Open for critique.

The following is from my collection of works known as Snow Island. They are all original.

Snow Island's history and layout and its main character Daren Snow can be found in my two blog posts. There are two chapters in this post.

The posts are through the point of view of Daren and his vampire friend, Isabella. Each chapter will be titled with their names to indicate through which set of eyes the story
is being told. It's in order, though, so it will be easy to follow.

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Chapter One

Daren

It wasn’t the crash of thunder that greeted me at five in the morning, nor was it Atticus, my black cat, nudging me awake. No; as I lie half-asleep in the cold home I’ve always known, it was the annoying ringing of… my alarm clock? My doorbell? No, my phone. My phone was ringing at five in the morning, that small and solitary sound seeming to echo through the tall hallways.

“It’s Matt.” A voice barged into my mind, which was as clouded as the sky outside my window. I sat up, weary from a restless night, and looked around. Atticus, my cat, had made himself known, and was communicating with me: “Matt is calling. The department needs your help.”

“How could you possibly know that?” I asked aloud. He could understand me perfectly, just as well as he could read the caller ID on the phone. But like all other telepathically-linked animals, he could not talk, only think. As soon as I spoke, I knew it was in vain.

“Why do you think I know, Daren? Am I an incompetent fool?”

Though he was a cat, Atticus had an amazing sense of superiority that didn’t seem to acknowledge that he was, after all, a cat. Mostly, anyway. He sat straight and tall at the foot of my bed, shining fur glittering in the faint yellow glow of the bedside lamp. His golden eyes shone brilliantly, intelligently. My eyes are not far from his tone of gold. At least we had that much in common. I sighed, sitting there, feeling as though someone was drilling into the left side of my head, a pain that would eventually turn into a pounding headache. The phone kept ringing.

“Go get that for me, Atty, will you? I don’t think Matt will mind waiting another minute.”

I had tied cords and string to many small things in the house so Atticus could handle them, mostly by dragging them through room after room to where he wanted it to be. Atticus blinked, stood with a stretch, and leapt off the bed. He slunk out of the room, like nothing more than a golden-eyed shadow.

As he left, the explosion of thunder outside my window made me realize I was still a part of the earth, namely Snow Island. Named after my mother and father, I am the only Snow left on the island that recalls his true bloodline or even recognizes it. The fact that I’m still around means I must take over my mother and father’s role as leader of the island. It sounds like a big job. I beg to differ.

Being the foundation for the Snow Island PD, I‘m always on the most dangerous or strange cases. Matthew Black is the man I’ve been randomly thrown together with as a partner, though I’ve indicated multiple times I’ve no interest in working with anyone; especially after back in ’39, when I wasn’t around for my last partner when he needed me most. It cost him his life, and I vowed never to put anyone in danger by relying on me again. But mostly, it’s because I’m a control freak, and I admit that. Not that it matters; the police chief--or sheriff, whichever you like to call him--Ron Sumner loves mocking me.

Atticus made it back into the room as silently as he left, walking with head held high to keep the dark gray phone jacket from dragging the floor as much as possible. Jumping back onto the bed, he sat and dropped the phone at his feet. I grabbed it, but as I was turning it over to find the number pad, it began ringing once more. Caller ID read Black, Matthew. Obviously something was going that couldn’t wait. I answered. “What, Matt?”

He didn’t waste time. He launched into a rant in his always slightly-nervous voice: “Daren, we got a guy down on Silverstone Road going crazy with a gun. None of us can get anywhere near him and he says he‘ll kill anyone who doesn‘t do what he says.”

“What makes you think I can do anything about that?”

“Damn it, Daren! Get down here or I don’t know what he’ll do, we can’t let an innocent person get hurt.”

“Just shoot him if you’re that worried.”

“Ron doesn’t want to. He says he wants to end this with as little problem as possible.”

“I’ll be there.” Without waiting for a reply I hung up and tossed the phone to the foot of the bed. Atticus still watched me stall, sitting and debating whether I should bury my head under the covers and hide it out or just get it over with. Atticus bit my hand as I sat thinking, huffing at me. I rolled my eyes and got up, rushing to get out of the house in time. As I left the room with clean clothes in hand, Atticus curled up where I had been minutes before. He was a man trapped in a cat’s form, but after so long, I’ve been shown he thinks more like a feline than human.

A freezing shower woke me faster than Atticus and Matt’s calls, but did nothing for my stabbing headache. Within ten minutes I was downstairs and in the entrance hall, lacing my shoes, finding my watch and tying its ribbon around my neck, and out the door. There was no time for breakfast, not that I needed to eat anyway.

***

The rain was thick and swept down the streets as I drove down Silverstone Road, the air humid and stuffy. As Silverstone Road turned right, the blinking red-blue lights met me from many police cruisers. Matt’s dark maroon hair was plastered to his head, in his eyes, and Ron held an umbrella; when I pulled to a stop, Matt almost immediately opened my door.

“Damn, Matt, calm down.” I got out and shut it for him, following the sidewalk past the uniformed police talking to one another in hushed tones. Yellow tape blocked pedestrians from straying too close to danger, and a siren sounded somewhere in the mob. More police wandered about, looking completely lost, quietly muttering and nodding to us as we stepped by. The rain was relentless, and quickly soaked me through. No one seemed to take note of the downward flood.

