Karhi Emelyn

Karhi’s eyelids felt like gum when he tried to open them. They wouldn’t open much more than a fraction at first. He squeezed them shut and tried to open them again. It was easier, but they snapped back shut.

He groaned, trying to turn over, but his limbs were like anvils. Or something heavier than anvils because he could actually lift those. They were each the weight of a freight train.

As he moved, he dully registered a female sigh somewhere nearby. He couldn’t tell the source from his ears alone.

He tried to sit up, but he could only manage maybe a half a foot before he fell back, thumping on the bed. His mouth was so dry and tasted sour.

He stayed there, working on opening his eyes again. This time they were less gummy. He blinked a couple times but could only keep them half open.

“For someone who does heroin semi-regularly, you are shit on the comedown.”

That voice.

He turned his head as fast as he could—which felt like a snail’s pace—to find the source.

It was her.

“Sloane?”

She lay next to him on the bed (that he vaguely recognized as a hotel bed). She was on her side, facing him, her dark hair splayed across her pillow, green eyes a little less vibrant than he remembered. She looked as tired as he felt.

Was this a dream? That would explain why everything felt so slow and gummy.

But no . . . he could feel her next to him. He could feel the exhaustion emanating off of her. And a particular type of numbness that he recognized—one where you’re actively trying not to feel your emotions. She was hiding from something

All of this brought new confusion, and all he could think to say was, “What the fuck?”

She sat up. “Come on. If we get more blood in you, you’ll flush it out faster.” She got off the bed and walked over to his side, pulling him up.

When had she gotten so strong?

She helped him up and walked him over to the door. For the first time, he realized that he wasn’t in his own hotel room. Whose room was this?

She opened the door into a small living room, and he found Lunette sitting on a couch, typing on her laptop.

He couldn’t stop the first thought that came to mind when she looked up at him.

“You came over to my room, to bitch about not getting a nice room, and then neglected to tell me that your room is still nicer than mine?”

Lunette rolled her eyes, setting her laptop aside.

Sloane set him on the chair next to Lunette and stepped away somewhere. He didn’t know where because he was too busy staring at the mugshot on the screen of Lunette’s laptop.

“Who’s that?” he asked, pointing at the picture of a teenager with bronze curls and light brown skin. It felt like it took three months to bring his finger up to point.

“My friend, Frankie,” Sloane answered, handing Karhi a cold bottle of blood. “He’s in police custody.”

Karhi fumbled to open the bottle, fighting the urge to slump in his chair. “Because he stole my wallet?”

“He what?” Lunette looked from Karhi to Sloane, irritation quickly taking over her face. It was one of only four facial expressions she had.

Sloane smacked her hand to her forehead and left it there, huffing a breath out through her nose. “Of-fucking-course he did. You’re obviously loaded, and he wouldn’t be able to help himself. It’s second nature.”

He was obviously loaded?

“Are you why he got arrested?” Sloane asked.

Karhi shook his head, finally getting the cap off the blood. “He bumped into me while running from cops, and then they tackled him. I didn’t even know he had taken it until I tried to get back into my hotel room and my wallet was gone.” He glanced up to see Sloane’s gaze was discerning on him. “I swear,” he said. “I didn’t call the cops on him. It’s an inconvenience but I don’t keep anything in my wallet that I can’t cancel or replace.”

“He’s right,” Lunette said, picking her laptop back up. “The police report says he and Jean Carwyn were picked up in relation to a murder?” Her brow furrowed. “Seems a bit dark for two fifteen-year-olds.”

Sloane shook her head, sitting down on the chair across from Karhi. “They came home one day to find their parents murdered and dismembered. They fled the scene instead of calling the cops.”

Lunette’s scowl turned neutral. “Why would they flee?”

Sloane looked at her and the look on her face was like Lunette had just asked the stupidest question Sloane had ever heard.

But Karhi was the one who answered. It took him a second to untangle his tongue from his mouth, but he did. “Considering I watched the police use aggressive force on two teenagers and there was blood everywhere when they got arrested—probably because of that.”

