Survival of the Fittest

Chapter Four: Misery

That evening I settled down to bed earlier than usual. I was exhausted, both emotionally and physically after having gone out with my father to finish off the group Jonah and Peter had been fighting. Dad still hadn’t told us about the Council meeting, and to be honest it was getting annoying. He’d hardly said a word today, and I was about one more single word answer out of his mouth away from borrowing his phone and calling the Council leader myself to ask what had happened. In fact, the main reason I hadn’t already was that said leader, Harvey Dritch, hated my guts. I had no idea why, but it had always been that way. He was a cranky forty-something with dark hair and a lanky build who went out of his way to ignore me whenever I was near and had tendencies to snap at me if I ever said anything in his presence. I swear the guy thought I was dirt on his shoe, despite the tiny little problem that I was most likely stronger than him – he was kind of a weakling. I had no idea why he was Council leader.

There had been no change in Jonah’s condition throughout the rest of the day. When I wasn’t out hunting or making sure Peter was okay, I was by his side, praying to a God I wasn’t sure if I even believed in. Peter and mum did the same for large chunks of the day, but dad never did, and instead he locked himself away with his weapons collection all the time we were in the house. Mum said he did this most of the time when he was worried about something, so we left him to it and didn’t disturb him.

As I lay in bed I begged my body to relax and let my tired mind and body slip into a peaceful sleep, but try as I might, I could not reach that state. Instead I lay with my eyes open in the darkness for hours until I finally decided I wasn’t going to be able to sleep for a while longer and got up to get a glass of water from downstairs. I picked up my lucky stake – the very same one Peter had stolen from me when I was six – and made my way downstairs. I never left my room at night without a stake – I mean, I knew there would never be a vampire in my house as they only ever lurked in alleys and woods and the areas between such places, but when you deal with vampires your entire life your nerves can get the best of you and make you think about the what ifs.

Peter was in the kitchen, watching over Jonah as he slept. He smiled weakly at me as I poured myself a glass of water and cut myself a slice of bread. My eyes lingered on Jonah as I left the room but I forced myself to leave before I started crying over his covers.

On my way back upstairs, I heard a funny noise as I passed our guest room. I frowned, lifting the stake up as I put the food and drink down on the floor – no one ever stayed in our guest room. I crept closer, wincing at the creaking sound the floorboards made as I approached the room, but stopped and lowered my stake when I heard the noise and recognised it for what it was: crying.

Or, more accurately, my mother crying.

I peeked through the tiny gap between the door and the wall and felt my heart pang. My mother sat on the bed, cross-legged like a small child, with tears pouring down her face as she sobbed. I was about to walk forward and move to comfort her, to hold her like she used to hold me when I was sick as a little girl, when I noticed she had a photo frame clasped in her hands. I frowned and glance around what I could see of the room, searching for the photo that was no longer where it usually was in an attempt to work out which one it was she was crying over. I felt a rush of emotion run over me when I found which one it was.

We’d been in Cornwall for a week when it was taken, on the only real holiday we’d ever had what with being hunters and not being able to leave our designated area. The only reason we’d been allowed this one was because there’d been some hunters visiting from California who had said they would look after the area while we were gone. We’d jumped at the opportunity.

On the day of the photo, the five of us had been at the beach – Jonah and I were ten and Peter was twelve. The three of us children had spent the day splashing in the sea and burying each other in sand, excited by the new scenery – we’d never seen sand before, other than on the TV. Eventually, worn out and covered in sand, we’d decided it was time to leave and get some sleep before the early morning start tomorrow when we were leaving and going back home.