• Chapter One
    In which I am a helpless twit.


    My name is Matthias Beringer.

    I don’t expect you to remember that, and to be honest, I’d be amazed if you did. I’ve never really been the memorable sort.

    Even my own family (not my immediate family, granted) used to forget my name. Christmas would roll around and the cards would start arriving, and usually, to avoid confusion, I was “Matt,” but there was always at least one card where I was “Matthew.” (Thanks, Grandma.) To the aunt and uncle on my mum’s side, I was “Red,” because I have red hair.

    I grew up in Manchester, England, in a lavish manor with a rose garden in the front yard and velvet curtains in the windows. It was an old but well-kept estate which had been in the family for a couple of generations. Our family business, Beringer Inns, raked in the money that allowed us to live in such splendor.

    I wasn’t close to anyone in my family; not even Mum and Dad, who hardly seemed to know each other. They never had much time for me—Dad was always busy with work, and Mum’s grudging house party schedule kept her hands tied. The household staff looked after me, for the most part. I had tutors to teach me, and the family library to keep me company.

    Telling people about my family life often elicits sympathetic looks and words of comfort, but isolation didn’t bother me, at least not during my childhood. I was never lonely, and I certainly had no shortage of clothes or food or any other necessities. When I got to secondary school, I found that I in fact preferred this thing others called “loneliness.” When I turned eleven, my father decided to send me to a private all-boys’ school so I could develop actual social skills, something you don’t really just pick up after years of being all by your lonesome without anyone your age around. As a result, I spent most of my free time reading by myself. Teachers pried and prodded and asked if I was lonely or needed to see a counselor, to which I would reply, “Why do you ask?”

    Conversation was an awkward, uncomfortable thing, and avoiding it seemed only natural. I kept to myself, and I liked it that way.

    Unfortunately, we all have to grow up someday, which is why I found myself where I was, sitting at the Manchester Airport.

    My flight was an hour late, and it wasn’t doing wonders for my blood pressure. I hate planes. They make me terribly anxious, and I always, always, always get airsick. I hadn’t slept at all beforehand. Maybe, I thought, I’ll be so exhausted I’ll pass out on the plane. Or they’ll find a mechanical pencil in my bag and mistake it for a bomb. That would make my day. Thankfully, the flight wasn’t going to be very long.

    I was on my way to Berlin, Germany. It’s family tradition for us to study at the Berlin School Of Economics, and besides that, we have strong German roots on my dad’s side. My destiny from birth was to attend this school, take over as the CEO of Beringer Inns, and continue working so that my parents could live out their lives comfortably. Presumably, I was also expected to become fat and bald and have a bad comb-over. Like father, like son?

    It wasn’t by any means what I truly wanted, but I hadn’t the faintest idea what I did want, besides possibly a girlfriend (in the game of internal rock-paper-scissors, hormones beat reclusiveness) and a quiet place to read books. Career interests? I had none. No ambition, no direction, and no excuse not to simply follow the path that my family had laid out for me, likely before I was even concieved.

    At least, no excuse for the time being.

    When my plane landed in Berlin, I was disoriented, sleep-deprived, and nauseated. I managed to drag my single piece of luggage—a rolling suitcase with some clothes and a few of my favorite books—to a bus stop. I mentally ran through my to-do list for the day; find the university campus, find my flat, buy groceries and soap, sleep.

    It all seemed like so much work (sleeping aside), and besides, my stomach didn’t want food. Nevertheless, I pressed on.

    Accomplishing the first task was easy—it’s hard to miss a university. I didn’t hang around long. It was, after all, still August. My dad expected me to take the extra time to “familiarize myself” with my new surroundings, not to mention remember how to speak German. I’d been learning and practicing all my life, but there is something that even the most excellent and expensive language tutors cannot provide— immersion. Accomplishing the second task was a bit harder, as I read the address wrong at first and spent an hour walking in circles, utterly baffled.

    My flat was nice; blindingly white and clean from floor to ceiling, and the plumbing worked well. My parents had already paid someone else to furnish the place for me. I was filled, for the first time that day, with unmeasureable glee as I realized I would be living here completely, gloriously alone. However, the fridge and the soap dish were both empty, and there could be no rest until both these problems were remedied. I set off down the street once again, carefully taking in landmarks. My sense of direction is not great, but I have a good memory.

    This turned out to be rather unfortunate, as there are parts of the six or so hours that followed that I would, to this day, rather forget.

    I was incredibly lucky to find a small shop on a corner, just a ten-minute walk from my flat, that sold absolutely everything I needed. Besides my comfortable, wonderfully lonely new residence, it was the only other thing that went right that day.