Sloane squeezed her eyes shut, shaking her head. He could feel the bitter regret and anger that warred in her, but she didn’t speak it out loud. Instead, she said, “They were adopted four years ago. When they found their parents dead, they freaked. Like you said, they’re fifteen. I don’t know many adults that would handle finding that scene well.”

Lunette agreed after a moment.

He suddenly felt a spark of inspiration from Sloane, which was a sharp, harsh sensation against the general torpor he was feeling. He looked over to see a smile unfurling on her face, and she looked at Karhi.

“But him stealing your wallet gives me an idea . . .”

Karhi took that as a sign to drink his blood.

Two hours later, close to nine in the evening, Karhi was fully dressed (it had taken him far too long to realize he didn’t have anything on but boxers and socks), more awake on blood and coffee, and off the comedown. He and Lunette were walking into the Phoenix Police Department headquarters, where Frankie Cirocco and Genie Carwyn were being held.

“So, the social worker got ‘caught up’,” Lunette said, tucking her hair back behind her ear from where it had escaped the bun she’d stuck it in. She had changed into a pair of black slacks and a grey button-up. Originally, she had put on high black heels, but Sloane made her change into sneakers. Sloane told her that only newbie social workers wore heels to the police station. If she wanted to play a season social worker, she needed to look seasoned enough to pass scrutiny, no matter what Luna’s fake ID said. Lunette had borrowed Karhi’s briefcase, sans the stacks of money.

“Why do you even have a Phoenix social worker ID?” he asked as he held open the door for her.

“Something Ilona had me do a few years ago when she suspected one of her other children of breaking Gaea’s Laws and taking children off the streets.” She shrugged. “Nothing ever came of it.”

He wasn’t sure what that meant, and he was glad he didn’t.

They walked into a room with linoleum floors and chairs along one wall. In front of them was a brick wall with a large plexiglass window and a speaker. The only other door besides the entrance was next to the plexiglass. A woman in a police uniform sat behind the window. She looked to be in her late forties with heavy wrinkles around her mouth and watery blue eyes.

Lunette walked straight up to the window and said, “Hi, I’m Lauren James. I’m here for Frankie Cirocco and Genie Carwyn. I’m the social worker assigned in their regular case worker’s absence.” She pressed her ID against the window to show the officer.

The woman looked from the ID to Lunette before typing into the computer that sat before her. After a moment, she said, “I’ll speak with the chief.” She looked to Karhi. “And you are?”

“Luka Emelyn,” he answered. Karhi was pretty sure that was the name on his ID in the wallet Frankie had.

Lunette spoke for him. “Mr. Emelyn is Frankie and Genie’s assigned foster parent. He wasn’t notified when they were arrested.”

The officer reached over past where they could see and pressed a button. “Chief Braxton, the case worker and foster dad for those two kids are here.”

A moment passed before an answering, “Okay,” came through.

They took a step back to wait.

“When this is over, you and your fledgling need to have a strong talk about what ‘I can’t go into the station because some cops will know me’ means,” Lunette muttered.

“I think it’s fairly self-explanatory,” Karhi shrugged. “She’s only nineteen, it’s not that far out that she could have been a juvenile delinquent.”

“She’s what?” Lunette hissed.

Before he could reply, the door next to the plexiglass opened and a middle-aged man with a round belly and a black push broom above his lips walked out. His uniform strained against his stomach and his belt was cinched too tight.

Lunette stepped forward. “Lauren James,” she said, holding out a hand to him.

The man shook her hand. “Chief Anthony Braxton,” he said, glancing at Karhi. “You’re those punks’ social worker?”

Lunette stiffened, standing up straight and withdrawing her hand. “I am those children’s social worker.”

Karhi had to admit. Lunette played a convincing social worker.

The chief was unimpressed by her correction. He looked at Karhi. “Luka Emelyn?”

“Yes,” Karhi said, shaking his hand.

“Well, come on.”

They walked into a bullpen filled with ringing phones and the stench of burnt coffee. Desks piled with papers littered the floor and bodies moved around the rat maze, just barely avoiding bowling into each other.

