Blue Skin (Book 3): Blue Skin Read online

  But I know it can’t be him. He’s gone.

  For now, at least.

  I quickly scan the street, praying that a HCA van isn’t parked up next to the pavement. It’s clear, so I sprint over to the lane. Like Solace Park, it’s probably crawling with roaming vampires.

  But what choice do I have?

  3

  When I reach my old street, I duck down behind some overflowing bins, checking the area for any hostiles—blue or not. The smell of rotting food is revolting, turning my stomach, so I hold my breath. The sun hasn’t quite risen yet, so I doubt anyone would be stupid enough to be out and about. Certain that I’m alone, I walk along the pavement, heading for my house.

  I stop outside the gate, and a lump forms in my throat. The windows are boarded up, the front door cracked and damaged, reinforced with wooden panels, and the tiny patch of grass at the front is now a forest of weeds, consuming the concrete path.

  Taking a breath, I push the gate open, and a shrill squeaking sound escapes its hinges. My body tightens with fear, so I quickly slip inside. The letterbox on the front door is still visible. Prodding the metal flap, I try to peek inside the hallway, but it’s too dark to see anything. Should I rip off the boards, kick the door open?

  I grab one of the panels and shake it.

  What the hell are you doing? What good will come of breaking in? This place is not your home. There’s barely a good memory inside.

  This is not why you came here.

  I release the letterbox flap and leave. Back on the street, I stare up at the house next door. Sean’s house. His windows and front door are also sealed with wood. I look at the house next to his. No wood. Windows intact. Front paths weed-less. Normal. For some reason, it disappoints me. It doesn’t seem fair that other people get to keep their lives. Be with loved ones. Hang out with friends. I know it’s selfish to think like that, but I can’t help it.

  For a moment, I consider checking inside Sean’s house. But what would be the point? He’s not here, and I doubt he has been for quite some time.

  Like mine, this house is now dead. Swallowed up when the vampires slaughtered his family. I loved his parents. Chris and Sue were like family to me. They never let me suffer alone. Always took me in when Tony was on another drunken rampage.

  I’ll always be thankful for that.

  And they gave me Sean. Someone who did more for me than I deserved.

  Another loved one that’s been taken from me.

  Where the hell are you, Sean?

  Part III

  SEAN RICHARDS

  4

  I’m standing over the woman. Blood is seeping from her chest wound. The rifle still warm in my grip.

  I should have shot her in the leg.

  Why did I aim so high?

  Stupid!

  They’re gonna lock you up for this.

  For life.

  But then, through the panic, through the hopeless gloom of my decision, a light shines through. A face that I tried so hard to forget.

  How dumb was I to think that I could ever forget those beautiful green eyes? Everything about her flawless face is forever etched into me.

  Freya looks every bit as shocked as me. How did she end up at the farm? Was she a prisoner? Was Ben one of the fighters?

  A million questions surge through my head, gnawing at my skull. But right now I have to focus on—

  “How’s the nose?” Erin asks, pulling me from my daydream.

  “It’s fine,” I reply, sitting up in the passenger seat of the van.

  “That bitch didn’t break it then?” she asks, bitterly, as we join the road that leads into town.

  “No. Just bruised it. I’ll live.” My swirling gut tells me to defend Freya. To tell Erin that she’s not a bitch. Never call her a bitch. But why should I even care? Is it loyalty? Guilt? I mean, we have her brother locked up in the back. God knows what Michael will do to him at The Facility. I shake the image of Ben being tortured on some operating table. I don’t need the stress. I’ve got enough on my bloody plate as it is.

  He’s just another vamp.

  The van falls silent. Time goes on. One mile. Two. An eternity before anyone speaks again.

  “You all right?” she asks.

  “Yeah. ‘Course. Just freaked out about shooting that woman.”

  “Nothing to do with seeing Freya again?”

  I launch a venomous glare at her. “Is that all you can think about? My bloody ex-girlfriend?” I let out a loud sigh. “I killed a woman. I might go to jail. Doesn’t that worry you at all?”

