CHAPTER ONE| Guardian Angels

   It had been one of those mornings where the haziness of sleep refused to entirely depart, so that false memories and half-remembered dreams lurked in your consciousness, creating intangible mental cobwebs that made the whole day take on a surreal quality. Conversations were vague and dream-like, the speakers ethereal and difficult to focus on. Though even if such a thing had been easy, Art Kennicot currently lacked the motivation to do anything more strenuous than occasionally flinch when a particularly strong light suddenly filled his vision.

   The reason for which, rather than extreme fatigue, was that he was currently drugged up to his eyeballs. If it weren’t for the sedatives they’d forced into his bloodstream to stop the screaming, maybe he’d have been more concerned about the exact amount of Morphine and Christ knows what else in his system. As it was, his light grey eyes didn’t even follow the movements of the sexless figures as they appeared and disappeared, though as he sluggishly registered a blood sample being taken, he idly wondered if he could afford to lose it. After all… hadn’t he already lost a fair amount? Was that why he was here? Had he been in an accident? He couldn’t remember. What snippets of memory did remain were a confusing blur of colours and shapes. There had been a car, of that he was certain, though the last thing he remembered was a bright light. The headlights? Had he been hit by a car? He thought he might have been driving as well, so perhaps a head on collision with an oncoming vehicle? He didn’t know. But surely something must have happened, because despite the medication, the cold sweat of fear still trickled down his face, though the mental scream of ‘Run. RUN!’ had been silenced by the sedatives.

   It was impossible to tell how much time had passed. How long had he been lying, near comatose, in what must surely be a hospital bed? The bedclothes, the sheets, and the walls were all white. Stark white. The covers were wrapped tightly about him, seeming to restrain him. It almost felt like they were restricting his movement, though Art knew that really it was just the drugs, weakening his control of his body and making it difficult to respond. He couldn’t feel much, and almost didn’t want to.

   Had the accident been bad?

* * * * *

   It was the sound of a phone ringing that next stirred him, the shrill sound piercing his clouded mind. The sound stopped a moment later, and Art shifted, frowning subconsciously as he strained to make out the words. They were surprisingly clear, as though the speaker wasn’t far away. Was he at the end of the ward, near an office?

    “He comes and goes. The psychological shock is worse than the physical damage, much of which has healed up nicely. The guys were betting he’d have one helluva interesting scar, but we stitched it more neatly than we thought we could. The one down the side of his face will stay, of course, there’s nothing we can do about that. But the one that crosses it, starting from the left side of the mouth? Isn’t too bad, gives him a bit of a crooked smile but considering he could have lost the whole jaw he’s damn lucky. Got a broken arm out the deal as well, but the damage isn’t nearly as bad as we feared. In fact, I’d advise cutting down on the – What? Oh, yes, he should be fit to see visitors in… oh, let’s say a week to be safe. Yes. Yes. Yes, we did check out his credentials, they’ve been confirmed. Arthur Kennicot, twenty-seven, British Citizen. Yes Sir, thank you. Goodbye.”

   Art’s heart thudded painfully in his chest, the sensation telling him that they must have cut down on some of the drugs already. His vision was still blurred, but of course it would be. He wasn’t wearing his glasses, was he? What had happened to them? He thought they might have broken, though couldn’t be sure. There had been a lot of broken glass. A lot of broken glass smeared with blood. His blood? He was sure he’d crashed now, so it was possible. Had he gone through the windshield? He could have sworn he’d been wearing a seatbelt, though the car was old and the seatbelt worn and unreliable. It could have come undone at the force of the two cars colliding. Perhaps –

   “Mr Kennicot?”

   The same voice again, directed at him this time. Closer. He shifted his head to one side, the cool material of the pillow feeling odd against his cheek, rough with stubble and tender from whatever had happened to it. He blinked once, twice, forcing the misshapen thing by his bed into focus, or enough so that he could tell that it was short, rotund, and male.