Braxton led them to a hallway off to the side with closed doors. They each had a number over them with an indicator of occupied or empty.

Braxton stopped as they came to the first door, turning to them with a suspicious glint in his eyes and a faint frown around his mouth. “You know, their files didn’t say anything about them already having a foster parent. And why would they already have a foster parent assigned, but the police were never notified about the deaths?”

“They came to us yesterday to tell us what happened,” Lunette answered, her tone clipped. “We had an emergency foster parent available to take them over night, and we were working on the paperwork to get them settled.”

“You didn’t contact the police to tell us that you had them?”

Braxton was getting too into the weeds for Karhi to be comfortable with Lunette making more shit up.

“Um,” Karhi said.

The chief looked at him. Karhi met his eyes and felt for the focus in Braxton. “Focus” was difficult to describe. It felt like a ball of thin, sharp wire, like what was used for wire saws. For different people, it was at different levels of tightness. This man was a cop. His ball was a little more tightly wound than most, but not as much as what you would feel for a private investigator or someone else who actually needed to solve mysteries to make a living. It was easy to pick at.

Braxton blinked, a veil of confusion fogging his features.

“Well?” Lunette asked.

Braxton looked at her. “Excuse me, ma’am?”

“We should be seeing them now . . .” she trailed off, giving Braxton a raised eyebrow.

He and Lunette had worked together for so long that she always picked up when he used his powers and immediately used it to her advantage.

Which was why she hated it so much when he used his powers on her.

The chief shook his head. “Right . . . we have them in separate rooms.”

“Why?” Lunette asked, shifting her weight slightly to show she was unhappy with that set up. Sloane had warned them that was likely.

“Ma’am, we have to determine if they were involved in the deaths of their parents.”

Lunette bristled and took a slight step towards Braxton. “You have no business questioning minors without their social worker and a lawyer present.” She smiled tightly. “If you have determined they were not involved, please bring them out. We will be taking them.”

This time, Braxton bristled. “We have not determined they are uninvolved.”

“I saw that you requested their social worker. I would like to see where you have requested a lawyer for them, and which judge you will be using to determine if you can keep them in detention.”

Braxton didn’t have an answer for that, but Karhi could feel that they were getting into territory where the cop would stick them in the weeds.

He cleared his throat and Braxton glanced at him. Karhi picked at his focus again, unravelling it just slightly. He didn’t need to maintain eye contact to use his powers, but it was easier when it was someone he didn’t know well. Eye contact made his ability stronger.

The key to working with loss of focus was that Karhi needed to make the person have a combination of two reactions. The first was a general unease and embarrassment at having lost their train of thought. The second was a desire to either please Karhi or get him out. Or in this case, get Lunette out.

“Chief Braxton?” Lunette prompted.

He looked at Lunette and the tightness in his eyes told Karhi that he was struggling with not being able to remember what they had just been talking about. It was frustrating and embarrassing him, his face beginning to flush.

“This is getting ridiculous,” Lunette said, impatience in the tension of her jaw. “We can take them, right? You seem to be implying that. They’re not suspects. Please bring them to us.”

Braxton’s lips were tight as he searched his memory for what was happening. After a moment of his memory not working the way he wanted it to, he finally nodded. “Yes. Follow me.”

Karhi kept close to him as they walked. His power would eventually wear off when he left Braxton’s side. However, the longer Karhi stayed closer to him, the longer it would take to wear off.

Braxton led them to the fourth door on the right and opened it.

It was a small room with a table and two chairs on either side of it. A one-way mirror took up the majority of one wall.

A girl, fifteen or sixteen, sat at the table, an open can of coke on the table next to her. She looked exhausted, brown-gold eyes sunken in her face. She wore a short-sleeved blue shirt and faded jeans. Karhi saw a bandage around one elbow and scrapes on her face from when the cop had tackled her.

The girl looked up when they walked in, and her brow furrowed. Then she sat up, her face turning guarded. Karhi heard her heart speed up.

Did she know they were vampires?

