The house is still.

The lights have long since been extinguished, and the place I call home sits in a gray solitude. Mother sleeps in the next room, Finn is resting in his own room next to hers, and I stand at the front door.

I know that what I'm doing will get me grounded. Mother is adamant about making sure I only patrol in the day time; she tells me to leave the night shifts for the "more experienced," but I know what it's really about. She is afraid of losing to me as she lost her husband, as I lost my father.

I am stronger than she thinks I am.

Before I go, I turn once more to survey my silent surroundings. In the darkness, and with my one good eye, I can make out the silhouettes of the countertop in the kitchen, the chairs waiting to be sat in at the breakfast bar. Moonlight glistens on the stainless steel of the refrigerator in an oblong shape, like a new moon all together.

Beyond the kitchen, I can see what used to be my father's favorite chair, sitting unused near the hearth since his death. I see him sitting there, sharpening his knife, and me watching from the floor in wonderment. I'll teach you, my Gem. I'll teach you to fight, just like me.

I exhale, and turn away. I'll be back here before the sun rises, and Mother will never even know I was gone. I take my father's knife, the one he was sharpening that day, and sheath it. It slides into its usual place on my hip, making me feel comfortable with its weight.

Then I vanish.

The night's brisk, but it isn't cold. The summer months have came by now, and when the sun is up, the heat is brutal and merciless. Night is only the time anyone can escape it, especially the ones of us with a painful light sensitivity.

I march through the silent neighborhood, walking the distance of the road. When I meet the edge of it, where the community of houses turns into the road to the city, a lone streetlight flickers on. I see two eyes, as crimson as blood, watching me from underneath it, and then a figure seems to materialize.

He steps into the light, his long legs moving with an elegance my years of training have yet to give me. The tone of his skin is pasty white, as pale as a star, and his hair is the color of ink. "Gemma," he says.

I approach him with a smile, and throw my arms about him, pushing my cheek against the leather protective gear he wears. He chuckles and hesitantly returns the embrace. "Excited to see me, are you?"

"Always, Damien," I say. "Always."

He gives me a pat on the head, and I step back, peering up into his face. I can almost see the outline of the bones beneath his face; his skin is thin and dead, as is the rest of him. But he is my Damien, nevertheless, and he has been my companion since my father began to train me. He knew Father well, perhaps even better than me.

"Have you had your fill?" I ask him as we begin to make our way to the trees, which mark the place where Maris ends and the unknown begins.

He gives me a sideways glance; without the light of the street lamp, his red eyes are dull and misty, a sort of maroon. The narrow angles of Damien's eyes tell me the story of his heritage. "Enough," he says. "It's only a patrol, anyhow—"

"You don't know that we won't come across anything," I argue. Damien grunts, only because he knows I'm right. "So if you only drank a little and you're weak and stupid because of it, that's your fault."

Damien's expression is one of blatant surprise for a moment, before a knowing grin spreads across his face. "If that is the case," he says, his voice leisurely and milky, "if I am weak and stupid, then is it not, as my partner, your duty to assist me?"

I stop walking and glare at him, as best as I can with one eye rendered useless. There was a time when I had both eyes, and there was no limit to all I could see, but that was before the night I lost my father. My brother Finn was still an unborn child back then. "Maybe it is," I say to Damien, who looks down at me from his height with an expression of amusement, "but I have abandoned my duty before. Don't doubt I'll do it again."

Damien winces in a way I know is fake. "Ouch. You are a heartbreaker, Gemma Armistead."

By now, we've reached the beginning of the Ancient Forest, and my hand instinctively goes to the hilt of my father's blade. I grin at Damien. "So I've been told."

We stop before the tall oak trees that hide so much within them, and Damien rocks back on his heels, pulling on the strap that secures his sword to his back. His eyes narrow for a moment, as if thinking of something, before he grins. "Your mother," he says, not taking his eyes off the forest. "She's unaware of where you are." It isn't a question.