Ron caught up with us from behind, falling into pace with Matt and myself. “I didn’t think you’d come.” He said. “So early, anyway.”

“Well, I figured Matt would have a heart attach if I didn’t show up. Besides, my headache isn’t bad enough, I should be around that damned siren!” I shouted the last two words over the noise, the stabbing pain in the side of my head doubling. But the siren was silenced with a blip, and the only thing to worry about was the crazed gunman, the likes of which I had not yet seen.

“Who is this man?” I asked Matt, halfway to our destination in the darkness of early morning.

“Dunno. We were called down to answer a disturbing the peace call, but when we got here, the guy was running out of a bar holding a rifle. He said if anyone comes near he’ll shoot.”

“Well…” I ran my hand over the cold gold case of the watch around my neck, a habit picked up over many years of stress wound to a snapping point.

“You could’ve, you know, shot him. If he’s being this much of a pain in the ass.”

“You know we can’t do that.” Ron sighed. “Why do you think we called you?”

“All right, fine. I’ll do something.” I took off, moving past them and toward where the police cruisers were in a half circle between a corner store and string of bars.

“Don’t be stupid, Daren!” Matt called after me.

I ignored him, as I usually do, and pushed past the wall of men and women staring into the abyss of humid fog and dripping water. He was there, crouching behind two silver trash cans. I stepped forward, amidst the murmuring and clicks of weapons behind me.

“Hey!” His voice was nervous but forceful, as though he were reluctant to act but would if pushed too far. “Get back, get outta here! I’ll shoot, damn it, I promise you!”

“You don’t want to do that.” I advised, keeping my hands in front of me to prove I was unarmed.

The maniac became skeptical. “Why not?”

“Because you’ll be in even more trouble than you are now. You don’t want to add murder to your list of broken laws, do you?”

I could only just see his face in the dark: Black hair, pale skin, sharp features. But his eyes glowered with a peculiar reddish tint; he was a demon, but obviously unaware of it. He closed those eyes, shook his head, opened them and squinted at me. “What do I have to lose if I kill you?” He demanded.

“What do you have to gain?” I retorted. “You can’t expect to walk out of here alive if you pull that trigger. Talk to me, at least.”

I stepped forward, but the nervous jerk from the armed demon made me freeze. “I said stay back!” He cried, pointing the weapon at me. I felt the intensity behind me stretch taut, so much so that you could have strummed a song on its strings, but I took a chance by moving one more step forward.

“I’m not armed, and they won’t shoot unless you do anything threatening. Come on, at least tell me your name.”

The demon sat on the ground, still aiming the gun but without his finger on the trigger. He looked tired. “I’m called Ian.” He said. When I stepped closer, he tensed and replaced his hand on the rifle. “Hey, don’t get around me. Just stay there!”

“All right, all right.” I stopped and crouched. There were only a few yards separating us, and I felt that was good enough. “Ian. What are you doing? Throwing your life away because of this standoff, threatening the police and the last Snow.”

“Snow?” Ian squinted at me in the gloom. “Daren?”

“Yes. You know me. Just tell me what’s gotten into you, maybe I can help. You know I can help, I have my ways.”

Ian seemed to mull the option over in his mind. I was shocked at the odd coolness he had around him, masking the nervousness just a bit, but allowing him to keep up a half-assed façade. Then he looked back at me, those glowing eyes focusing. “No. You’re trying to make me believe you so you can take my gun and put me up!”

“No! I’m a man of my word, Ian, believe me. I don’t lie, but you have to trust me enough to give me a chance.”

He looked behind me, at where I knew Matt and Ron were standing. “No. They called you specifically. They knew you could get me to go peacefully! But I won’t do it, damn you all. I won’t do it because you won’t control me!” He started to stand, and I backed away.

“Ian, stop! You’re making the biggest mistake of your life!”

“Shut up!” He sounded hysterical. “I won’t go with you! Damn you, die!” He pulled the trigger, an explosion shook the alley.

The headache I had before was nothing compared to the bullet that passed through my skull. I felt the pain first, the numbness spreading through me, going deaf and blind at once, my breath snatched from my lungs by cold hands. I didn’t hear the gunfire that killed the demon named Ian.

It only seemed like moments that passed, but it could have been ten minutes. When the blurry world became notable again, pale gray and shivering through sheets of rain, it felt as though I were lying on a bed of ice. The raindrops felt like daggers, slicing me. My eyes had remained open even when I fell, my head turned toward my killer. The man was being zipped away, a black body bag loaded onto a stretcher to be thrown into the back of a coroner’s van. That or an ambulance, whichever the police deemed necessary.

Still numb, unable to move, my head was turned toward the sky by Matt. But I saw only the white-red striped fabric of Ron’s umbrella accompanying his and Matt’s faces. They didn’t look worried, or surprised, or concerned. Matt looked shaken, still not used to how events sometimes played out on the island since he had come from Nevada. Their stares unnerved me, especially Matt’s dark red one, which some people could mistake as a demon’s eyes if they only glowed in the dark.

My body began tingling, regaining motor skills. The ice I was lying on melted, became wet with a mixture of blood and rainwater and silt from the buildings washed away. Breath filled my lungs once more, and I jolted upward to the dismay of my recently-repaired head. Matt startled back, straightening up and reaching forward. I accepted the offered hand, pulling myself up. As always with a regeneration, my legs were weak and I still felt cold.

