When I opened my eyes groggily, the world was a swirl of dark colors. I was bewildered by this, by the heaviness of my limbs, the sharp matching pains in my chest and arm...and the burning in my throat from thirst. Death wasn’t supposed to be painful.
    The only reason I was so confused was that I had never expected to survive. Well, I guess I must have done something right to still be in this plane of existence.
    It took nearly a minute before my eyes adjusted to the darkness and I could see clearly. It took me ten seconds more to comprehend what I was seeing. I was lying on my back in a dark, gnarled forest, and a brilliant half-moon hung in the night sky. There were pine needles and mosses beneath me, and I had my head resting against a wad of balled-up cloth. I was wearing jeans, a t-shirt, and sneakers...someone must have gotten me out of my old clothes and put me into these. I relished the feel of fresh cotton and loose denim against my skin. Someone had cleaned and bound my wounds, and my arm was covered in gauze and held with a sling. When I laid eyes on the person who had rescued me, I nearly cried out. I knew that someone must have saved me for me to still be alive, but I had never expected it to be Allison Maize, of all people.
    Her usually immaculately-clean clothes were torn and stained, and her hair was an absolute mess. Her eerie white irises, however, shone as bright as I’d ever seen them. I expected even less to see her smile when she noticed that I was awake. She tossed me a too-sweet-smelling bag of medical blood, and I drank it gratefully. “Good, Ebony, you’re up. You’ve been asleep for...Christ, maybe a week or so. I thought you’d gotten into a coma or something of the like. We’ll have to get going soon...there are some other survivors elsewhere, and I’m keen to see Zayde again. Everything’s gone. Lionel and his army may be dead, but other sub-humans and such have taken it over. Our organization is infested with those things,” she uttered in blatant disgust.
    “Also...there’s something that you might be interested in.”
    I paused in my ravenous consumption to listen more closely. “Go on.” Allison gave me a measuring look and said bluntly, “Cole’s brother survived.” Huh? “Hold on...he had a sibling?” I asked doubtfully, glaring at her. She shrugged. “No, actually; he had two older ones. A brother and his twin sister; Sven and Freya. Freya hasn’t been found,” she added bitterly. “She was a genius at close-range weaponry; could do a hell of a lot with a sickle or a scimitar. Sven was, to be frank, one of our more technical personnel. He’s a geek, especially for a kresnik...”
    At this point, I couldn’t stop myself from interrupting, and I set the medical blood down at my feet. “Kresnik? As in, Slovenian ‘good-boy’ vampire?” I snorted. “Oh, come on, if that were true, then Cole –“ “- it’s quite true, Ebony, whether you like to believe it or not,” she hissed. “Cole was related to two kresniks, as Freya was one as well...therefore, he absorbed some of that ability himself. And, anyway, kresniks are technically Istrian in general, not simply Slovenian or Croatian. Now, as I was saying, Sven is a closed person, if nothing else. The idiot wants to be a profiler or something of the like. He’s younger than Cole by two years. He’s quite odd, and you’ll do well not to insult him. He knows enough about psychology to make you cry with only so much as a sentence. He’s not mean-hearted, but he’ll fight back.” Absently, I nodded. “Alright, then, let’s go,” I said gruffly, making an attempt at standing. To my surprise, I didn’t fall. I took an experimental walk, stepping carefully around our tiny clearing. At least my legs hadn’t been damaged. Maize smiled ironically and disappeared through a gap between two gnarled pines. I followed, testing to see what speed I could withstand in my condition.
    “By the way,” she called back, yelling against the rush of wind in our ears, “don’t call him cold or mechanical.” I gave her a look. “Why not?” I questioned interestedly. She sighed and half-turned to face me as she ran. “Because the world has made him only half a person. To you, he may seem indifferent, but he keeps up a calculating façade; he’s the opposite of you, Ebony, who wears your heart on your sleeve.”
    We wove through the trees, as fast and fleeting as a pair of ghosts. My legs were stiff, but they relaxed into the familiar rhythm of dashing in pursuit of a sort-of, kind-of, not-really friend. I glanced at my surroundings, at the small peat lake that stood hidden from the nearby road, at the fox that eyed us warily with bright eyes as he hunted, and even at a pair of wolves who watched us curiously, unafraid. Those yellow eyes seemed to penetrate me as if I truly were only a ghost.