  Erin shakes her head. “Don’t be ridiculous. You shot an armed leader of a vampire fighting ring. If anything, you should get a medal.”

  I don’t retort because her words do nothing to put my mind at rest. She might be right—Michael always has our back—but my head is so fuzzy after seeing Freya, any positivity has long dried up.

  Another growl seeps through the vent behind us. Not sure if it’s coming from Ben or one of the other contained vampires. The sound cuts into me like nails on a chalkboard.

  It didn’t use to have that effect on me.

  The front of the van feels two sizes smaller, as if the metal sides are closing in on me. I open the window to let the night breeze in, and the claustrophobia eases. The sound of the wind gushing past manages to block out some of the angry shrieks, the scraping claws, the hammering fists.

  But nothing can block the dead woman’s face.

  I look down at my hands. They’re shaking. Have they been shaking this whole time? Erin spots them and puts her hand over mine. Just the heat from her soft skin settles my nerves a little.

  “Don’t worry, Sean,” she says. “Whatever happens, whatever Michael says, remember that I’ve always got your back, too. No matter what.”

  I smile at her. “Thanks, Erin. That means a lot.”

  Erin moves her hand away from mine as she takes the van around a sharp bend.

  My hand starts to tremble again.

  5

  Erin pulls her mini-cooper up to the side of my grandparents’ house. “How’s the headache?” she asks, her voice soft with concern.

  “A little better,” I reply. “Probably best if I get an early night tonight. Is that okay with you?”

  “Of course it is.” She leans over and kisses me, her fingers running through my hair. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  I climb out of the car. “Thanks for sticking up for me today. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

  “Don’t sweat it. I told you Michael would defend you. That crazy woman deserved everything she got.”

  “Yeah, I suppose so,” I say, unable to hide my lack of conviction. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to forget what I did. God knows how police and soldiers cope after killing someone.

  Do they cope?

  Closing the door, I wave her off and she drives away. I take a deep breath, repressing the nerves in my gut, preparing myself for another evening of lies. I can’t exactly tell my grandparents that I shot a woman in the chest yesterday, and then let a wanted criminal escape.

  I step inside the house, and then mask my face with the world’s greatest fake smile. “Hi, Gran,” I say, entering the living room. But then that smile dissolves, transforming into a look of utter disbelief.

  “Oh, finally, you’re home, Sean,” Gran says from the armchair, excited. “Look who popped in to see you.”

  Freya is sitting on the couch.

  Part IV

  FREYA LAWSON

  6

  I sit on the edge of Sean’s bed, my posture stiff, nervous, like this is the first time we’ve met. The bedroom is pretty dated. Flower patterned wallpaper, blue carpet, and there’s a horrid wooden cabinet next to the door with bronze handles. This is a world apart from his old bedroom. No movie posters on the wall. No video-game magazines scattered across the desk. And no dirty socks and underwear on the floor. The place is spotless. And judging by how neat the rest of the house is, I’m gues
sing this is Grandma’s handy-work.

  “So, how did you find me?” he asks, leaning against his bedroom door.

  “I went back to our old street. When I saw your house, I guessed you would have gone to your grandparents’ to stay.”

  “You remembered then,” he points out.

  I nod, just as my throat catches. “I remember everything about you.”

  Sean releases a paper-thin smile, but it quickly disperses.

  “Your grandparents seem nice,” I say. The sight of him so cold, so uneasy—it pains me. It’s not the Sean I remember. That happy guy. Always chirpy. Optimistic. Always armed with ten reasons why The Empire Strikes Back is the greatest movie of all time.

  “Yeah. They are. I don’t know what I would have done without them.”

  There’s a moment of awkward silence, so I inspect the room, noticing row after row of empty shelving. “Where are all of your DVDs? And your video games? You used to have hundreds.”

  Sean shrugs, pursing his lips. “Not sure. They’re boxed up somewhere. Most likely in the garage.”