"Of course," I say. "If she knew, she'd kill me."

"Death is not all that bad," says Damien with a wink.

I punch him. "Shut up."

"Gemma," he says, chuckling for a moment before he turns to me. As he looks at me, his face sets in the way it gets when he is strategizing; Damien is stern when it comes to doing his job as a hunter right. "I think we should split. The Bureau wants us to cover a large expanse of land tonight, and we could cover it best if you go one way and I go the other."

I frown at him. "I've never been in the forest alone before. Father—"

"I know what your father said to me, Gemma," says Damien. His eyes shut, and his voice is grave. At first glance, he seems so young, but when you listen to the depth of his voice, look deeply into his eyes, you realize how long he's been around. "I know what he said; it haunts me all the days of my life. But I've trained you, and the Bureau's trained you, and I know you'll be alright. Your father would not want you to be dependent on me your whole life."

"I don't know if I'm ready," I reply, facing him with the entirety of my body. I peer up at him, begging for eye contact, of which he gives me none. My heart is beating fast in my chest. "Dame, I need you. I don't feel safe without you."

Damien's eyes open swiftly, and flash bright red. In the back of my head, I wonder if he truly didn't drink enough, and that's why he suddenly thinks it a good idea to split. "You are a healer. One of the most—most esteemed species of Maris, Gemma. Nothing can hurt you, and you're strong. And know, even if something does happen, you can call me and I'll come to you. Always."

The gravity of his gaze on mine, drawing me in, is enough to force my eyes from his. I can't stand the way he's looking at me, as if this is some sort of end, as if we are parting and never meeting again. It makes me think of loss, of which I've had enough. I turn away, looking at the grass beneath my boots, and hear Damien sigh. "Don't say that," I order. "Don't say that nothing can hurt me—it's not true. One of my eyes was blinded when I was twelve, Damien, by the same werewolf that murdered my father. It all happened on the same night—you know, because you were there. You know that some things just can't be reversed."

"Gemma, please don't speak like this."

"You think I can make it?" I ask him, still not facing him. For a moment, I close my eyes, listening to the owls hooting in the distance, to the shudder of the wind, a cricket chirping underneath us. The sounds of night. A dangerous thing, night is. I feel my heart beating, thrumming, inside of my rib cage—I am not ready to face this, the forest at night, not without Damien, whom I trust more than anyone.

"My love," he breathes, and at this my eyes open and my head lifts. Damien rarely calls me anything but my name; I know when he does that it is for a reason. His fingers brush over my wrist as he turns me towards him, and I look up into his eyes again. "I know you can make it. Now go on. That way."

On releasing me, Damien points westward. I share one more glance with him before I tighten my grip on my blade and trudge forward. Glimpsing back once earns me the privilege of seeing Damien head east, his whole body rigid with attentiveness.

Both of us are afraid.

The Ancient Forest is a perilous place, and all Marisians know it. Fugitives, rogues, and other outcasts lurk here, wreaking havoc on anything and anyone that passes them. Most avoid the place, stay in the safe borders of the city and the suburbs. But I have never been most. You could I say was I born to be a hunter, the people that patrol the forest and hunt those who have ran to it. You could say I was born to protect Maris.

My father was the first hunter I ever met, and he fascinated me beyond measure. The way he could throw a dagger and stick it in the wall—despite my mother's livid protests of ruining her home—was flabbergasting to me, as was the gun as it spun in his deft fingers and landed in a perfect shooting position. Mother loved him, my father, but she didn't want a hunter's life for her children.

I wanted it. I wanted the exhilaration, the excitement, the danger—so my father gifted it to me.

I began training around the age of ten, six years ago. First, it was just clipped lessons with my father, until he brought in Damien, whom he had been hunting with for years. I still remember meeting him for the first time; he was standing in my living room with a goofy smile on his face, my father's approving hand on his shoulder. Gemma, this is Mr. Damien Sung.