    Maize and I ran in this way for about ten minutes before we heard voices, and about two more before we found their source. There they were; a dozen or so, all sitting around a small fire and laughing, a bottle of some sort of alcohol in every hand. Only about half of them could have passed for humans; the rest had either large, pointed ears or eyes that were completely blue or green skin; one gargoyle looked human enough except for the fact that he had gray skin, eyes, and hair and had bat like wings jutting out of the back of his black t-shirt.  "Look at this! She's not dead after all. Jeez, Eb, you look like you got your ass kicked," someone joked, I recognized the speaker; his name was Luke, and Maize whispered hastily in my ear that he’d lost his younger niece in the raid. Despite his slight buzz, there was a horrible sadness about him. I sat between the man with bat wings and a quiet, younger boy with electric blue hair arranged in haphazard octopus tentacles around his face. His eyes were the color of stainless steel.
    Allison reclined beside Zayde, and they engaged in a whispered conversation. I could tell by the way that he curled a lock of her wayward hair around his finger that he ecstatic that she was safe, as well. At least she had some piece of constancy in him.
    The blue-haired boy (he couldn’t have been older than twenty, to be sure) was looking at me curiously, as if I were a difficult math equation that he was trying to solve. “Are you Sven?” I asked him hoarsely, my voice only just higher than the crackling of the flames as they licked up the wood. He nodded. “You knew Cole; Allison knew Freya. It seems that the deaths of my family are meant to be preserved in other people,” Sven murmured bitterly. “She might still be alive,” I said half to my self, remembering what Maize had said. He snorted. “Sure, if flames could talk. Freya sucked at survival techniques. She’d always wanted to go down fighting. But Cole...that idiot wanted to live life like an extremist. He didn’t care about the consequences. I intend to die of old age, thank you. And you, Ebony, don’t look like you’d like to die at all.”
    I knew that Allison had told me that he aspired to be a criminal profiler, to unlock the minds of every individual he spoke with, but it was still alarming to be so easily categorized.
    I sighed. “Yeah, I guess you’re right,” I replied. “Death doesn’t exactly take my fancy.” Sven shrugged and took a swig from the flask in his hand. Normally, I would have protested and said something along the lines of "stay the hell out of my head" or something un-witty like that, but I held my tongue. I didn't like the idea of getting a verbal lashing harsh enough to put me in tears (if what Allie had said was true).
    The gargoyle beside me, who had been observing us, laughed. “Don’t let him get to you,” he told me fondly, extending his cement-colored hand. Loose black curls formed a sort of frame around his face. I shook it hesitantly. “He psychoanalyzes all of us at some point. I’m Gevanni. Hi.” I noticed for the first time that he wasn’t drinking anything; he must have been one of the few sober people (I use the term “people” loosely) there.
    Sven rolled his eyes apathetically. “So what if I do?” Gevanni shrugged. “Don’t mind me, just trying to placate the vampire.” Strangely, he smiled. “Gevanni, please; if I was in the mood to pick a fight, she would have been angry at me before I could have said so much as two sentences. If I wanted to win, she would be sobbing in three.” Usually, this cockiness would have provoked me to say something insulting, but I bit my tongue. If Maize believed him – Maize didn’t believe anything she hadn’t seen for herself – then he must be as Hannibal Lector-like in his assumptions as he claimed.
    I stood and gave Allison a small wave before disappearing into the forest. I needed to be alone, just for a little while, to mull things over. Maybe this swirl of chaos that had become my daily life over the past, well, while would make a little bit of sense. I ran at first, my sneakers causing a swirl of brown needles and dust to cloud around my footsteps, before I slowed to a stroll. It occurred to me that I was alone and conscious for just about the first time since Cole had died...no, not even that; my first moment alone since he’d – we’d – quit. It wasn’t as calming as I anticipated it to be...I felt restless, almost lonesome, without the comfort of someone’s footsteps beside mine. It was disconcerting to see how much I had changed, in retrospective. How I’d gone from gruff, ‘lone wolf’ cliché to...well...I didn’t know what I was now. Something.