  “Oh, right,” I say with a tone of disappointment. Until now, I couldn’t imagine Sean not being obsessed with movies, or spending hours jabbing at a game-controller. I used to make fun of him over it. But seeing these shelves so bare is depressing. “Your room’s so tidy. It’s unbelievable. There’s not a dirty sock in sight.”

  “That’s my grandmother for you. A clean freak.”

  “Like your mum.” The words accidentally slip out. “Sorry. I didn’t mean...”

  Sean’s chin shudders for a second before he responds. “It’s okay. I don’t mind talking about her. You’re right—she was a clean freak. She just wasn’t prepared to clean my bedroom, too.”

  I smile, but it’s strained.

  “So, how did you end up at the farm?” he asks, struggling to make eye contact. Is he nervous? Scared of getting caught with me?

  Does he hate me?

  “The farm?” A shudder of revulsion passes through me just thinking of that hellhole. “After Mum died, Ben and I took Tony’s car and drove up to Newton Port.”

  “Newton Port? Bloody hell, that place is a dump.”

  I snort. “Tell me about it. I had to rent this shitty old flat in this crack den of a building.”

  “Oh, God. That must have been awful.”

  “Yeah. It was a tough few months. I had to work in a greasy kebab shop just to pay for food and rent.”

  A tiny grin creeps over Sean’s lips. “I can’t imagine you working somewhere like that.”

  I should return a smile, but I don’t have one in me. “I know. Me neither. But one night, vigilantes attacked Ben and me. They almost killed us. That’s when we were rescued. Taken to the farm. Maggie told us it was a vampire sanctuary.” I shake my head in disgust. “That lying bitch. Thank God you turned up when you did.”

  Sean shrugs his shoulders like it’s no big deal. “It’s okay.”

  “It’s more than okay,” I say. “You protected me. Gave that psycho what she deserved.”

  “I suppose. But did I have to shoot her in the chest? Maybe I could have done something different. Tackled her to the ground. Hit her over the head.”

  “That woman was a monster, Sean. She imprisoned me. Tortured Ben. Murdered my friend. Don’t you dare lose a second of sleep over that piece of shit.”

  A tear rolls down his cheek. He quickly wipes it away.

  “I’m sorry, Sean,” I say, gently. “I’m sorry I put you in that situation. But you’re a hero to me. You always have been.”

  “Thanks.”

  For the first time I notice the ‘HCA’ logo on his black shirt. “What did your boss say about the shooting?”

  How could he work for those monsters?

  With Michael?

  Does he even know what that man did to Mum?

  I bet Michael hasn’t told him.

  “Nothing,” Sean replies. “They said that I acted in self defence.”

  “Well, there you go, then. There’s nothing to worry about.” I point to his shirt. “What’s it like being a HCA officer?” I ask, instantly regretting the question.

  He doesn’t answer.

  “What’s wrong?” Don’t start this, Freya. It’s obviously an awkward topic.

  “Nothing’s wrong. It’s fine working there. I get to make a difference. Get to help people.”

  “Help people? By raiding homes? By arresting innocent vampires?” What the hell are you doing? For Christ’s sake, shut up, Freya!

  “They’re not all innocent.”

  “What about Michael? Your boss? Do you think he’s innocent?”

  Stop it!

  Sean shakes his head. “Don’t.”

  “Don’t what?” I ask; my tone bitter, defensive. “It’s a fair question.”

  “I’m sorry for what happened to Jane. I loved your mother. But I wouldn’t be here without him. He saved my life. When those monsters slaughtered my parents, he was the one who saved me. Risked his life to protect me. No one else. Just him. He put a bullet in every one of those blood-suckers. And then got me to the hospital.” He pauses. “You don’t forget something like that.”

  This time I keep my big mouth shut, painfully swallowing the resentment.

  “I understand why you hate him,” Sean continues. “I really do. If the roles were reversed, if it’d been my mother killed in the crossfire, then I’d want Michael dead, too. But, no matter how you feel about him, how much you want him dead, it was an accident. He was just trying to put a bad situation right. We all are.”