“Who is he?” I asked Ron. “Identification?”

“Ian Baxter. Professor at the academy.”

“But that isn’t possible.” I tried to understand what I heard, but it was difficult through the haze that still clouded my mind. The discomfort from being soaked with a mixture of my own blood and rainwater was also hindering my focus. “Only nonhumans can be professors.”

“He didn’t know that.” Ron said. “He became a citizen only two months ago, and applied for a job. He must not have known that he was a demon. He was fired after the headmaster looked him over and realized Ian didn‘t know either, and apparently he couldn’t handle the fact that there are other things besides humans on the earth.”

“So he went insane? Just like that, without much else to trigger it? What, was he on psych meds or in therapy?”

“No, no.” Matt continued for Ron. “Headmaster Allen told him he was a demon, and Ian fell into denial. Started screaming at Allen, saying what a terrible liar he was, and stormed out of the school.”

“When was this?”

“Week ago.”

“So he had a week to go over it. Does he have any family here, or is Ian Baxter the only one?”

“No family, no contacts, no job.” Ron said. “He’s been shacking up with some of the homeless in the south, so he doesn’t have a place to live.”

“Fascinating. Can I leave now? I’ll get to the department later, when I’ve been able to sleep.” Stepping out of the canopy of the umbrella, the rain no longer hurt me. It was soft, cool.

“Sure, Daren.” Ron said. “Go home, take an Advil, let that headache go away before you come back. Maybe you should let Matt drive you…”

“No.” My legs were still uneasy, my head still hazed as much as the air around us where police roamed and spoke quietly to one another. I did not want them to catch on. “I’ll be fine. I’ve driven myself after worse injuries before, haven’t I?”

“Maybe, but I’m always worried.” Ron admitted. “Anyway, get going. We’ll need you at noon today.”

“Oh joy.” Leaving them on a sarcastic note, I left the alley and went back toward my vehicle, the black 1953 Lincoln Capri at the end of the road. A tiny sports car rushed past on my way, leaving the scene at an odd speed, kicking up water when I was not looking and splashing me. Flooded, angry, I knew I would not be able to drive again without waiting for the seat to dry.

I was half asleep by the time I returned home, pulling my vehicle into the garage and sitting there for a moment in the dark. It was cool in the shade, the sound of traffic dulling when the garage door lowered behind me. But the humidity was still stifling, and the blood that had plastered the back of my shirt down was probably staining the seat fabric.

I forced myself out of the car and as I closed the door, was startled by a wet clump of fur slinking along the concrete floor. In the dim garage, I realized it was Atticus. He had been outside.

“Dead again.” I sensed exasperation in the thought the cat sent me. “What will happen when you don’t wake up?”

“That won’t happen.” I walked to the door leading into the kitchen, where Atticus jumped onto the black marble counter and shook the water and loose fur all over. I knew he did it only to make me angry, but I ignored that action and made my way through the kitchen without seeing much, through the door and into the entrance hall, up the stairs to the second floor bathroom.

Instead of a cold shower as an hour before, I melted the aches out of my joints with water nearly hot enough to scald. In the coolness of the thickly-walled house, it was a relief to again get clean. But with my job, staying that way is not an option. My head still stung, there was little I could do about that but rely on what Ron told me to do.

Dressed in clean clothes destined to get dirty before the day would end, I was startled by Atticus once more when I opened the bathroom door again. He stood, looking like a drowned rat, tall and thin and still soaking with rainwater, staring at me as cats normally do.

“What?” I asked. A question like that always had an answer:

“If you keep taking advantage of your inability to die, one day it will leave you forever. You will be left to age just like everyone else.”

“If only.” I walked past him, down the hallway I had traveled earlier and toward my bedroom. “Do you have my soul, Atty? If not, I’d suggest you stop playing prophet for me.”

“It’s not my fault. I actually look at the possibilities.”

“And you think I don’t?” I opened the door, and Atticus shot inside before I could stop him, jumping onto my unmade bed and rubbing his wet fur on the blanket. I ignored it. “I just want to be able to die, Atty.” I went on, going across the room to a desk covered in old folders I’d not looked in for a little over a year, pulling drawers out and shuffling through the contents. Finding the bottle of Tylenol, I turned back to Atticus. “It’s death that makes life something to be cherished. Well, in most cases.” I opened the bottle, putting two pills in my mouth and chewing them. The bitter taste made me grimace, as they always did, and an involuntary shake of the head made a tremor spread through my body and a stab of pain explode in my head.

My mouth dry, I felt the stress of the day before compiled with what had already happened. Crawling into bed, turning my bedside light off, I let the bottle roll to the floor, clattering and shaking the tablets. Atticus abandoned the bed to go after the item, leaving me alone. The room was cold, insulated from the heat outside, quiet and dark. It let me sleep.

I am Daren_Snow's secondary account. I'm just as active, and I will be posting all chapters titled "Isabella".

Chapter 2

Isabella

The Addison family leaves early for work on Saturday morning. Earlier than on the rest of the week. I don’t know the details, I just know that’s exactly what I need. They have a nice big house in North District, white siding and a perfect yard, and two Yorkshire Terriers. I could never stand the little dogs, but they can really sound the alarm. Almost as well as Snow Island’s disaster alarms, located all around the island’s shores.