    There were sounds around me, for which I was thankful; the hoot of an owl, the scurrying of all sorts of small creatures, even the occasional sound of rustling assuaged me.  
    It was a few minutes before I realized that there was someone walking beside me. Well, maybe not ‘someone’ but more ‘something’.  As we walked, his footsteps didn’t make so much as a sound. “You know, Eb, you need to learn how to socialize,” my hallucination chastised me. I sighed heavily; I should have expected this. If I’d seen him before, who was to say that I wouldn’t eventually see him again? “So...I’m schizophrenic now, is that it?” I asked him sullenly. Cole shrugged, still managing to smile. “It’s a high possibility. Maybe in a lesser form. You’ve always been pretty withdrawn, so that’s a big check right there; you’re hallucinating, that’s another pretty incriminating sign...then again, though, you don’t perceive me as reality. You perceive me as a memory,” he mediated fairly. “So...I say yes, but possibly in a more diluted form. You’re only slightly mentally unstable.” Cole seemed proud of himself for his assessment.
    I gave him a resentful look. “Well, sorry if I don’t jump for joy and wear a lampshade on my head,” I hissed. He laughed; I’d missed that jovial sound. “Maybe...you could consider me a cyborg. Half real, half not.” I shook my head. “Wrong use of the word,” I muttered. “Your brother is more cyborg than you are. Sort of cold, sort of not.” He gave me a cross look. “Ebony, leave Sven alone. He’s been through quite a lot, thank you, even more than you have. You never had siblings to lose.” I paused, and he stopped altogether. “Moot point,” I said imperturbably. “Loss doesn’t make everyone cold.” Irritated, bit on the corner of his mouth.
    “Go down to that lake and look in. Tell me what you see,” he commanded, pointing to a glassy, green pond that was just visible from there. Not completely understanding why, I looked in. “Just my blurry reflection.” “Just the blurry reflection of a hypocrite,” he corrected impatiently. “You have no right to be calling anyone else cold. Sure, you can be a tolerant person if you feel like it, but you’re not exactly ‘Miss Congeniality’. You don’t even make an effort around other people.”
    I sat on the edge of the pond, scolded into silence. It was strange how Allison and Cole could have two completely opposite opinions of me. To affectionate Cole Tarrow (affectionate hallucinatory Cole Tarrow), I was distant. To cold, almost cruel Allison Maize, I was too emotional. Where the hell was the person that thought I was the perfect middle ground?  
    Suddenly, I was aware of being alone again. Even my stupid delusion had decided to abandon me. Annoyed, I tossed a small, flat rock onto the surface of the pond. It didn’t even skip. “You have to flick your wrist, you know.” There was Sven, emerging from the trees a few yards from where I had. I didn’t respond, but he still sat beside me on the damp, muddy ground. “I heard you talking to him,” he said in a blasé voice. It was strange that he could be so casual about my insanity. Embarrassed, I tried to say something, but he cut me off. “You’re not crazy. You’re not schizophrenic. It’s better than thinking that he’s gone forever. That hallucination...it’s a small scrap of his existence, of the influence he had on you,” he said in a low voice, his slate-colored eyes staring out at the moon’s reflection on the lake. “Everyone copes with grief in their own way. Some people console themselves that they are in heaven, even if they probably aren’t; some people know that they will join them soon enough; some people keep it to themselves and express it subtly; some just walk away from it.
    “You remember. You have your memories, and you take solace in them. I’m one of the people that express emotions through music. I play the cello,” Sven explained, glancing over at me. “I guess I do have my memories,” I said in a low, almost wary voice. He nodded, scratching the top of his blue-haloed head. “I’m not as cold as I act,” he said, looking at me. “I don’t act like I do for the respect that it entails, either. I do so simply because it is the only way I know, because it works for me.” I found in myself a new respect for Sven. He was profound, for someone related to goofy Cole.
    On the edge of that small lake, we sat quietly for a long while. He didn’t feel the need to go on, and I wasn’t sure how to respond. I figured that I might as well go with Cole’s opinion of me and improve on it.
