Chapter 1: Alexis

Chapter 1: Alexis

The three architects of my demise stared from the shattered window, their wicked faces contorted in sick glee as they watched me fall, eager to see me become one with the pavement.

But little did they know, it was a pleasure to fall.

Suddenly, all my problems ceased to bear their crushing weight on me.

Fiddler’s Green had never looked so beautiful. The sun coming out from behind the cascading waves of the sea seemed to beam at me, telling me that I shouldn’t worry, that it would keep a watchful eye on everything on my behalf—the gentle trees swayed in the wind, disaffected by the politics of power. The blue sky, ever so vast in its unendingness, tilted in the opposite direction, making me think as a raindrop completing my trajectory from the sky to the ground.

And then this euphoric moment ended, leading me to the horrific realization that my wounded and bleeding body was in free fall. As my body achieved terminal velocity, I, through much pain, morphed myself into my wolf self. If it would not save me from the fall, at least it would allow me the honor of dying with my dignity within my true form.

But something happened then that my enemies nor I expected.

My wolf body broke the fall. Whatever bones were bruised and shattered in the great fall gradually healed themselves as I limped away from that hellish tower and sought to escape from the rapidly appearing army of mercenaries. I watched from behind shadows as they scoured the area with their guns held up and their laser sights aiming every which way. Of all the injuries that had been inflicted on my body, the only one refusing to heal itself was the bullet wound.

This much was clear to me: With Will dead, there was no future for me in Fiddler’s Green. Our tragedies have a way of moving us, sometimes through spectrums of hitherto uncharted emotions, sometimes literally from one secluded town tucked away in Northeast America to the state capital.

I did not make that journey alone.

While the mercenaries under contract by Blair ceased their chase within the town’s limits, the vampires, instigated by their leader’s victory, raced after me under the watchful shade of Fiddler’s Forest. But they could only keep up with me while the sun was rising. Once it had completely dawned, even the vampires fled to their lair. It made perfect sense from their perspective, or so it appeared to me. Here was a werewolf, shot with a silver bullet, bleeding across the trail in the forest. The vampires might have thought that I’d die within the hour from blood loss.

What they hadn’t accounted for was my resolve. More than the desire to take revenge for what they had done to me, even more than the pain of my mate’s parting that kept me alive, the reason I kept inching towards the end of the forest was pure survival. Before I had become fated mates with Will, I had wanted to leave Fiddler’s Green. If it took the death of my mate, a silver bullet to the chest, a broken heart, and some broken bones to accomplish that goal, then so be it.

Fiddler’s Green extracted a huge toll on those who tried to leave it. Why should I have been the exception? Akin to an evil entity, it took everything from me. My parents, my mate, and all the opportunities I could have availed in my youth had I been a resident of Bangor, New York City, or San Francisco. Those old timers who sat at the marina would say something banal along the lines of, “You’ve still got the rest of your life ahead of you,” but they’d be wrong, wouldn’t they? I’ll never have my twenties back. I’ll never have my parents back. Will won’t ever come back to me.

***

“Christ, you look like you’ve seen better days.” The bartender was a thin figure, both arms covered in tattoos, and her head shaved from one side in a funky hairdo. She was wearing a black wifebeater that was completely soaked in the front. As she stood across from me, I could see that her expressions were reflecting the same feminine worry that crossed every woman’s mind when she saw another one of her kind looking beaten up. The same question lingering unsaid: Was it a man who did this to you?

“You would think that, but you know what, barkeep? I ain’t ever seen better days,” I said.

“Well, this one’s on the house,” the bartender said, sliding across a shot of whiskey. “You need it.”

I lifted the shot glass and raised it to her, then downed it in a single gulp, letting that fiery fluid scorch a trail down my throat, warming up my insides.

Behind the bartender, the wall lined with liquor bottles was entirely made of glass, offering me glimpses of my battered self. The bandages only served to hide the really terrible bruises; as far as any onlooker was concerned, the aftermath of the battle I’d been in was as apparent as day.

“You ran away, didn’t you?” the bartender, ever so persistent in trying to get me to engage in a conversation with her, prodded.

“Excuse me?” I slid the empty shot glass back to her and rapped the counter. She poured me another.

“Fella who did this to you. I’ve seen countless women come through these doors, never seen ‘em in Bangor before, women looking like their good-for-nothing boyfriends or husbands beat ‘em up. I don’t mean to assume….”

“Well, that’s a huge assumption. No fella did this to me.”

“Right. You fell. That’s what they always say,” the bartender said, shaking her head morosely.

“I didn’t fall, and my boyfriend didn’t beat me up. That’s not what happened,” I said, a bit vexed now. It didn’t help that the bullet wound that I had self-sutured was throbbing painfully, that the bruises on the rest of my body were, for some reason taking their sweet time recovering, and that I was alone in a big city with not a dollar to my name, and that this nagging bartender was creating a pathetic sob-story that she was imposing on me.