Their yard is home to a nicely-sized tree, where I can perch to watch them leave the house. At six-thirteen in the morning I watched Mr. Addison step into the rain with a blue umbrella and skitter to his little red car. Not long after he left, two teenage girls skipped out of the house in matching white parkas, running toward the second car. They got into the back seat, and Mrs. Addison was the last to leave. She would be taking the girls to school, then go to work herself. All that remains after they leave are their two little rats.

There were no lights glowing in the houses nearby, since no one else was awake yet. I jumped into the yard from my place in the tree and started what I was there for. Walking up the marble pathway, onto the nice open porch, I finally got out of the rain. The Yorkies inside obviously heard my feet on the wooden porch, because they immediately attacked the door from the other side, yapping and scratching.

I grasped the doorknob and turned tightly, breaking it and the mechanism within the door. I don’t mind breaking and entering, because they can always get the thing fixed, especially when they live in the North District. The door swung open, and the tiny dust-colored dogs scattered along the hardwood floor. I stepped inside and closed it again, glancing around the wide entrance hall.

A white staircase in front of me, and to the left a hallway. The archway on the left lead to a wide-open living room, and a doorway lead to a bathroom and laundry room. The tiny dogs yapped around me, trying to bite my legs through my leather boots. They wouldn’t get me easily; my boots are knee-high and very tough. I nudged them away and started through the house, into the living room first, retrieving my notice from the waistband of my skirt.

I was called by one of my clients to retrieve a pink-diamond necklace. I’m pretty easy-going with projects, so I don’t ask many questions that might take a little more time than I want it to. All I need to know is who the person is, where they are, what I’m taking, and how much the job is worth. This time, it’s worth a good thousand dollars.

The living room was ridiculously stuffy; with clean white couches and chairs grouped around a huge fireplace, a fifty-inch television above it, artificial flowers everywhere, a bar at the far left side of the room. The carpet was light beige, the walls pale gray. The archway at the right probably lead to the kitchen, but I didn’t have time for a full tour. The necklace was probably in the bedroom of mom and pop Addison. I ran up the stairs, quieting myself as much as I could, but those little dogs were on my heels.

The hallway on the second floor twisted to the left, and in the dimness I saw four doors. Two on one side, two on the other, a window directly in front of me, and a trap door leading to the attic at about the middle. I could smell something on the air, very faintly, mingled with the dander from the dogs still yapping around my feet. One scent was a very powerful, sickening perfume, probably from one or both teenagers. It came from the door nearest to me, the first one on the right. I opened it to a barrage of pink and white:

Light pink carpet, a darker shade on the walls and ceiling. White borders along the doors, the ceiling, white and pink striped curtains. The canopy bed to the right, caddy-corner, was pink with white-stained wood and ruffled pillows. The nightstand beside the bed was white, a lamp with a white shade and stuffed animals, mostly dogs and kittens. The chest of drawers beside it was white with pink drawers.

On the other side of the room, a thirty-inch television and two pink beanbag chairs sat among teenage romance books. The stereotypically-feminine room made my head spin, but there was little doubt the pink-diamond necklace would be there.

The first place I looked was the nightstand, opening the one drawer. A diary (also pink with a gold lock), several strings of light red beads, a pair of sunglasses, a photo of a teenage boy, and a small heart-shaped box.

I took the box out and rifled through; several gold-chain necklaces, two rings, a few pairs of diamond earrings, and the key to the diary. There was no sign of a pink diamond. Only clothes were in the dresser.

Only slightly discouraged, I left the room the way I’d found it and returned to the hallway. The other door, next to the eye-searing pink one, was a darker more gothic type. One I could relate with, lit with dark blue and violet light, and I did not have to check that room because pink would be quite out of place in a room---and on a girl---like that.

A softer lavender scent emanated from the last door on the left. Probably the mother’s lighter perfume. Noting the dogs were gone, I took the opportunity at hand to slide through the door and close it behind me.

The room was softer on the eyes than the rest of the house had been, with its neon white against light gray and bright blinding pink. Its walls were a cobalt blue, trimmed with navy at the ceiling and floor. The carpet was soft and dark, matching the bedclothes. The bedside table and dresser were dark oak, lamps made of iron and with nearly-black shades.

I went directly to the bedside tables and rifled through them first, finding nothing but opened envelopes and magazines. Becoming annoyed, I decided to move to the dressers, but as I was easing the bottom of four drawers open, I heard the front door slam open and a woman’s voice: “Just give me a minute, girls! I forgot my notebook in my room!”

The mother was back. Her destination was the very room I was in. Suddenly I knew why the Yorkies had vanished: They had heard her car return. But I had been too intently focused on my search I failed to listen to or acknowledge the signs. I was trapped like a rat.

I watched the door open, a lovely brown-haired woman enter carrying with her the soft lavender scent entering. She walked quickly to the left side of the bed, opened the bedside drawer, and grabbed a yellow folder. Leafing through it quickly, she placed it under her arm, closed the drawer, and walked away. The dogs had obviously stayed downstairs. When she left, I relinquished my grasp on the ceiling and fell back to earth, slipping back into my shoes which I had kicked off and slid under the bed.