Lunette walked over to her and, very slowly and deliberately, signed to her. Sloane’s outside. Play along. Her movements were exaggerated, but Sloane had been very explicit that Lunette needed to do it exactly as Sloane showed her. She had said that if Lunette very deliberately used Sloane’s sign name, Genie would likely trust them.

Understanding dawned on Genie’s face, and she stood up.

“The other one is in the room across the hallway,” Braxton said, turning away from them. Karhi could see from the tension in his shoulders that they needed to get out quickly. He would lose his patience with them soon.

Frankie was sitting behind the same table set up, an open can of coke next to him, too. He looked exhausted, like Genie with scrapes on his face and a bandage on his forehead.

Genie pushed ahead of Braxton, moving in a light, lithe way that piqued Karhi’s curiosity. She moved so smoothly, as if she wasn’t entirely human.

A parahuman?

Genie quickly signed something to Frankie. His brow furrowed and he replied back, looking confused. Genie nodded, and Frankie looked up at Lunette and Karhi. His confusion immediately turned to a scowl. He stood up and walked towards them but kept his distance.

They definitely knew that Lunette and Karhi were vampires.

“Can I have my wallet back, Frankie?” Karhi asked. He felt that pointing this out would solidify for Braxton that Lunette and Karhi weren’t liars.

Frankie looked away, pulling a black leather wallet out of his back pocket and passing it to Karhi. Karhi opened it to find his license in the window. It did indeed say Luka Emelyn.

Braxton shook his head, muttering something about thieves. “We’ll have you sign the paperwork to take them out, follow me.”

They followed Braxton out and did not, in fact, have to sign the paperwork. Karhi made him forget what they were going to do right as they got to the door. He didn’t want to leave any trail past the camera footage of them in the precinct.

They emerged into the darkness of evening. The sun had set an hour previously and the evening had cooled. They crossed the street to the parking lot on the next block, where Lunette and Karhi had parked, and that was where Frankie stopped them.

“Well,” Frankie said, turning to Lunette and Karhi and taking a large step back, “this was great, but I think we’ll leave now. Thanks for the jailbreak.”

“Being civil to vampires, that’s a new one,” Sloane said, melting out of the shadows created by the cars in the parking lot. Karhi had felt her just before she revealed herself.

Frankie jumped, spinning around to face her. He glared at her. “You got us out. Mira’d say something about gift horses and mouths.”

Mira? Like . . . the White Psychic?

“Oh, when did you ever listen to Mira?” she shot back. “Maybe if you had, and laid low, you wouldn’t have gotten fucking arrested. Look at you, you’re covered in scrapes and bruises.”

“Oh, because it’s my fault that a fucking cop body slammed me.” He stepped forward until he was almost touching her.

This was not how Karhi had expected this to go. The way Sloane had been talking, these two were childhood friends of hers. He had assumed they either didn’t know she was a vampire or didn’t care.

And, neither of those seemed to be the case?

He exchanged glances with Lunette, who seemed to be sharing the same, confused thoughts.

“Yeah, but you fucking ran from a crime scene. You should have laid low.” She poked his chest as she said it.

“I’m not gonna let the fucking pigs—”

Genie got between them and shoved them apart. She slammed one hand into the other. Karhi didn’t know any sign language, but it was obvious that one meant stop.

Frankie turned his anger on Genie, signing something quickly at her. She replied to him and whatever her answer was, it set him off again.

Sloane shook her head, scrubbing her hair back from her face. She looked at Karhi and Lunette and her frustration dissipated, replaced with a heavy exhaustion that mimicked his own.

“Thank you,” she said. “It’s been a fucking week.”

“Yeah,” Karhi said. He hadn’t had the chance to really process everything that had happened with Sloane since he had woken up three hours earlier. And he wasn’t about to let himself, either. “Can I have my car back?” Maybe he would process a little.

She grimaced. “Uh . . . I need it. And I don’t think it’s insurable anyway, so . . .”

“Sloane, what did you do to my car.”

“Uh . . .”