“All I’m saying is, it’s a Tuesday morning, and the bar’s empty save for one weary soul, and that’s you, sister. As I said, I ain’t ever seen you before, and you’ve got small town written all over you. So, if it isn’t some hick boyfriend who’s done this to you, I marvel at the premise that caused someone so young like you to get so beaten up like this. When the dust settles, when all’s well and done, it’s only women who ever stand up for women. I didn’t mean to pry, but I’m being sympathetic.” She extended her hand and squeezed mine, giving me a small smile.

“My world ended in a single night,” I said, downing the second shot. “Does that make sense? The man I loved…dead. And before he was about to die, he said something that made me question whether he had loved me at all. This state that I’m in, it’s nothing. I’ll heal in time. Those responsible for it will pay for it. I’ll recover. But there’s no recovery from heartbreak, is there?”

The bartender poured me another shot, then settled down on the barstool. “The moment a woman gives birth, people start that godawful jest, telling her that she’s never gonna be tight down there the same again. People are stupid. Within the first forty days or so, the woman’s body recovers from the pregnancy and the childbirth, and all her ‘loose’ muscles go back to being tight the same way as they were. Now think of your heart. You may think it’s shattered or broken beyond repair, but the heart’s not made of glass. It’s a muscle. It might feel all messed up, loose, displaced, or whatever else you’re feeling right now, but remember this: It’s a muscle. And it will recover. And you’ll be back to normal,” she said.

“How maudlin of me to be oversharing in a Bangor lobster-themed bar with a stranger on a Tuesday morning,” I said as the bartender poured me yet another drink.

“We ain’t strangers. We’re two sisters on different paths, is all. You can call me Izzie, and I’ll call you…”

“Lexi,” I said.

“All right, then, see. We ain’t strangers. You’re Lexi, the mysterious girl from out of town. I’m Izzie, the bartender of Mulligan’s Watering Hole.”

“I’m from Fiddler’s Green,” I said, shaking her hand.

“Well, girl, that ain’t too far. Just an hour’s drive away. I’m from Bangor, born and raised.”

As Izzie poured me another shot of whiskey, I tried to rationalize the events that had taken place within the last few hours. They came back in snippets of sharp, overly-contrasting images.

Will was dead in my arms.

Will was saying Ariana’s name.

A bullet flying through the air.

The glass window shattering and throwing me out of it.

It was as if I had been immersed in some deranged VR simulation.

“Whoa. You need to go easy on yourself,” Izzie said, pushing away the shot of whiskey away from me. “You look parched and starved. Whiskey’s not gonna do you much good. You need food and water. Do you have money? There’s a diner around the corner that serves a mean breakfast platter.”

“These are the last dollars to my name,” I said, handing her two bills. “And I think they’re enough to cover the tab for the drinks.”

“Jesus, girl. Something terrible must have happened to you that you’re drinking this much,” Izzie said, quietly taking the bills. “Tell you what. My belief system does not allow me to let a woman go without offering her help, and you look like you need all the help in the world.”

“What’s your belief system?” I asked, sneakily taking the whiskey shot back from her and drinking it.

“Uh, it’s called being a decent human being. We’re a small movement, but we’re gaining traction as the world goes more and more to shit.”

I chuckled dryly and raised my shot to her one more time.

“What do I have to do? There’s always a catch.” I said.

“How good are you with the dishwasher? We got an industrial one in the back for the weekends when this bar gets really rowdy. On the weekends, we’re short on staff. Maine lobstermen, guys from the smaller cities, business people home from a trip overseas—this place sees it all. Might be handy to have a fry-cook in the house. If you can handle the kitchen, I can give you lodgings and some money to make it worth your while,” Izzie said.

“Why are you doing this?”

“I was like you once,” Izzie said.

“I seriously doubt that,” I began, but Izzie held up her hand.

“I used to be like you. Not so long ago, I was a bartender here. Back then, I was a real meek sort of character who’d let pretty much anyone bully her. Made sense for me to keep my head down back then, now, didn’t it? I was young, didn’t have two pennies to my name, and there weren’t lots of places in Bangor hiring someone with zero experience and nonexistent social skills. Maggie, the previous owner of the bar, took me under her wing. Nurtured me like a mother hen does to her little chicks. Taught me the ropes. Taught me how to stand up for myself. Sooner or later, we gotta take a stand for ourselves. And somewhere along the line, we have to offer a helping hand to those in need. Take my help. Please,” Izzie said.

Why had it been this bar that I had randomly chosen in my delirious state? Did I somehow know that I’d find warmth and compassion within, or was it something more preternatural? Possibly fate?

The minute I had seen the milestone marker for Bangor, I knew that I had to stitch myself up, or else I’d die of blood loss. For some reason, my healing faculties were not working the way they had done before. Behind me, the wilderness gave way to the outskirts of Bangor, which only meant one thing. Even the hardiest of the vampires had stopped chasing me.