For a moment I stood dumbfounded. Why had she not spotted the broken doorknob when she entered the house? Surely she would have inspected the house for an intruder, or called the police immediately. I would have heard fear in her voice as she called out to her teenage daughters. But then I heard something else: Old mechanical equipment. She had used the garage door and entered from the laundry room. In too much of a rush to notice much, she had passed the broken doorknob without seeing it and again used the garage door to go back to her car. I was safe, for now.

Without a moment to waste, I opened the bottom dresser drawer again and moved everything around. Nothing was there but men’s clothing, probably the husband’s clothing. Nothing of interest was there, or in the other three drawers. Across the room was a closet, the door slightly ajar. I flew to it, pulling the light cord, glaring around in the overly-brightened room.

Nothing was on the floor, but the shelf above had several large boxes, including a small white one. I picked that one up, seeing a carved glass star on the casing that let me see the contents: Jewelry.

Opening it and spilling the items on the floor, I shuffled through them quickly. One thing caught my eye almost at once: a pink diamond. About the size of a half-dollar, it was set in a gold chain and glimmered in the light from the bulb above me. Slipping it onto my neck, I reset the jewelry and returned it to its original position on the shelf. All the time keeping my ears open and nose perked for any sound or scent, I shut off the light and closed the closet door. All in a day’s work, I thought as I left the house. They wouldn’t find distinguishing footprints, no hair because I keep the curly mess in two pigtails, no fingerprints because I burned them off with lye.

Leaving the front door open, I took flight from the house as fast as I could, and I made sure no one was watching. Not that they would be able to see me, I was moving too fast, and keeping to the shadows. The little gated community, Morning Spring, was one of the smaller areas of Snow Island, so I got to the next one quickly. Woodrow was a larger area, shaded with more trees, with larger houses. They all look so perfect, so… alike. But I don’t ridicule the houses of my clients. It means they have money, and money is good with me.

Returning to the sidewalk from the shadows, I walked as I normally did, calmly and relaxed. I wore the necklace, concealing it from prying eyes if there were any around. I must have looked funny, a young woman walking in the rain through a good part of town, looking tired. But my destination was close, in the form of a nice brick house at the end of Loree Drive. Large windows were mostly dark, save for two in the second floor. Fifteen Loree Drive was shrouded in four willow trees, two in front and two in back, and a canopied porch wrapped around the front and left side of the house.

A garden lay desolate, muddy, empty because not many plants can survive the rainy season on Snow Island. I started up the light gray flagstones to the porch, where the door was just ajar. It was dark within, but I could see a long hallway separated by a staircase. I didn’t go into the house uninvited, but stayed on the porch.

I heard someone moving upstairs, closing the door, footsteps, creaks from the stairs. A light flicked on. I looked around at the exact time the door opened, into the green eyes of a dark-haired man. He was young, but older than me, and stood in a casual dark blue suit. He stared at me for a moment, as though he forgot who I was. But then he smiled. “Isabella.” He said, extending his hand to help me up. I accepted it, getting to my feet. “You’re fast, I have to say that much.” He added.

“You wanted the necklace back fast, didn’t you?”

“And that I did.” Mister Jacob Smith nodded, stepping through the threshold and into the house. “Come in, Isabella.”

“I don’t think I should. I’ll track water…”

“Nonsense, we can clean that up. Come now, to my study with me.”
I walked with him, a little behind. The hallway was decorated with small tables and flowers, the scent of cinnamon from candles filling the air. It was warmly lit all around, the walls hung with black and white photos of country scenes and plant life. I tracked water through the hall, up the stairs, and on the carpet on the second floor as Jacob led the way to the study, where he had been before I arrived. He was obviously waiting for me.

Stepping into the study, I glanced around. The walls were painted dark red, the floor made of dark brown wood I couldn’t identify. One wall, to the left, hosted tall bookshelves, the window in front of us more of a clear waterfall. On the other side of the room was a desk and red-cushioned chair, a computer, an ornate gold box, a mirror on the wall behind the desk. The light on the ceiling had a low-wattage bulb burning in a stained-glass dome cover, and two wingback chairs flanked the window. A table sat in between them, a small case on the table.

Jacob beckoned me toward one of the chairs as he lowered himself into the one on the right. I followed suit, paying no mind to the puddle of water I would likely leave on the fabric.

“Can I get you anything?” Jacob asked at last, folding his hands on his knees. “Tea, coffee?”

“No, I don’t…”

“Oh yes, yes.” He nodded as I trailed off. “I completely forgot, I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine.” I reached toward my neck, where the cool gold back of the necklace sat in plain sight. “I’m only here to deliver the item and pick up my pay.”

“Of course.” Jacob sat forward, watching intently as I unclasped the chain and lifted the necklace away from me. I held it out, pink diamond glittering in the light, and when he took it away from me, his hand was shaking only slightly.

“Is it the value of the necklace you missed?” I asked.

“Yes. It’s priceless.” Jacob turned it over in his hand, running his thumb over the surface.

“Pink diamonds are pink because of impurities in the stone. Can I ask why it’s so important to you?”

“It’s not really a pink diamond.” Jacob stood, and I followed. “It’s a container for my memories.”

