Vanessa didn't remember the next few days. She lived in a constant state of adrenaline and terror and regret and hunger. Her memory formed a shattered recollection of running and hiding and starving. Clara never gave up.

Arizona heat vacated in the night for borrowed arctic chill. Vanessa curled in on herself underneath the highway overpass. Cars raced underneath and Vanessa hugged the cold stone side of the tunnel. Feces and urine and gasoline mixed to create such a pungent odor that Vanessa would have thrown up if she had anything in her stomach. Not to mention her own hygienic state.

Every time she breathed in, she inhaled her rotting teeth and the accumulation of stench on her body. Vanessa had never felt less like a person. People treated her horribly. Humans didn't need to know she was a blix. They just had to take a look at her disheveled vagrant state to avert their eyes.

Her head pounded with dehydration and desperation and all Vanessa wished for was a few hours of sleep. But, her wish never came. Instead, the relentless danger found her once again.

Clara's laughter sent a familiar thrill of fear through Vanessa and she shot to her feet, running down the side of I-40. Her feet were callused and bloody and tired. Car horns broke up her jumbled thoughts of terror.

If she had any breath, she would scream: Just kill me, already!

But, Vanessa would never give up. Her pride would not let her. She would continue figuring out clever escape paths and would always pour her all into surviving. The only way this could end was if Clara caught and killed her. That seemed like a mercy at this point, which was something Clara always withheld.

The longer Vanessa survived, the more artificial the chase felt. It left the distinction of a clean kill. Clara must've just been playing with her now. Vanessa glanced behind her at the deranged unicorn following her. Clara's makeup smoothed her skin perfectly. Her hair fell in beautiful ringlets. Her nails sparkled. She held so much dignity that had been denied to Vanessa.

Cars raced past them going 80, 90, 100 miles per hour, sending bursts of pressurized air, until a beautiful sleek De Lorean veered off the road. Vanessa screamed but it didn't speed to get her; it swerved and crashed into Clara and the side of the highway, exploding on impact.

Vanessa ran to the crash. It wasn't morbid curiosity or altruism that motivated her—she needed to check if Clara's heart had stopped. Could a block of metal racing at high speeds pummel a unicorn enough to kill them?

It was time to find out.

A man burst out of the passenger side of the De Lorean and ran to meet Vanessa. She stumbled and on her hesitation, collapsed to the floor. How did he survive that crash? If he survived, did Clara?

There was no way he was mortal. She began to struggle against her own paralysis of exhaustion, the dirt of the ground grinding itself into her pores.

He knelt next to her and flashed an ID card too quickly for her to tell what it said. "Society of the Evening Star. We're here to help."

Relief ended her struggle. Vanessa was saved.

He picked her up bridal style and carried her to another car that had pulled off—a sleek Mercedes-Benz limousine.

Vanessa wept. The adrenaline violently left her with tremors she couldn't control. She couldn't even think. All that had consumed her until this moment had been survival, and now, faced with a reality that consisted of more than running and sleeping, she broke.

"You'll be okay. We help young blixes like you." He leaned his head down and his warm breath ghosted across her forehead. It burned away the cold air of the night, and smelled like sweet strawberries of the summer season. Days later, she would feel his breath again, in bed and discover a new way to bite people discreetly.

"Is she—Is she—Is she?" Vanessa gritted her teeth, frustrated she couldn't overcome the first few syllables and voice the only thought that dominated her mind.

"The unicorn is dead," he said. Pure, exhausting relief transformed her into a rag doll as her stiff terror evaporated. "You're safe now."

The limousine seats engulfed her, just as comfy as she had always imagined when she had been relegated to the outside, changing the oil. A smile broke across her face. She was one step closer to both of her goals.

—

Vanessa's first paycheck from the Society blew her mind. It was more money than she had ever had for herself. She put down a lease on a nice apartment, blew out her hair, got a full acrylic set of nails, a spa facial, and swept the shelves of Sephora into her basket. Most importantly, she bought her first car—a Volkswagon Jetta. Not yet the luxury of her dreams, but at least she had a car.

With the Society, Vanessa felt on top of the world, her cheek pressed to the window of a better life. She had people around her who shared her ideals that dark creatures like herself didn't deserve to be locked away in zoos or prisons, and they did good things to reach them.

And she stayed on top. Over the next few years, Vanessa rose in the ranks quickly, her ambition paying off. Recognized repeatedly for her ingenuity and strategy, she got more daring missions that she pulled off successfully each time each with a newer, swaggier ride.

The Society had saved her. They wanted her. Their goals aligned.

Vanessa had finally found her family.

—

March 2002

Vanessa drummed her short, red acrylic nails on her steering wheel as she swerved her custom-made Ferrari-esque sports car in and out of traffic. She had spent extra time on her appearance this morning, building a wall of confidence to meet with the leader of the Society.

No one knew his identity. His male-sounding voice constituted the only discernible piece of information regarding the leader. She heard other, less grounded rumors, of course—especially on missions with other members. A lot of members suspected he was a wizard. Vanessa didn't know what she thought, but excitement buzzed through her. She might find out today.

She shifted her hot red car into park and stepped out into the burning sun. The woods surrounding the secluded home reminded her of six years ago when she had been seventeen, and the terror and the fear that had come with running and running and running. Vanessa didn't have any of that now. She had grown.

Only in the recesses of the brain folds in charge of concocting nightmares, did Clara stick. It was weird. Vanessa had seen so many more horrible, terrible things since. But, at least twice a year, Vanessa would wake from a night terror with a freezing coat of sweat and the sound of that maniacal laughter ringing in her ears. There was something to be said about the first time a person feared for their life and the permanency it earned in your mind.

Vanessa knocked on the door. There was no answer. She tried the handle—it was unlocked.

Vanessa inspected the rooms. Each held nothing of note. She felt the familiar thrill of danger. Something was wrong. Yet, she had double checked the information a million times. The address and time were right. They absolutely were. So where was the leader?

Jet lag still haunted her from her flight back from a preserve in South America that she had helped overthrow. She had been the first to welcome the imprisoned blixes back into the world. It was the most known prestigious assignment in the Society, and she wondered what came after.

Vanessa got her answer. On the coffee table in front of a burning fireplace, sat a note, the gold pen used to write it, a silver mask, and a long shimmery dark gray robe. Her hopes of meeting her savior in person vanished. She picked up the note.

The time has come for you to infiltrate the Knights of the Dawn. Show up. Accept your mission. Execute it faithfully. Build rapport. Do not betray them.

44.03113° N, 97.90452° W
3/24/2002
8 PM