   He opened his mouth to try and reply, though the first attempt was to no avail. The second attempt was more successful, the word forced out his dry throat, cracked and barely audible.

“…Yes?”

“How are you today? You should be getting some feeling back in your limbs now, for better or worse.”

‘Guess someone skipped the ‘Bedside Manner’ seminar at Medical School.’ Art thought rather irritably, trying to convey this by pointedly rolling his head back so that he was facing the ceiling again. He swallowed, tongue flicking out briefly to wet his lips. “I’m alive.”

“You certainly are, and in remarkably good health all things considered. Tell me, Mr Kennicot…” His tone changed noticeably, becoming authoritative, less amiable. “What exactly do you remember of the... accident? I’m told you may have some short-term memory loss.”

“Don’t know.” He couldn’t help but feel defensive, almost angry. Why were they pestering him? Couldn’t they do that when he was fully recovered? Surely he should be the one having his questions answered. What had happened. Where he was. “Blacked out. I was… I hit another car, didn’t I?”

“Yes… though it’s difficult to say who hit who. Do you remember being pulled out of your car after the collision?”

   Art’s eyebrows pulled together, a visible sign of confusion at the words. The Doctor must mean did he remember being pulled out by the ambulance men, or whomever. But he didn’t. He didn’t even remember an Ambulance arriving, though obviously it must have. There was a bright light, a screeching of tyres. A loud crash as the cars had collided, but then what? He thought the car might have flipped over, which meant his seatbelt must have stayed on, otherwise he would have been dead. It also explained how the windshield had smashed, considering he obviously didn’t go through it. Had he still been on the road when they rescued him then? The road he’d been driving along was long and narrow, almost deserted, partly because it had been late at night, which had also been the reason for having the headlights on. He’d been driving up a hill at the time. It was always possible he’d been knocked off the side, as he remembered the disturbing sensation of weightlessness that accompanied falling as the car had spun. Assuming that was what had happened, he was lucky to get out alive. Just as he had overheard the Doctor saying earlier.

“No. I remember… the car flipping over. Spinning. After that, it’s just… just a blank.”

“I see…” The Doctor replied, clearly making a mental note of the response. “Well that should clear up, given time. Perhaps something will happen to jog your memory.” He turned away from the bed, starting to walk off before Art raised his voice in protest.

“Wait! Where… where am I exactly? What hospital?”

   The doctor turned on his heel, an almost indulgent smile on his face, though to Art’s eyes it looked rather fake. But then, to his eyes the Doctor himself was a blob-shaped blur, with his most defining features being the round glasses that the lights occasionally reflected off of.

“Now see, this is what I mean by the memory loss, we did tell you all this when you arrived. I’m Doctor Alan Johns. This is the Saintston Clinic. You won’t have heard of us, we’re small, and privately owned. Don’t let the name fool you though, we are a fully qualified hospital, and you’re in safe hands.”

   Art nodded, showing that he understood, even if the words themselves meant nothing to him. If it was privately owned, at least it meant they were probably good. That was how it worked in America, wasn’t it? You had private healthcare or barely any at all. Thank God he’d made sure to get fully insured before coming over. How long ago had that been though? He hadn’t thought to ask the date, and he hadn’t seen a calendar, or even a clock around the room. In fact, the room was almost bare except for the bed itself and a chair beside it, and even that was rather Spartan.

   It couldn’t have been too long, surely, and with luck he wouldn’t be here much longer. If he was ‘fit’ to have visitors in a week’s time (presumably when all the drugs had worn off, and they’d made sure he wasn’t going to reopen anything) then he should be discharged soon after.

   He felt exhausted, physically shattered even though he’d been sleeping for at least forty-eight hours solid. He swallowed again, hating the dryness in his throat before his eyelids fluttered shut, a dreamless sleep quickly claiming him once again.

* * * * *

   This time he was awoken by sunlight streaming in at the window, something which he had never noticed before, though given how the weather had been, the staff probably hadn’t even bothered to draw the curtains. He was feeling much better now, speech came easier to him and he was regaining movement in his, albeit stiff, limbs.