    “So, you play the cello...are you good at it?” I asked with an attempt at being sociable. Briefly, Sven smiled. “I guess so. I’m not quite a genius, but I can get by. Do you play any instruments in particular?” I shook my head, laughing slightly. “God, no. I’m absolutely inartistic,” I explained. He regarded me curiously “That’s impossible; everyone with a teaspoon of creativity can do something in the arts. You must be good at something other than murder,” he said with a smile. I thought for a long moment. “I’m alright at writing, I guess. Never really made anything of it.” Sven, in an uncharacteristic moment, nudged me in the arm. “I told you everyone can do something. Why don’t you try to improve it, write fiction or something? It’s not like you can worsen yourself with practice.” For some reason, what he said brought a quote to mind that had nothing to do with art and everything to do with his brother. I fought to remember the entire thing, but Sven waited patiently for me to speak.
    “’It is good to die before one has done anything deserving of death’,” I intoned thoughtfully, scratching the tip of my pale nose. Sven nodded, closing his eyes. “Ananandrides. I recognized the quote...he used to preach it like it had been spoken by God himself,” he murmured with an absent smile. “He said it to me a few times, I think, all of them before sending me on missions. I suppose it was to assure me that it was better to kill them before they harmed someone and damaged their own afterlife. Better murderous intent than murder itself,” I said, hugging my knees to my chest. “He was a strange kid.” Sven chuckled. “Mmhm. As strange as they come.” Inquisitively, I looked over at him, lying on his back in the mud without any concern for his hair or clothes.
    “What was Freya like? Maize – Allison – only said that she was good with close-range fighting.” He nodded, eyes still closed. “One of the best. She was on the short side, only 5’7, and she had gray eyes like mine and pale blond hair. She also had freckles, and she had a heart-shaped face because of her widow’s peak. Her hair was always braided. She also had the unusual habit of eating Tic-Tacs while she worked; whenever her birthday or Christmas came around, I always bought her a hundred or so packs,” he explained, a ghost of a smile on his face. “She liked pizza and root beer, above anything else, and you could never get her to shut up about a good book she’d read. It took her at least a month to get over how great No Country for Old Men was. Maybe two before she stopped talking about Memoirs of a Geisha. She was a good, kind person,” he finished firmly. I wasn’t sure what to say, so I waited for him to break the uneasy silence. This took longer than it should have, but no longer than I should have anticipated.
    It was about four or five minutes before he said anything and, when he finally spoke, I couldn’t fathom why he said what he said.
    “You’re more empathetic than he let on,” Sven noted, staring at me intently as he sat up. “Cole mentioned that you changed your name some years back. What was it before then?” I frowned. “Alice Walsh,” I replied. “Why?” He shook his head, waving off the question. “Just wondering.” For someone who could read people so well, he was a terrible liar. However, I didn’t press the issue.
    “Come on,” he requested, standing up and holding out his hand for me to take. “It would be best to get back before they think we’ve run off on them.” I grabbed his hand, and he pulled me up. Sven and I retraced our steps back to the camp, chattering lazily as we walked. We talked about generic things, like music, as well as about our previous position at “Monster’s, Inc.”. Apparently, he used his talents to help profile and capture particularly intelligent supernatural serial killers. It was rare that he didn’t find them within the first month, and even rarer that he never found them at all. When I explained my bloodier, more hands-on role in the organization, he smiled, but wouldn’t say why.
     We continued to talk, just nonsense, really, before we reached the last members of what had once been a feared organization, drinking and laughing and joking together like normal humans. I rejoined the circle, sitting beside and striking up a conversation with Gevanni, the gargoyle who had spoken to me earlier. As we talked and laughed about different (mainly trivial, stupid things) topics, I couldn’t help but look around at some of the smiling – if sad – faces around me. I was struck with the realization that we all had something in common, even more than the fact that most of us would never fit in with normal society; we’d lost something last week, whether a friend, a sibling...even our home. We were like a family now, if of a strange, sinister kind.
    Even though I didn’t know all of the names of the people that littered the campsite, I had a feeling that I would, in the end, know much more than that. We would know each others’ struggles and losses and joys and everything in between in the weeks to come. Despite the small size of the group, cliques of some sort of another would form, and I would relax into a different routine of finding food and hanging out with the people I could call my friends.
    In other words, it would be like high school, only high school isn’t usually life-threatening on a daily basis.