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Chap. 3 - What About Yesterday: Complete
Published Jul 15, 2012

Written By



Page 1 / 46

I would like to start off by saying sorry if I messed up on any of the spanish: "Sorry!"

Secondly, if you've read the other version of this chapter (the uncompleted version) then you can skip to page 8!


I would like to start off by saying sorry if I messed up on any of the spanish: "Sorry!"

Secondly, if you've read the other version of this chapter (the uncompleted version) then you can skip to page 8!

“What did you want with my abuela, anyway?”
“I don’t know; honestly, not much—I just thought—maybe they kept in contact. If Demetrius Carter had held on to anyone from his old life: it would’ve been her. He loved her very much. I don’t think he ever stopped.” He looked her in the eye, “I’m sorry for your—”
“Listen, bobo, I appreciate it, but I don’t want your condolences. Gracias pero no gracias.”
“Promise to remember my name?”

“Sure, but I don’t even know—”
“It was one of my grandmother’s: Marisa. Will you remember?”
He nodded, “Marisa.”
“Buen.” He awoke to the post-dawn light. It was an overnight train ride and he was glad for the solitude. But blinked away the dream that followed him into wakefulness:
Everything was still—he had arrived in Starlight Shores.
He dropped from his bed, checked to make sure he hadn't left anything, and headed for the nearest exit.
The Urbane Center for the Arts. Up here, on the top floor, surrounded by little shrines to various music gods and goddesses (one or two notably vampyre) it was quiet. Too quiet. “Here.” Brock handed him—“the passport, just like you asked. Now tell me why you need it. And why on such short notice, Oren?” It was the letterman jacket Brock wore that made him a friend, or at least the closest Oren could ever get to having a vampyre as a friend.

The jacket humanized Brock, sure he was still condescending, often brutish and liked to hit hard when agitated, but that jacket meant that Brock didn’t think of humans as playthings or bugs to be squashed underfoot. And so, inherently, didn’t think of Oren as a plaything or a bug to be squashed underfoot.

When Brock asked a question, you answer it: “I don’t know where I’m going.” He turned on his heel, “But it’ll be sooner rather than later.”
“Not so fast, Oren—” who froze at the chill in his “friend’s” voice “—You forgot something.”

“Thanks.” And he didn’t look back.
“No-no-no, Oren. You’re won’t just leave with a thanks. You’re coming with me, I want to show you a good time—you owe your best friend that much.”

Oh, and you don’t tell vampyres that they’re wrong.
“Isn’t she brilliant?”
Although it wasn’t really a question, “Yep.”
Brock glanced at Oren, “Look, we need to talk.”
“Oh no.”
Oren resisted the urge to lean against the filthy public bathroom wall. And also the urge to look Brock in the eye.
He started simply, slowly, “The Queen—your MOM is worried about you.”
Oren laughed, not because it was funny, but because it wasn’t—“That’s rich.” Brock narrowed his eyes, “Cut the crap, Oren—”

“How about you do the same for me, Brock—Cut. The. Crap. We both know I’m not going back until I find the cure—”
“When are you going to acce—there is NO CURE!”
“There IS! I read it in—”
“Let me guess, in one of those moth-eaten manuscripts you found in a deep, dark corner of The Archives. Oren, that stuff was forgotten about for a reason—you can’t honestly tell me you believe what you read.”
So Oren didn’t tell him. He started toward the door.
“Wait—there’s something you should know.” Oren froze at his “friend’s” reluctant tone. “What?”
“Your mother’s right-hand-man—he put a reward out for your head, Oren. Alive or Dead. She doesn’t know of course—but then again she already thinks you’re dead.”

Zeth. He had a distinct way of taking advantage of a vampyre when they were down (and/or out); and Zeth had never liked Oren—who had a hunch that the dislike was due to his genitor, but only a hunch.

Oren was torn: go home, reprimanded for his wandering but judged as a loyal son, and watch his mother slowly die, or stay away, possibly find a cure while also avoiding being hunted down. The latter was a risk.
Oren managed, “You remember my creed?”

No scenes. No truths. Leave without a trace. And be forgotten.
“So you’ll go home.” Again, it wasn’t a question.
“No, Brock, I won’t.”
He shut the door behind him. “¿Lo que le hiciste a mi madre?” Marisa reached for the phone. “What did you do to my mother?” He swiped his hand across his mouth, “Aren’t you pretty?” “Take a step closer and—three numbers: that’s all it takes.”
“I like it when they scream—your… mom screamed.”
“¿Lo que le hiciste a mi madre?” She yelled at him, “Tell me!”
Like a flash he was before her—snagging her wrist.
She yanked it from his grasp, and balled her hand into a fist. She drove it forward—he stepped out of the way.
“Pick you battles.” He said with a dangerous undercurrent to his voice.
“Pendejo.” But she decided to take his advice.
And only after she gave him her best kick—she fled.
And she didn’t stop.
He stopped. The beach. Beach House.
It loomed ahead of him, so he went inside.
He was going to sit down at one of the barstools to think—then he heard it. And knew what it meant: Oren was not alone.

They were soft, delicate, hiccupping sobs. Meant for shadows and silence and no one’s ears. But they found Oren’s so he journeyed deeper into the house.
He saw it—her.

“Marisa?” She jumped a little at the name, her name. So, she said what he was thinking, “What are you doing here?”
He felt his shoulders lift, then plummet, “Just, thinking.”
“Well, then, good-bye.” She didn’t blink. “You can leave now.”
“Wait—what?” He blinked. “Okay, then, what happened?” She passed a hand over her face, “Too much, too quickly. First, my abuela, then my own mother. It just doesn’t make any sense.” She glanced sharply at him, “The only common factor was-is you.”
“What?” He took several steps backward.
“Oh, you heard me.” She had transformed, from some fragile, broken thing, to a fiery, self-righteous accuser all in the space of three seconds; she rose to meet him.
“I didn’t have anything to do with your mother,” he couldn’t stand her distrustful glare.
“My abuela, then?”
“No-no-no!” He backtracked, “I had noting to do with either of them.” He racked his brain for something, anything more affirming: “I swear!”
She crossed her arms and smiled wickedly at him, “You swear?”
Oren nodded. “Trust me I—”
“Trust you? This isn’t some romantic comedy, I don’t know you, and they only experiences I’ve had with you are not very encouraging ones. So no, I don’t trust you.” “What’ll it take?”
“To trust me.”

She paused—for a second. “What are you?”
Oren, a very secretive vampyre to begin with who never and does not, and probably never will, like questions, hated that particular query like it was his own, personal poison. Yes! We have finally learned the main character's name!

And for all who enjoyed, take a moment out to thank - whether mentally, metaphysically, hypothetically, digitally or by means of the computer and the keyboard - take a second of your day to thank none other than spladoum!

She vanquished my uploading problem, and is the reason you are even reading this. So...



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keishafellerAug 23, 2012

Like you said, finally I learned the main character's name! Now I guess Oren and Marisa's only option is to solve this mystery alone.

spladoumJul 29, 2012

So! I finally crawled out from under all of my many projects and got some time to read again. This is coming all brilliantly, and I'm intrigued as always. Spunky girl, attacking vampyres! \:D

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