   It had been six days since his first chat with Doctor Johns, and since that time he hadn’t really found out much else. The Doctor, as well as the Nurses who sometimes poked their heads in his room seemed almost reluctant to talk about the accident, and only mentioned it when they wanted to find out if anything had jogged his memory yet. Other than that they had told him that once he was fully recovered the event that had lead to him being hospitalised could be discussed. The way they skirted around the issue unnerved him, so it was with some relief that he received his visitor that morning, whom had been announced as a Gentleman that wished to ‘express his condolences for what you’ve been through as well as discuss the incident.’ Now in a much better frame of mind, Art was determined that whoever his visitor was, he wouldn’t be the only one getting some answers.

   He pulled himself up in the bed one-handed, careful not to disturb his arm, now in a sling as he shifted, now leaning against the headboard while facing the door. He could hear voices outside, one of which was Dr Johns and the other of which was presumably his visitor, though he couldn’t make out the actual words. A moment later the door opened, and the man stepped in. He was of average height, clean-shaven and with neatly combed hair that suggested a preoccupation with being tidy. At a guess, Art would have placed him in his mid-fifties, though he had the sort of ageless face which meant he could be anywhere from his late forties to late fifties. He offered a tight smile, along with his hand that Art took, pulling his hand away as soon as was polite.

“Mr Kennicot. You’ve had a lucky escape, or so I’m told. Not many people are so fortunate as to survive such a crash, let alone being… well. Your Guardian Angel must have been working overtime, hmm?”

“I don’t really believe in Guardian Angels, Mr…?”

“Oh, I’m sorry. Where are my manners?” The man quirked an eyebrow, something in his eyes changing at Art’s reply. What had he been expecting? Maybe he was one of those kooks who expected everyone to believe in Santa Claus and the Sugar Plum Fairy. “My name is Harold Driscoll. I’m the owner of this institution, or rather; I help manage the organisation that pays for it.”

“Well in that case, I guess you’re the man I should be thanking.”

“Oh, God forbid. Any thanks should be directed at Doctor Johns. He, after all, is responsible for both your speedy recovery and making sure there weren’t any – complications.”

His heart skipped a beat at Driscoll’s emphasis on the last word. As a child, he had suffered acute asthma attacks, and even as an adult was still prone to them. Other than this, he had no major health problems that he was aware of, even potential hereditary ones. Had he had an attack? It was quite possible; it was prone to acting up whenever he was particularly under stress. If he’d had one after the car crash, he could have been near fatal. He considered this for a moment, chewing the inside of his cheek unconsciously before echoing the word with a questioning lilt to it. “Complications?”

“Yes.” Driscoll had, by this time, crossed the room to sit in the chair, perching on the edge and leaning forward to look Art straight in the eye. His voice taking on the same authoritative, curt tone that Dr Johns had used when he’d first questioned him about the accident. “Mr Kennicot, are you aware that after your car crashed, you were dragged out of your wrecked vehicle by a group of three? A group that were responsible for your injuries; some indirectly when they crashed into your car, others intentional when they physically assaulted you?”

   A jolt ran through his body, bringing with it the memory of a rush of fear. He remembered pain. Seeing that his prompting had gained some, if not total recognition, Driscoll pressed on.

“More to the point, Mr Kennicot, are you aware that your attackers were not quite human?”

   Finding his tongue again, Art snorted in almost exasperated disbelief, an incredulous smile pulling at his lips, one corner of which twisted upwards in a rather unnatural manner, though he barely noticed. “What? What’s that supposed to mean? Yeah, fine, so I was attacked by some psychos who were probably pissed, and pissed off that I’d scratched their paintwork or something. You going to tell me I was attacked by aliens or something?”