Surprising, but not the biggest thing that’s happened in my life. No wonder the stone glittered in the light, the dark, and everything in between. I was pensive. “Why did that other family have it?”

“They took it from me when I wasn’t looking. I know things about them I’d rather not know, so I placed my memories in here.” Jacob held the necklace up. “The father broke into my house and destroyed everything in search for it. I’m glad I could rely on you, Miss Irving, to retrieve it for me. My memory depended on you.” He stepped forward, lifting the glass over the case and placing the item on the velvet pillow.

Staring at it for a moment, he sighed and looked at me. “Thank you for this. I’ll give you what you asked for now.”

He went to the ornate box on the desk and fished for a key in his pants pocket. A click, a small creak, a snap, and he turned around again with a roll of money in his hand. “Twelve hundred dollars,” he said. “I wish I could give you more for being so understanding, but I’m afraid this is all I have right now.”

“It’s fine.” I replied with a smile, and in the mirror I saw their sharp points. He slipped the money into a black velvet bag with a pull cord, and handed it to me. I nodded to him, turned my back, and started toward the door. But as I reached it, I heard a rustling behind me.

Only obvious of some people; they want their stolen items back but don’t want to compensate for my work. They try to take back their money. But they don’t usually get their way.

I spun around, taking advantage of my enhanced speed, pulling my knife out of my waistline and flicking it open. Crossing the room at visible speed, I pushed Jacob Smith against the wall beside the window and held the blade to his neck. He did have a gun in his hand, which he dropped to the floor by my foot. I stomped on it, hearing a satisfying crack, and grinned to show my teeth.

“I don’t like when people do that.” I advised. Jacob looked shaken, worried, green eyes wide and only just hiding fear. “If you want to stay on my good side, don’t try to kill me, cool?” Retracting my knife and returning it to my waistband, I walked out of the room and slammed the door behind me.

The scent of cinnamon returned to me, thick and heavy like the humidity outside. I went down the stairs and out the door, not bothering to close it. The stuffiness and order of North District was starting to bother me. Starting down the sidewalk to the patter of rain and the caw of a raven, I began my trek to South District with money in hand. I missed the disorder and danger of that gated side of the island.

Chapter 3

Daren

Snow Island’s police department is five stories tall, located near West District. The basement houses interrogation rooms, cells, and maintenance rooms. The ground floor, first floor, second floor, third floor, and half of the fourth floor belong to the PD, but the rest of the building is owned by the island’s Covert Operations, which handle most crimes committed by non-humans. A simple layout, a simple building, an underground parking garage below the basement. That is where I parked my car, where I stood silently for a few minutes to contemplate my surroundings. The headache was gone, but the clothes I wore were littered with cat hair. No doubt, since Atticus wanted to accompany me to the department.

I took the elevator up from the garage, Atticus clinging to my shoulders, and was immediately met by Matt and Ron when the sliding doors moved aside on the first floor.

“What an… unpleasant surprise.” Sarcasm veiling my distaste for being called out on a Saturday, I passed them without paying much attention and started down the hallway to the office area. Atticus leapt to the floor and ran ahead.

“Daren, we’re sorry. But killers don’t wait for a weekday.” Matt said.

“Whatever. I used to think you could handle things without me, but apparently not.” I looked at Ron, turning a bit red from what I felt was shame.

“You’re right,” he said, “but this isn’t a human case.”

“Then it’s a job for the CA. Why are you focusing on it?”

“Because non-humans are being targeted by a human.” Matt said. We entered the main office area, where phones were ringing and voices were mumbling. Papers rustled, doors opened and closed. The normal office atmosphere. We passed it all, staying to the left of the room, passing a Siamese cat who walked tall and easily, threading through the feet that posed an obstacle.

We entered Ron’s office and closed the door. His window faced the West District, but we could not see the trees past the many buildings of Central District. I looked outside nonetheless, imagining the trees. The office was a moderately-sized one, with gray carpeting, beige walls, a desk opposite the windows with a computer, several photos, a desk lamp, and a stack of paper. Two book shelves were on the back wall, with several paintings of various areas in the world: Pyramids in Egypt, the Great Wall of China, a Brazilian rainforest. Ron always dreamed of leaving the island, but feared the world outside. He sat at his computer behind me, Matt lying on the tan couch beside the door.

“A human killing non-humans.” I said after a while. The silence was deafening.

“Yeah, that’s what we’re getting.” Ron said. “Talking to some of the residents of East District, where he’s been the most, he’s tall and looks like he could be a Wolf. That is, if he weren’t human.” He glanced at the photos on the wall.

“He’s well-built, then?” I asked.

“Very. From random sightings, I’ve gathered a vague description of the guy.” Ron moved paper around on his desk. “But I can’t… find the document…”

“Black curly hair, tan skin, over six and a half feet tall.” Matt said. “Every time he was seen, he wore a black short sleeved hooded shirt, old black jeans, brown boots, and black gloves, and he had a red backpack with blue stitching with him.”

“That’s it.” Ron said. “Good save, Matty."

“Aren’t you supposed to be the one who’s organized?” I asked. “You’re the chief, aren’t you?”

“I don’t like to discriminate.” Ron muttered. “We’re all the same here.”

“Not likely.”