  My blood turns to lava, the muscles in my neck and shoulders stiffening. Keep quiet, Freya. I can’t forgive Michael for what he did, but I take a breath and nod, nevertheless. “I just wish everything could go back to the way it was. I know things weren’t perfect—but at least we had each other.”

  He doesn’t say anything, just sits next to me on the bed. There’s a gap between us. It’s just a few inches, but it might as well be a thousand miles. I want our thighs to touch, to feel that excitement again, to be whisked back to his old bedroom, watching some dumb shark movie, sharing a big bowl of microwave popcorn.

  Those days are lost.

  “I’m sorry about what happened to Ben,” he says. “But there was nothing I could have done.”

  I rest my hand over his, praying that he doesn’t reject it. “I know.”

  “Erin would have shot him if I hadn’t said who he was.”

  “Is Erin your girlfriend?” I ask, already knowing the answer.

  He shrugs. “Yeah. Well. I don’t know anymore. It’s complicated.”

  “It doesn’t matter.” Don’t cry. Not now. Not here. “You’ve moved on. It’s fine. None of that’s important right now.” I walk over to his desk, and grab a pen and a sheet of paper. “Only this.” I hand them over to him.

  “What’s this?” he asks with a puzzled look.

  “You’ve been to The Facility before, yeah?”

  He nods. “Once.”

  “Well, good—because I need directions.”

  7

  Sean’s grandmother refills my glass of water. “How’s the cake?” she asks.

  I swallow what’s left in my mouth and smile. “It lovely. Thank you, Christine. Did you make it yourself?”

  “Oh, yes. Old family recipe.” She takes her seat at the dinner table, her yellow cardigan hanging from her frail torso, her bobbed grey hair grazing her narrow shoulders.

  “It reminds me of the chocolate cake we used to have at school.” I turn to Sean. He’s scooping out the remaining droplets of custard with his spoon. “Remember, Sean?”

  He nods. “Yeah. I remember. And the custard was always pink.”

  I chuckle, my mind taking me way back to simpler times. “Oh, God, I used to love pink custard. And the funny thing was, it wasn’t even strawberry flavour.”

  “No. It was just food colouring.”

  Sean’s grandfather clears his throat, his large stoma
ch touching the dining table, his glasses resting on his wide nose. “We never had anything that fancy in my day. Just a plain biscuit and a glass of milk.”

  “What are you talking about, Roy?” Christine asks with a sigh. “We went to the same school, and I distinctly remember having ice cream on numerous occasions. And jelly and cake.”

  Roy takes a swig of his red wine, and then reaches over the table for the cheese. “Really? I don’t remember that.”

  “Well, there’s a surprise. A memory like a goldfish, this one.”

  Sean and I laugh.

  The smell of home cooking, the clunking of knives and forks, it takes me back to Sean’s house. His mother’s wonderful cottage pie. Her sweet desserts. For the first time in weeks, the knot in my gut feels looser. But the guilt, the worry, it’s always there, trying to surface, no matter how safe, how nice it seems sitting here, eating real food, with a real family.

  “How about something stronger than water?” Roy asks. “You haven’t seen each other in a while.”

  “No, I’m fine, thank you,” I reply, waving my hand in protest. “Water’s fine.”

  “Nonsense.” Roy grabs the bottle of red and brings it over to me.

  “Oh, go on then.” I pick up an empty wine glass from the centre of the table, and hold it under the bottle. “I suppose one glass won’t hurt.”

  “That’s my girl.” He fills it to the top and then looks at Sean. “How about you?”

  “I can’t, Granddad. I’m working tomorrow.”

  With a roll of his eyes, Roy puts the bottle down on the table. “Fair enough.”

  “Oh, that bloody job,” Christine says with a groan. “Freya, you seem like a sensible young lady. Can’t you talk him out of working there? It’s bloody dangerous.”