   Driscoll’s stare hardened. “This is no laughing matter. You are the victim of a Vampire attack, whether you believe it or not. That is the primary reason you are here. Partly because the matter needs to be sorted out, which can now be done now it’s been determined that you are perfectly human, partly because it was due to us that you took your unfortunate tumble. The reason their vehicle collided with yours, sending both of you off the side of the road was because we were pursuing them. Seeing you, already wounded, was clearly too good an opportunity for them to resist. The bloodlust that claims them makes them little more than animals… whatever Hollywood’s Silver Screen would have you believe.”

“You actually expect me to believe this? Are you crazy? Vampires don’t exist. I lost a lot of blood because I went down a fucking cliff in my car, not because some, some fly-by-night sucked it out of me!”

“Oh, of course. This time you were lucky. But you’ve been the victim of a Vampire attack once before, haven’t you? I think you know exactly what I’m talking about Mr Kennicot. In fact, I think you know a lot more than you’re letting on. Which is why we’ll be keeping an eye on you.”

Art stared in disbelief at the gentleman who had seemed so… normal when he entered, but who was quite clearly off his rocker. Was he honestly meant to swallow this? Was the man quite mad? As for his other accusations, he had no idea what he was talking about. Even as a Teenager he’d never expressed more than a passing interest in Vampires, and certainly never to the extent where he’d fooled himself into thinking they really existed. “I think you’re crazy.” He stated bluntly. “You’re missing a few things upstairs. I have no idea what you’re talking about. And what the hell do you mean, ‘keeping an eye’ on me?”

“Protest all you like Mr Kennicot, perhaps it works with the masses, but our organisation is not easily fooled. As for keeping an eye on you, we feel you may have some talents we can use. Clearly you have the knowledge, and perhaps now the motivation to put your skills to use. If so, we’d like to help you, and offer you a position with us. I think you will find the conditions most agreeable, even beneficial.”

“I haven’t a fucking clue what you’re on about, but that answer’s no. What organisation, anyway? Oh, wait.” His voice took on a highly sarcastic note. “Let me guess, a shadowy government organisation of some kind, either run directly by the government or by the men behind the government.”

“Hardly, Mr Kennicot. We are run by the people. We are the people, and we are protecting the people. Still… if you would like some official details, though you’ll find no trace of it anywhere… we call ourselves ‘Numen’, from the Latin for ‘divine power’. Appropriate, as we fight those things which result from a more… unholy source, albeit one that we have yet to determine. Essentially you could call us a pest control agency.”

“Of course, of course. So, what are you? A vigilante organisation protecting the innocent by fighting crime?” Art still couldn’t believe he was having this conversation, let alone with someone who quite clearly believed every word he was saying. Was deadly serious, even. Driscoll’s lips quirked upwards at his sarcasm, shaking his head before replying in the slow, heavy tones of someone who clearly places much importance on what they are saying.

“‘De duobus malis, minus est simper aligendum.’, Mr Kennicot. ‘Of two evils, the lesser must always be chosen.’ That is our motto. That is our aim.”

   Art opened his mouth to say something, then shut it again, a brief, humourless laugh escaping him at the situation. It was surreal, all of it. Yet real in a way it hadn’t been when the drugs had been clouding his mind and his vision. Driscoll was evidently a nutcase. Perhaps one who believed in his cause, perhaps one who even had this mysterious organisation. The only difference was that this would make him a dangerous nutcase. If he looked past Driscoll, he could see Dr Johns peeking in through the blinds, though he quickly disappeared upon realising he’d been noticed. Driscoll simply sat, watching him, his face expressionless. Why not? He probably got this reaction quite a lot, after all, Art couldn’t picture anyone actually believing the nutball.

   It wasn’t even as if the man was setting himself out as the hero; saving the world from darkness or some other such crap. ‘The lesser of two evils’? Probably more realistic, yes, not to mention more honest. Which as far as he was concerned meant that even if he did, for some strange reason believe all this fairy-tale nonsense, this organisation wasn’t one he wished to be involved with. Especially when it was ‘run by the people’ which in this day and age was synonymous with ‘criminals’. 

