For the Hopeless

Chapter 1: Safe Haven

Isn't it ironic when a mortician dies? They've spent their lives embalming bodies, planning and leading funerals, comforting those who have lost loved ones, but in the end, someone else has to do that same thing for them and their family. It's almost as if they'd wasted their whole lives dealing with death only to do it all over again.

These were Bailey's thoughts as she gazed down at the pale, formally dressed corpse of her mortician friend, Claire. The woman had been just a week away from her thirtieth birthday, yet here she was, in an ornate little box with her prettiest black dress on. The humans had gotten to her, of course. It was a surprise she'd even gotten a funeral. Then again, the human side of her family had quite a bit of money, so it wasn't hard for them to pay off a few officials and get their sweet little halfbreed a proper burial.

Well, whoever did her did a damn good job, Bailey couldn't help noticing, referring to the mortician who had taken care of the woman's body. The half of her face that had been blown off was perfectly intact now. It was even the same color as the rest of her face, and the make-up was perfect. I'll have to find out who it was sometime.

She sighed, wishing she could lay a hand upon the woman's cheek without upsetting her mother or looking too creepy. You did well, Claire. But you should've let me help you. Perhaps you would've made it to thirty. She stared at the corpse for a moment longer, taking a last look at beautiful blonde tresses and plump red lips, before turning to leave. Lingering for too long would be dangerous, as the authorities would surely make an appearance to attempt to weed out other Novies. No amount of money in the world would make them stay away from a place in which threats to their pitiful race could be gathered.

As she walked toward the exit, she glanced around at the various groups of people that had congregated in different parts of the room. Some of them were very clearly nonhumans, sporting eyes of a deep, almost empty black and poorly hidden fangs, and the woman wondered what had possessed them to leave their homes. They would be very, very lucky if they made it back tonight. But it wasn't her concern. She was a Guardian, yes, one of the greatest this town had even, but she refused to waste her time on the stupid. It would be their own fault if they were captured or killed. Would it be a shame to lose more of their kind? Of course. But it was all survival of the fittest to Bailey, and the fittest had to have more brains than these people if they wanted to successfully reproduce someday.

Without a word to anyone, she rounded a corner and started down the hallway toward the exit. It was dark here, and the rest of the funeral home wasn't much better. She didn't mind it, as the lack of light actually flattered her more, giving less of a glow to the sickly pallor of her skin. Yet a group of human women still gave her a dirty look as she passed, apparently disliking her hollow cheeks and too-loose clothing. The black top and jeans should've been tight-fitting, but the gradual loss of weight she'd been experiencing for the past couple of weeks had left her far too thin to properly fill her own clothing. She looked like a corpse, a walking skeleton, half dead and terribly grotesque. Or perhaps the women had just been jealous of her only healthy feature, beautiful auburn hair that fell to her waist in a straight, silky wave, the reddish-brown color complimenting eyes of a dark brown with the subtlest hints of red.

She laughed softly to herself. If only.

She pulled open the building's heavy front door, an extravagantly carved hunk of mahogany featuring detailed baby angels and delicate lilies. It was a beautiful antique, but rather unnecessary in Bailey's opinion. Why would the crying relatives of a dead person want such a heavy obstacle in their path? She was sure this funeral home saw its fair share of wobbly old ladies, too. A door like this could kill them.

The dirty scent of cold and snow were brought to her sensitive nostrils by a strong wind, the kind that only came with a heavy snow storm. The icy flakes were tossed about by the breeze, forced to fall sideways in a way that was already creating deep drifts against the front wall of the funeral home. The stairs were nearly impassable as they were, creating another hazard for the little old ladies and crying relatives. The door would seem like nothing if they made it up these stairs.