there, at the very least.

My Dad tutted to himself, deep in thought. “Bethan Lewis. I recognise that name from somewhere.” He shoved his hands deep into his pockets, and the toes of his hiking boots wriggled as he scrunched his feet up within them.

“I just hope she’s okay,” Paps murmured, a dent appearing between his eyebrows as he frowned. "She seemed..." he trailed off, swallowing. "She seemed past the point of recovering. You two did a great thing, you know that?" Before either of us could respond, he shook his head. "It is worrying, though. I hope she's okay," he repeated. 

His gaze fell to me, and I wondered, for a moment, if he and my Dad ever worried about my safety. I'd been their Princess growing up - doted on, the crusts cut off my sandwiches and my hair braided into plaits every morning - but I'd hardened with age, with the realisation that life was full of darkness that most people were unaware of. I'd had my eyes opened, and it had changed me.

But sometimes, in the midst of a fight, I'd felt their eyes lingering on me for just a moment too long, and I'd wondered if, even now, I was still just their little girl. The thought usually seemed ridiculous to me - they were, after all, the ones that had brought me into their world, made me into the hunter I was. They'd switched my bedtime French plaiting lessons for stake whittling ones, and my innocent kickboxing classes had morphed into brutal training sessions, preparing me for life or death situations.

Becoming a hunter had been my choice. But I sometimes wondered if they regretted letting me be the one to make the final decision.

“Me too,” I muttered, though my thoughts were already drifting away from hunting, torn between this life and my other. Harper would hear about a body being pulled from a lake. If they mentioned my name, surely it was better to tell him now? If I was lucky, he’d still be in bed, and if the contents of my note no longer made sense, I could change it, rip it up and scribble down a new one in its place. 

I sighed, resigned. I’d have to go home and tell him. On the plus side, it meant that I could change out of my sodden trainers. I had plenty of time – it couldn’t be later than eight, and my shift didn’t start until nine. Perhaps I could even call in and say I was going to be a little late. Although finding a body was no big deal for me, it would probably be scarring – or at least mildly traumatic – to most people. 

I drove home with fresh resolve filling my heart. And if my fingers gripped the steering wheel a little too tight, my knuckles pulling my skin taught, nobody but I would ever have to know.

Seafall was a small town. No secrets were ever truly safe here.