   He licked his lips once again, already dry for talking even for this amount of time. A cynical, almost indulgent smile twisting at his lip corners as he indicated the calendar that an understanding nurse had brought in the other day. “Well at least you’re not idealists then. But the thing is, Mr Driscoll, I couldn’t accept your kind offer even if I wanted to. I’m sure you already know that I’m actually from England. I’m… or at least, I was, on Holiday. Mostly, anyway. I’m due to go back on the 27^th October. Just a few days.” He paused, adding nonchalantly to try and keep the conversation from losing its friendly edge. “My family insisted I be back for Halloween, you see.”

“Yes, your family.” Driscoll nodded to himself as he repeated the words, something in his eyes causing Art to think that somehow, the bastard had already known all of this information. Perhaps even known the conversation… and was simply waiting for his cue as any actor would. “We’ve found in the past that a ‘Missing Persons’ causes more trouble than simply allowing them to contact their friends and relatives as it is, though there are some exceptions. Regardless, we are by no means forcing you to accept, or even consider our offer. However, a couple of our members are being sent to England as it is to help out with our branch there. We’ll have them on the same flight and have them contact you at some stage, just in case you do change your mind, or suddenly remember some important information you’d care to share with us. But that will be then. Get well soon, Mr Kennicot.”

   Driscoll stood, extending his hand once more to Art as he did. Art took it, thankful that the man was leaving and absentmindedly noting the firmness with which his hand was shook. Wasn’t that meant to mean something? Honesty, wasn’t it? Well if this particular individual was anything to go by, perhaps that was just an old wives tale. Though to be fair, the man was insane, and quite possibly believed everything that he was saying, in which case he hadn’t really been dishonest.

   Dr Johns opened the room from the outside, standing aside as Driscoll swept past him and then following him down the corridor, the low buzz of their rapid conversation barely audible to Art as they walked past his window. He shifted onto his  back once again, painfully knocking his arm as he did. It was in a sling now, which was far from convenient. The pain jerked his memory away from Driscoll and back to the accident, a hand raising to touch his face as he remembered the crash, the screeching of tyres, and the light. His fingers brushed against the long cuts on his face, already healing and no doubt beginning to scar.

   Along with the wall calendar, he’d procured a small hand mirror the other day, and had surveyed the damage to his face. He’d been told that his glasses had been smashed, either during the crash itself or the fight that had apparently followed after, and he was lucky that none of the glass had gone into the eye. Though it had been close, as a two inch cut just above his right eyelid indicated, the raw, red flesh stark against his pale skin, but barely noticeable as it cut through the dark brown of the eyebrow. There were other assorted scrapes and bruises, not all of which were to his face, but other than the fractured (not entirely broken, apparently) arm it was the other two significant cuts on his face that made him wince. His hand slid down his face, touching the one that starting from his left lip corner, wrenching it upwards in a rather unattractive way before crossing through the long one down the length of his cheek. “Ruins my dashing good looks.” He muttered dryly to himself, his mind turning to the family he had mentioned to Driscoll. Were they alright? Had they heard about the accident? Were they worried about him?

   It would be best if his mother hadn’t heard, already being of a nervous disposition and inclined to still treat Art as the baby of the family. Something which hadn’t changed even after his father had passed away from a heart-attack when he was twelve. Hopefully Lyn was looking after her though, or perhaps the twins, her grandchildren, were taking her mind off things. He missed his three girls – his lovely wife with her easy, contagious laughter and the twins with their gurgles and baby-talk. They were growing fast, what was it, three now? Thank God they didn’t know how close they’d come to losing their daddy. Thank God they were still too young to know anything of their own mortality - or his.

   He trembled suddenly, drawing in a shaky breath before collapsing back on his pillow. He stared blankly at the ceiling, picturing his family in his mind’s eye and letting happier memories wash over him, banishing any negative thoughts away. For now.