“Ahem, anyway…” Ron stood and joined me by the window. “We’re losing track of this guy fast. He doesn’t leave much to go on.”

“Well what can we go on?” I asked. “There are plenty of human citizens on the island, as well as other races.”

“But the humans who live here are accustomed to the racial diversity, because they’ve been born into it.” Matt said. “Whoever’s doing this isn’t from the island; they’re not used to the diversity.”

“Yes, that might be a good reason.” I said. “But you forget that there are vampires, angels, demons, werewolves, Shapeshifters, and an unidentified race roaming the island. Any one of them could have killed a human’s family.

Whoever’s left of that family could be vengeful, and want to dispose of those who did him wrong.”

“But all the races?” Ron asked, returning to his desk. “I don’t think so. Besides, the person would have to be very mentally unstable to snap like that.

“You’d be surprised what can make a person snap.” I said.

Ron sighed, staring at the paintings on the walls. Matt let his feet hang off the couch, staring at the ceiling. Atticus sat on the window sill, staring at a fly buzzing around the ceiling. I leaned on the window, seeing all of them, hearing the rain, feeling the chill of the air-conditioned room. The silence, save for the ticking clock, the humming computer tower, and the pattering rain, was starting to grow out of proportion.

Atticus gave a loud meao of impatience, and bit my hand. I looked at him, his yellow eyes. “I may be able to assist in tracking this man.”

“Tracking? What do you mean by tracking?”

Ron and Matt looked around. They cannot hear what I can. “Tracking!”
Atticus narrowed his eyes. “I have a basic description of the man, I can find him.”

“Atticus, that’s too dangerous.”

“What?” Matt asked.

“He wants to track the guy who’s killing non-humans.”

“That’s a good idea.” Ron stood and approached us. “No one would expect a cat as a spy.”

“Actually, everyone could.” Atticus’ fur bristled at Ron’s calling him ‘cat’. I smoothed it down. “That includes a cat who’s stalking one person. It’s weird, and in that case, it’s expected!”

“But it’s worth a try, at least.” Matt said. “We don’t have anything right now.”

“But there’s bound to be leads once the guy acts again.”

“We don’t want him to act again, Daren!” Ron put a hand on Atticus’ head. “We want this to be over. Atticus can take care of himself, and he’ll get us what we need. He’ll track the man’s movements.”

“I don’t want you to get hurt, Atty.” I looked at him. “Before you were stuck as a cat, you were my closest friend, and that hasn’t changed.”

“I know, Daren. But I can help in this, and I want to. I’ll be all right, you have my word. And have I ever gone back on my word?” Atticus smiled a catty smile, showing his fangs. He never went back on his word.

“Fine.” I gave in, but I didn’t want to. “You can go looking for him. But be careful, all right?”

“Very well, Daren. I will be careful.”

“Does he need a description of the man?” Matt asked.

Atticus shook his head, leaping off the window sill and walking toward the door. Matt opened it, and I watched Atticus vanish. For some time I felt myself stare at the door.

“He’ll be fine, Daren.” Ron said.

“Maybe.”

Chapter 4

Isabella

So the roof leaked, the hardwood floor was warped with moisture, and the walls peeled in their age, but the place was mine. I admit the bar below the apartment was in better shape, as it should be, since I owned it. The bar, along with a few others, some convenience stores, and a prison is all that South District has to its name, save for some abandoned mills and business buildings. Those lost relevance when the gates went up around the District’s borders and the mills and prison went to the old magma chambers and tunnels underground. Now what keeps things in order (though ‘order’ is really stretching it) are the strings of stores and bars that keep the people with a little money to their name occupied.

So I own one bar near the beach, where I can see the ocean, the sand, the thirty-foot wall around the South District, and the hills around one edge of West District. My favorite place in the apartment above the bar is beside the window. I sit there when I don’t have a job, watching what goes on in the street below. It’s nice to be alone, even though I have to watch out for myself. People like trying to take advantage of me because they don’t think I’m strong enough to defend myself. Partly because I’m always alone. Partly because I’m a woman. And partly--or so I hear--because I’m a pretty little thing. I like proving them mostly wrong.

Sitting there with my back to the window, I surveyed my ‘house’. The bed was a mattress on the floor, with a steel box I use as a nightstand and dresser beside it. A few old chairs were around the room, and a couple battery-powered lamps on the tiny tables. There was a door beside my mattress that led to an old bathroom, and the door at the far right side of the room was the stairwell that led to my bar. Down there, the vampires and werewolves come to forget their troubles and throw misjudged comments my way.

But that---and my theft job---is a way of life. I like being who I am, and contrary to popular belief, I don’t use my looks to my advantage. I might be ‘good-looking’ compared to others, but at least I’m not vain.

Something tapped my window, sharp clack, clacks that weren’t raindrops or the leaking roof. To my surprise, when I turned around, I noticed Radar, a raven companion, cock his head at me through the clouded glass.

“Well look here.” I opened the window so he could squeeze under, shaking his feathers free of rainwater. “Radar. What’re you doing here?”

"I have a message." Radar communicated the way all animals do on Snow Island: Through telepathy. I nodded, standing and walking around the room. "Someone approaches your bar even as I speak. They are of North District, an older man and woman, walking in the rain."