Dame hasn't changed an inch since then. He is immortal, after all; however he was when he got here, he stayed that way, and he's been around longer than even my father. He's seen Maris evolve and change like an ever growing child. Sometimes I wonder if he's bored with his eternity; there is no end to it.

Or a beginning, rather.

The history of vampires in Maris is a mystery to everyone. This whole time, over the centuries, they've just been here, thriving amongst the rest of the species, as if nothing is different about them. No one knows when they came about, or how more of them keep seeming to show up, not even themselves. I've asked Damien about it before, but he just passed it off with a shrug and said: "Some mysteries remain mysteries."

I was going out into the forest with Damien and my father by eleven. We only went at day, practicing old techniques and new ones, learning the ways of hunting. I had never actually come across anyone, but was excited to. I wanted to use the skills I had been building, wanted to feel the adrenaline powering me as I took down the enemy. And when I got my chance, it was disaster.

The three of us were unprepared on that fateful night; the Bureau had told my father that it was a single rogue werewolf on the loose, and despite the fact that Mother told him to give the case to someone else, he assured her that our trio could handle it. So she let us go.

I was twelve, and alive with childish glee. I hopped up and down as I trailed behind Damien and Father, the only knife in my possession pressed into my palm. I kept reminding myself that it was finally happening, that I was going to get to fight, that today was the day I officially became a hunter. It felt like heaven, until it regressed to utter hell.

Damien was the first one who heard something. "Phillip," he said, squinting up at the full moon, bright above our heads. "I've heard them."

Father stopped walking in alarm. "Damien, did you say them?"

We knew something was wrong, even before the wolf unveiled itself from the foliage and tackled Damien to the ground. I remember it—colossal, gleaming fangs, dripping drool onto Damien's face as he struggled, huge paws with claws as sharp as razors, and those sickening yellow eyes that all werewolves claimed.

Damien kicked up at the beast's abdomen, and as it whined and shivered, inserted his best silver blade into it with an intermittent blast of energy. I saw the way the wolf howled for the last time, then fell sideways away from Damien, dead on the cold forest floor.

That was only the first.

The second and third attacked me and my father. I heard Damien's hoarse scream in my ears as the wolf lunged: "Your gun, Gemma!"

I didn't think, just ripped it from its holster and fired.

It seemed too easy, but the wolf was dead, the silver bullet sizzling like burning coal in its chest. I slid to the ground after that, half in relief and half in a terrible fear. My father's hands were on me. "My Gem," he kept saying. "It is alright. It is alright—"

The dead wolves' friend was not happy; he attacked my father and I as we sat on the ground, unable to prepare ourselves. I remember seeing a gleaming scar across his nose before he scratched me, and I wailed in pain, my eye pouring blood like a river. Worse than the pain were the screams: mine, Damien's, and my father's as he was ripped to shreds, unable to fight back in time.

So only two-thirds of our trio left the forest alive that night; Damien clutched me firmly against him, his own hand pressed over mine on my eye, staggering as he called for help. The scratch on my skin was a reminder of my vulnerability and my father's death for only a moment, before it healed. My eye, however, did not. Since that night, that eye has been of no use to me. Since that night, both Finn and I have been fatherless, even if the only life Finn has ever known is the one without his dad.

Now, the moon above my head is not full; that was last week, and it's a bit more than a sliver now. It's barely enough for me to see my own hand as I wave it in front of my face.

Tonight is simply a patrol mission. Damien and I walk our square of land for a few hours, ensuring nothing wrong or illegal is happening, making sure we're prepared if something is. It should be easy; I've done it before. I feel an energy, however, a dark one, buzzing about, and it makes me feel as if tonight is anything but easy. Perhaps it is because Damien is not at my side as he normally is, but something feels off.