“Well,” Lunette interrupted, “I’m going to let you deal with this. I’m done playing the social worker.” She snapped open the brief case and pulled out her wallet from it. It was the only thing in the briefcase since it had just been there for show. “Karhi, I’ll see—”

Karhi watched in slow motion as an angry gesture from Frankie sent the briefcase flying to the ground. As it did, the pictures Karhi had found earlier went flying from where they had been tucked in the briefcase. Stupidly, he hadn’t thought to leave them in his hotel room; he had been too rushed trying to get the briefcase to Lunette.

Frankie yelped in pain, cradling his hand where he had hit the briefcase. Of all people, he glared at Sloane when that happened.

Lunette made a noise of irritation, bending over to pick up the scattered pictures and the condolence card. Karhi did, too.

As he gathered them, a peculiar combination of feelings crept up the back of his neck. Horror, dawning recognition, and disgust. It didn’t belong to him. He looked up to see Sloane standing over them as they picked up the scattered pictures and the condolence card.

“What the fuck is this?” Sloane whispered, staring down at the pictures.

“Do you know who this is?” Karhi asked, straightening up and leaving the photos there.

Frankie snatched a photo from the ground. “What the fuck are you doing with photos of Mikko? What the fuck did you do to him?”

But Frankie didn’t come after Karhi. Of all people, Frankie lunged at Sloane.

She caught him by the arms, shoving him back before he could hit her.

“You said you were the same, Sloane,” Frankie snarled. “But what the hell is your sire doing with a picture of Mikko? He’s been tortured, Sloane. Did you know about this? Did you have something to do with this—”

Sloane slapped him so hard that he crashed into a car.

“You think I’d do this, you stupid fuck?” she roared at him. Her voice was strong, but her face buckled in agony as she advanced on him. Karhi felt the rage and pain warring inside of her, frothing over onto Frankie.

“You think I like coming back here and everything is fucked up? You think I’d do this? To Mikko of all people?” She turned to Karhi, eyes burning with murder. “Karhi, what the fuck is this? Why do you have pictures of him? That card says, ‘I’m sorry for your loss.’” Her voice cracked at that last word. But there were no tears in her eyes. Only fury.

Karhi bristled as her anger switched to him, partly feeding on her anger, partly angry at the accusation. “I found that envelope outside of our apartment before you pulled your disappearing act. If you’d stopped to talk to me, maybe you’d have known about this already.” He regretted the words as they left his mouth. He felt them plunge into her like knives.

Sloane opened her mouth to speak, but Genie stepped forward, shoving Sloane. Karhi prepared to have to grab her to hold her back from retaliating against Genie. Sloane was still a new vampire, and vampire tempers were not typically compatible with frail human bones.

What Karhi hadn’t expected was that Sloane didn’t retaliate at all. In fact, she let the shove push her.

Genie signed something quickly at her. Her movements were fast and angry. Did she even know what was going on? No one seemed to have been translating for her.

From the guilt that Karhi suddenly felt in Sloane, that must have been what she was doing. And Karhi was even more surprised to see was how fluidly Sloane responded in sign language. He had known that she knew it, since she had explained how to sign to Genie when they saw her, and seen her sign to the cook at Swanskin’s, but he had not expected her fluency.

Finally, Sloane looked at Frankie, where he was still leaning on the car. “Frankie, go home. Take Genie with.” Her tone had changed. The fury was gone, replaced with a steady resolve. He could feel that she had made a decision.

“Sloane, someone has Mikko, and the vampires are probably lying—”

“Frankie, I can handle it. I’m going to bring him home.”

“Sloane—”

Sloane signed something very angrily at Frankie. It looked almost like spelling?

Frankie’s mouth dropped. “You’re going to—”

“Yes, now fucking go,” she roared.

Genie grabbed Frankie’s wrist and jerked him forward. “Let’s go,” she said. She had an accent Karhi wasn’t familiar with.

Frankie let Genie lead him away. They took off running.

“Sloane—” Karhi said.

“I’m leaving,” she said, turning from them. Her emotions were a whirlwind.

“No, you’re not,” Lunette said, grabbing Sloane’s arm.

Sloane lashed out with a kick that knocked Lunette to the ground. Her skull cracked against the asphalt, and she shouted in pain.

Sloane was gone before Karhi could stop her.