My Shadow, My Vampire

Chapter One

I have a shadow. Not my shadow—not the one cast where my body blocks the light. An extra one.

My shadow has fangs. My shadow, on occasion, leaves me flowers...

I think about it as I close up, humming to myself as I collect all the salts and peppers from the tables in the restaurant and group them on one table in the back, then wipe off each one. Only two of the tables don't lean; the rest have developed personalities, tilted identities beyond table twenty-five in the corner. On a late Wednesday night, the only other people in the restaurant are the two regulars I know well enough to practically ignore. They'll leave when I do. Until then, they'll keep to themselves like always, and I can let them sink into the background.

My shadow feels like a weighted blanket or a warm shower. It smells, faintly, of copper and old wood—the kind of wood that's collected dust as it's aged, full of splinters.

Without any of my coworkers here to distract me, I close up in less than half an hour. The owner, Day, trusts me enough to let me keep a set of keys. I don't even have to change before leaving; since I've been spending so much time at work, I pretty much live in these jeans and the alternately white or blue polo shirts that constitute our uniforms. My apron goes in my purse, and then I stand at the front of the place, one hand on the last light switch.

"Okay, boys, time to go. Yes, you know you can take a to-go cup, Max, I don't mind." Max returns a grizzled grin and leans over the bar to grab a cup for the rest of his beer. I stand aside as he shuffles out first. He's been retired from the local fire station for a few years now, and I can only imagine how much of his pension he's already spent on beer and food at the Parlor. Not far behind him is the other regular. This one is more recent. Every time I watch his broad back retreat down the sidewalk, I remember that I've forgotten to ask his name yet again. He always pays in cash, so it's not like I can look at his credit card or receipt. And on the few occasions he's come in with someone else, they've retreated to the farthest table in the corner and spoken in impossibly hushed tones. He's much younger than Max—certainly below retirement age, and probably under thirty. But he's been coming almost every day for half a year, I consider him a known element. Max seems to like him, and something about him encourages my eyes to slide off of him, like he's more negative space than solid person. He follows Max out of the restaurant, standing behind the other man like some kind of bodyguard.

The front door locks with a satisfying click behind me, and I look in the opposite direction of the two men, towards my second-story apartment a few blocks away. I can already feel the cool embrace of my bed, envision myself stripping the day's clothes off my body and wrapping myself in those familiar sheets.

"Night, Max."

Max mutters a gruff "Goodnight, Sev," in his cigarette-damaged voice and turns to trundle down the road to his home.

"Goodnight," the other regular says. I give him a genial wave, and turn the other direction towards home. I don't bother calling after him. He won't turn around. Considering how much wine he drinks, I'm surprised he can walk.

I'm so focused on my destination that I pay no attention to my journey, familiar as it is. I can feel the extra weight of my shadow as I move. I'm usually vigilant, but tonight I'm busy searching for my phone in my bag, worried I might've left it in the restaurant. Late for work this morning, I'd grabbed the wrong bag, and now I have no extra cash, no mace, no extra umbrella, no nothing. I don't notice the telltale glint of metal from one of the alleys until rough hands grab me around my waist and mouth and tug me sideways. The short, surprised yelp I let out is quickly silenced by the big hand that practically wraps around my face. My brain reluctantly kicks into high gear. Shit. This area isn't extremely dangerous, but it isn't extremely safe, either. And I'm a twenty-five year old girl with long black hair, a relatively pretty face, generous curves. My stomach wrenches—on nothing, since I haven't even had a chance to eat dinner. I can feel the man behind me fumbling in my purse, trying to get past the apron and down to my wallet. For a moment, I consider really struggling and forcing him to use the knife. Shai has always accused me of rushing too readily to death, given my history. Thinking of my friend drags me back to the present. I smell cheap whiskey on the man's breath.