Wind cuts through my jacket like a blade, and I sigh, feeling my cheeks flush with the chill. It is not freezing, but the drop in temperature from day to night is enough to at least cause me discomfort. I check the watch on my wrist, and am mildly dismayed to find I still have five hours until the forest is someone else's problem. Five hours here, by myself, without Damien to keep me company. It is going to be a long night.

Just when I'm prepared to have a seat and wait my patrol time out, I hear something. It's not the night birds, or the crickets, or the wind—to me, it sounds like footsteps. Quickly approaching ones, too, moving way faster than anything else in this half-asleep forest. I'm on high alert, the hairs on the back of my neck sticking up as I draw my blade from its scabbard, prepared to fight for my life. Whatever it is—a vampire, a witch, or a faerie, to name a few of the species I'm familiar with—I am ready for it, should it try to hurt me.

I'm not as prepared as I thought, for the thing rams into me, knocking me to the ground. For a second, I wheeze, my head thudding as I sit up, my whole body radiating with a dull pain. I can feel the various leaves scattering the forest floor scratching against my arms, and spit out the mouthful of dirt I'd gotten in my mouth.

"Miss? Oh my, I'm so sorry..."

I hear an unfamiliar voice, as I see someone reaching to help me up. I shake the touch off and stand up myself, defiant. Stumbling a little, the someone catches me, and as I turn my head to yell at whoever for touching me when I so clearly showed that I didn't want him or her to, I am caught off guard as I stare into two bright green eyes.

They are not unnaturally green, so to speak, but they are so pallid and amazing that it momentarily mesmerizes me. The irises seem to flower around the pupils, the tendrils of green overlapping and creating a depth I had never seen before. I draw in a breath before shaking my head and blinking. "I'm not hurt," I say. "Unhand me, please."

The unknown subject does, and I squint at him. He appears to be a boy around my age, much too tall for his own good. His hair is a mess of dark brown curls, tumbling down onto his forehead, and when he moves, I can see that he's awkward in more ways than one. What's truly strange about him, however, is that I sense nothing from him. Normally I can tell what any Marisian is, since all the species have their distinct features. Healers don't, actually, but that is a distinct feature in its own.

I see nothing on this boy—no yellow werewolf's eyes, or the crimson ones of a vampire, or the deceptive color-changing ones of the shapeshifters. There are more to count, but no matter how I look at him, I see nothing. Before I can open my mouth to comment, he says, "Again. Terribly sorry. I should keep going—"

He starts to run off again, but I catch at his arm, whirling him to face me. He looks at where my skin touches his; his skin tone is a golden brown against my chestnut, as if he's of mixed heritage. "Are you lost? Can I help you? I am a hunter, mister; it's my job to patrol the forest."

"Hunter," he repeats, as if the word confuses him. Looking into his eyes is like looking into the eyes of a flustered child; he shakes his head. "I, uh—miss, I have to go. I don't think you understand."

"Nonsense," I reply. "I understand more than you think. Where is it you're going?"

The boy pauses to rub his eyes, and looks at me again, his eyes wide as if in a trance. "I'm not sure. Away. That is all I know. I just know I was home, then I was...er, miss, what on earth are you doing?"

I wrap my wire around both of his wrists and secure it, only glancing once at his bewildered expression. I chuckle as I move down towards his ankles, wrapping those just as tightly. His expression does not change as he stumbles and falls, no longer able to keep his balance. "You unnerve me, mister. I must secure you until I get my companion here."

"How long will that take, exactly, to get your companion here?"

"Not long," I say. "That is, if he's listening." I'll come to you. Always.

Heaving a sigh, I call Damien's name, as loud as I can. I don't doubt he'll hear me; his ears are crazy good, a skill some species—such as mine—cannot claim. When I turn back to the boy, he's just staring blankly at me, as if he has no recollection of what is happening. Again, I laugh; the pure discombobulation on his face is amusing to me.

"What's your name, miss?" his voice is cautious.