“Walking? In the rain? In South District!? What are they thinking?” I went back to the window, looking outside through the shrouds of rain and midmorning fog. I didn’t see anyone walking, except a black dog. At first I thought Radar was lying to me, since trusting ravens is hard to do because they compulsively lie even to people they like. But when I was about to tell him off, I heard a knock at the bar door.

Leaving the window and taking my gun, I slipped it into the waistband of my skirt before opening the upstairs door and going downstairs. They knocked again, I heard the five sharp sounds echo in the empty bar when I made it to the landing. Behind the actual bar, a door hid the stairwell. I unlocked it via key and sliding chain, and ran the rest of the way, dodging stools, chairs, and tables on the way through the dark. Before they could knock again, I opened the entrance door and flicked on the lights.

They were from the North District, I could tell by their well-tailored clothes. The man held an umbrella above them, a serious face, and the woman held a black box in both hands as though presenting a gift. The man leaned forward. “Isabella Irving?” He asked.

“There are a lot of Isabellas.” I toyed with their serious dispositions.

“The thieving vampire.” The woman elaborated, peering over her glasses at me. “Are you her?”

“Yes, I’m her. What do you need?” I backed away from the door to let them inside. The barroom was still dark, even in the afternoon, but was lit slightly with the yellowish glow of ceiling lights and several neon signs. They glanced around, the man putting the umbrella down and straightening his black shirt.

“We need you to steal something.” The woman said. “It’s of utmost importance that we get this item back.”

“What are your names?” I asked, taking a seat on one of the bar stools.

"That isn't important right now, dear." The man said.

“I don’t think you get it, my man.” I leaned forward. “I don’t get your names, you go without your precious little ‘item’. I know you have trust issues, but I have more. It’s not you who has to do the stealing, it’s me. I just think knowing your names might even out the field since you know my name. Now I’ll ask again: What are your names?”

“Larson Mayes.” The man said.

“Iridia Mays.” The woman said.

“Perfect.” I leaned back, letting my hand hang close to where my gun was settled at the small of my back. “What’s in the box, Iridia? You’ve been holding it like it’s made of spun sugar.”

Iridia looked down, walked forward, and set it carefully on the bar. “It’s what held the item we need back.” She said. Opening the lid, she revealed a red satin lining and a note. “We found the paper when we discovered the loss.” She added.

I took the paper, unfolding it. It was old, and broke almost cleanly in half along the crease when I handled it. But I could still read the words:

Once upon a time, the power of the world was in your hands. You kept it safe, secure, and secret. But you didn’t count on an outsider discovering it. You won’t find me in time to stop me, because by the time they do, I will have taken care of countless abominations. The human world will thank me.

The words sent a chill through my naturally-cold body, and I crumpled the papers into a ball and threw them to the floor. Iridia and Larson stared at me; I put on my neutral mask. “That’s weird. But maybe not so weird when I know what this item is. What is it?”

“A weapon.” Larson said. “Passed through my family since the sixteenth century.”

“Oh, fascinating. But, what is it?”

“A pistol.”

“What will this guy or girl do with the pistol? Well, I mean, the usual, but why does he say ‘the power of the world’, and ‘the human world will thank me’?”

“Because,” Larson started, “the pistol was drowned three times in the blood of vampire, angel, demon, shapeshifter, and werewolf. That makes it deadly to each one, because it’s familiar with the creatures. Of course, it’s also deadly to humans, but I don’t think that is what the thief has in mind for it.”

“So you want me to track down a would-be killer?”

“Yes. To get our prized possession back.” Iridia said. “It’s the only thing we have to remind us of our past.”

I was worried. A pistol that could kill each race on the island? Usually one had to take special measures to take out a vampire, or a demon, or a werewolf or angel, even an shapeshifter, even though they’re more human than the rest. “Fine, I’ll take it.” I said. “Do you have a picture reference of the item?”

Larson pulled an envelope from his pocket and presented it to me. It was oddly thick to just be carrying one or two photographs. I opened it in the darkness of a rainy morning, and was surprised to see, along with a picture, a fold of money. Counting it revealed ten thousand dollars.

“We decided to pay up front.” Larson said. “A job this big counts for much more than a couple hundred.”

“I’ll do whatever I can to get this weapon back.” I promised. “But since this man or woman is a killer, or about to be one, I’ll have to talk to a couple friends in the police force. That also relates to the fact I don’t know where he or she can be found.”

“Take all the time you need.” Iridia said. “Just keep our names out of it if you talk to the police.”

“You don’t have to worry about that. I know what I’m doing.”

Standing, I led them to the door. Iridia still held the box as if it would break at any moment, even though there was nothing inside. Larson opened the umbrella before stepping outside with his wife. “We’re counting on your obvious skill,” he said.

“Don’t worry about it, I can take care of things.”

They nodded to me, and I closed the door behind them. With the envelope, I went back upstairs, where Radar was still perched on the window sill.

"What’s that?" He wondered, jumping to the back of an armchair.

“It’s my assignment.” I said, going to the table and lying the paper down. Taking up the photo, I studied it: A silver pistol, resting in its black box, red patterns on the barrel. The weapon could kill any race with one well-placed shot. I was probably in over my head, but for ten thousand dollars, I would do anything to get it back to Iridia and Larson Mays.

Reserved for chapter "5"

Reserved for Chapter "6"