A hitchhike from a tow truck, and yet another hitchhike from an overly religious truck driver later, I was deep within Bangor’s downtown, looking like I had walked out of the set of some macabre slasher flick.

Going to a hospital was out of the question.

The second closest thing nearby was a vet’s clinic across the street. Putting aside the moral dilemma of breaking and entering into a clinic for the time being, I snuck inside and sutured myself up while trying not to breathe in the awful smell coming from the operation theater. I patched myself up with bandages meant for dogs and cats and only got out in time before the cops showed up.

From there on, I was lost in a maze of streets and back alleys until my path cleared up in front of Mulligan’s. This strange, beat-up building looked like a seaside shack from the 18th century, with an oddly placed neon sign proclaiming that they served fresh Maine lobster there. The aroma of the food and the wafts of smoke coming out of the chimney were all the invitations I needed to step inside, despite looking as haggard as I did.

And here I sat now, contemplating this offer that Izzie had made.

“Listen, kid, I’m not pitying you. I’m offering you a job. That’s how America works, as far as you and I are concerned. You wanna take my offer or not?” Izzie asked a bit impatiently as customers started coming into the bar.

“I’m gonna take a walk,” I said.

“If you come back in, I’ll take it as a yes. If you don’t, well, don’t be a stranger anyways,” Izzie said.

I had lost count of the shots I had consumed, but at least they had taken me where I needed to go. All I could feel was numb, warm, and disconcerted. Add to that the fact that my head was spinning and my insides felt like they were being gouged out, and I considered it a decent enough barter to forget the atrocities I had gone through.

Being drunk did not help me find a path that led out of this dense network of alleyways. Above, the buildings, their awnings, fire exits, metal stairs, and wires made such a mishmash that they blocked all sunlight from coming down into the alleys, making it feel like I was still trapped in some dark dystopia.

I snuck around and peeked from behind a wall to see if the cops had left the vet’s clinic. There was still a cop car with its lights blaring red and blue, which meant that my exit from the alley would be impossible until they left.

Thinking as rationally as my current state of inebriation would allow me, I made the choice to go back to Mulligan’s and take up Izzie’s offer. The big thing was that I was finally out of Fiddler’s Green. So what if I had to clean plates and wait tables? I would have been doing that in Fiddler’s Green anyway for lower pay and shittier customers. At least here, I had a whole metropolis rich with opportunities at my disposal.

At least I had no ghosts haunting me in Bangor.

While walking back to the bar, still feeling as lost as ever in this bizarre tapestry of ever-shifting streets, I heard a clattering sound come from behind me. Probably some cat going through the trash.

Izzie’s offer was the best and the only offer I had right now. Other than her, I had nowhere to go. Now, if only I could find my way back to the bar through these godforsaken alleys. For all its faults, at least Fiddler’s Green had some decent city planning.

I shot a look behind me, checking to see where the constant noise was coming from. Once was a coincidence, twice was a cause for concern, but the same sound three times meant that something was not right.

There was no one in the alley, which only made me feel more uneasy.

Once I crossed into the next street, the bar came into view once again, putting me at ease. Seeing Mulligan’s Watering Hole for the second time put things in perspective. Here was a place I could call home. Above the bar, there was the room that Izzie spoke of. It had a small terrace with potted plants lining the circumference and a big window giving the view of the alleys from above. There was a staircase from the side leading up to it.

I could see myself living there.

There it was again, that creeping sound coming from behind. As much as I tried to tap into my wolf self’s powers, I failed. I hadn’t shifted ever since I had gotten out of the woods, and it seemed that my powers had become dormant all of a sudden. I couldn’t see as well, nor could I sense the things happening in my surroundings. My getting lost in this not-so-complicated maze of alleys was proof of that.

A gruff hand fell on my shoulder and yanked me back. I wheeled around before I could fall and came face to face with a pale vampire with its fangs out. He hissed at me as I swerved to save myself from his bite. Even that little activity took a lot out of me, making me strain as I moved back to avoid him.

“You think running from Fiddler’s Green will solve your troubles?” the vampire scoffed. “You killed so many of us. We’ve got your scent, and we’re not going to stop coming.”

I grabbed the only thing in sight—a crowbar tilted next to a trash can—and threw it at the vampire, who deftly dodged it and grabbed it in the middle of its trajectory.

As he came up to me, cornering me, I did the only thing that made sense. I tried to shift. But exactly at that moment, the bar’s door opened, and Izzie came out holding a baseball bat. What good was a baseball bat going to be against a vampire?

Disconcerted by her sudden appearance, I was overcome by the vampire as he grabbed me by my throat and pinned me to the wall, choking the life out of me.

I was fading fast. All of my injuries kicked into pain hyperdrive as the vampire lifted me above the ground and continued to crush my neck.

My only recourse was to shift and level the playing field.

Why did Izzie have to be there?