I hesitate a moment before answering, trying to decide whether or not I want to be anything but strangers with him. "Gemma," I say, my tone clipped. "Gemma Armistead."

There is a silence before he says, "Gael."

I squint at him again. He's certainly peculiar, not like any Marisian I've ever come across. Something blooms in my chest, and I don't know if it's fear or worry. It is probably both. "Your name is Gael?"

He nods, lifting his eyes to me. "Gael Echeart. It is a pleasure to meet you, Miss Armistead," he greets, then smiles at me. His teeth are, for the most part, white and straight, but I see a chip in one of his canines. Somehow, even with that part missing, it is one of the brightest smiles I have ever laid eyes on. How he can smile at the girl who has bound him and rendered him immobile, I don't know.

"You're awfully polite," I say, and Gael opens his mouth to reply, but it is cut off when Damien appears. He's here in a swirl of midnight mist, reaching for me as soon as he's collected.

Damien smooths back my hair from my face, his fingers tangling in their dark strands. "Gemma, are you alright? Has something happened—"

"Yes, quite the something. But I'm fine. Look, Damien."

His eyes narrow for a second before he looks over my shoulder at Gael, still on the floor of the forest, unable to escape his ties. After a moment of just staring at the boy, Damien pushes me gently aside and goes to him. I'm concerned when he rears back, hissing in pain.

"Dame? What is it?" I glance at Gael. "You—if you hurt him—"

Gael's smile is miles away from his expression now, one of apprehension and uneasiness. His leaf green eyes are wide, mouth slightly open. "I didn't touch him, Miss Armistead—"

"I said my name was Gemma. You can quit calling me 'miss.'"

He swallows before saying, "I can't touch him. My wrists are tied, Gemma."

I glare at him once more before going to Damien, who is hunched on the ground, crawling away from Gael as if his legs are no longer useful. His hands are to his face, his posture rigid. "Dame..."

"He wears a cross," hisses Damien through his teeth. "I can't go near him; it hurts too much."

"Hold on a moment," I tell Damien, and cross the distance to Gael. I feel his eyes on me as I reach into his shirt collar, feeling around for the chain of a necklace. My skin brushes his, and I curse under my breath, knowing this is one of the most awkward moments of my life. When my fingers close around a chain, I yank it free.

Gael yelps, "Hey!"

"Sorry," I lie. "You probably won't be getting this back."

Draped over my palm is a silver necklace, and on the end of its chain hangs a rather large cross, emblazoned with tiny jewels. For a moment I blink at it; it is a beautiful thing, but I would never wear it, not if it meant Damien could come nowhere near me. With only a moment's hesitation, I cast it away somewhere in the forest, and hear Damien exhale.

"Is it gone?" he says, forcing his eyes up at me. When I nod at him, he seems to collapse into a seating position, his expression one of utmost relief. "Daylights. I haven't felt that in a while."

I hear Gael's voice from behind me, small and tentative. "The cross...oh my, are you..."

Damien does not sound happy; his voice drips disdain as he staggers to his feet, spitting at the ground. "Have you never met a vampire before, boy?" he turns to me. "Where did you find him, anyway? Why is he here?"

"He ran into me, quite literally. I asked him where he came from, and he said he doesn't know. And Damien..." I pull him aside, turning away from Gael, dropping my voice to a whisper. Damien's eyes seem to be blazing. "I don't know what he is."

Damien glances back, his black eyebrows furrowing. He nods, not seeing the features I'd searched for, either. "He is not a healer?"

"No," I assure him. "I know my own kind."

Damien pauses to think for a moment, his head bent, his mop of hair in his eyes. Then he draws in a breath and shoves me further from Gael, his crimson eyes wide and afraid. "Gemma! Don't touch him!" he yelps, his arm thrust across me.

I see Gael, who seems to be shivering, just as afraid as I suddenly am. "Dame, the heck are you talking about—"

"Gemma, I forbid you to go near him again. He is not one of us, Gemma...he's...

He's human."