    Woe to the fool that keeps his keys on a lanyard. The idea is that the lanyard helps you keep track of the keys. In truth, you are practically asking the universe to smite you, especially if you twirl it around your finger like an idiot instead of just leaving it around your neck.

    I tripped, and whatever I tripped over gave a loud yelp. My grocery bag hit the ground first—I followed shortly, crushing innocent vegetables and bread under my weight. My lanyard flew from my hand and slid, stopping dangerously close to a storm drain. I groaned.

    I had tripped over a dog. I don’t know what kind it was, but it was puny, and clearly a stray. The scruffy little thing started sniffing around in my grocery bag.

    “Stop that,” I said. The dog gave me a blank look. I waved my hands at it. “Shoo! Go on, get out of here!”

    I’ve never really liked dogs that much, so even the admittedly cute head-tilting that followed didn’t get to me. It gave up on me and padded calmly over to my lanyard instead, and after a moment of sniffing, clamped its jaws around the strap.

    “Put that down!” I said, failing to realize that the stray probably didn’t know any English commands, or any commands at all, for that matter. The dog was shaking the lanyard in its teeth like a chew toy. I staggered to my feet, only managing to grasp the handle on my shopping bag after a few tries. I brandished the paper bag threateningly.

    “Bugger off!”

    And it did—with the lanyard still in its mouth. I stood there for a moment, dumbfounded, before breaking into a run.

    Two legs have a terrible disadvantage compared to four, even if the four legs in question are much shorter. I thought my gangliness would give me an advantage, but after three blocks I wasn’t gaining on the runt at all.

    I dodged my way past strangers; the dog scampered between their legs. I had to stop at crossings, but the fearless little beast didn’t see the need. At one point I thought I’d lost track of it, but I turned into an alley just in time to see the dog bounding around a corner, the keys jingling behind like sleigh bells.

    I must have looked like an idiot, dashing through the streets after the pint-sized thief, occasionally bumping into people and dodging doors as they opened into my path.

    I was relieved when we came to a dead-end alley. At that point, I had run out of breath and unused expletives. The dog dropped the lanyard on the ground and looked up at me expectantly.

    “Bad dog,” I wheezed, snatching the soggy thing up from the ground. It was frayed and slimy, but I put it around my neck anyway, as a symbol of my victory. The dog just thumped its stubby tail happily against the pavement.

    I stood there for a moment, trying to catch my breath, and realized I hadn’t been keeping track of landmarks. My shopping bag slipped out of my hand. The dog saw this as an invitation and stuck its nose in to root around.

    Surely, I hadn’t gone far. I grabbed the bag once again (the dog whined) and marched back out of the alley. I looked down the street to my right, then to my left, and saw nothing I recognized. Stay calm, Matthias. Stay calm, you couldn’t have run more than four blocks. Five? Ten?

    After a moment’s hesitation, I started to walk in what I thought was the right direction, which, of course, it wasn’t. My new “friend” decided to tag along, much to my annoyance. Every so often I would stop and turn around.

    “Shoo!” I’d say, waving my arms.

    “Adorable head tilt,” it would reply, an oblivious expression on its furry face.

    Repeat ad nauseum.

    I had walked for at at least half an hour before I looked at a bus stop—probably the third or fourth one I’d passed—and suddenly felt incredibly stupid. I knew what bus route could get me back to my flat. Stupid, stupid, stupid Matthias.

    I staggered into the bus stop shelter and sat down on the bench much harder than I meant to. My legs informed me, by way of aching, that I was damn lucky I’d found this bus stop when I did or they would have dumped me on a corner somewhere.

    And then it was night.

    I awoke suddenly and violently, startling the dog, who had fallen asleep curled up at my feet. My feet ached, and so did my neck, since I had slumped against the glass wall of the bus shelter as I slept. I stretched a bit, and winced. It took me a moment to notice the presence of a young lady next to me on the bench. I jumped a second time, into the corner, and peered at her from behind my ratty grocery bag.

    She was a pretty little thing, from what I could see in the dim light of a distant streetlamp. I guessed she was about sixteen or seventeen. Wispy, white-blonde hair framed a smooth porcelain face. She smiled.

    “Hi! Is this your dog?” She reached down to pet the dog, eliciting a very unexpected and vicious snarl before it took off into the night with its tail between its legs. She turned to me with a forlorn expression, but I was breathing a sigh of relief— the furry bandit was no longer my problem. Unfortunately, I had acquired a new problem.

    “I’m Marlene!” she said cheerfully, having seemingly forgotten the dog already. She held out a hand to me, and her sleeve flopped comically over it. I noticed she was wearing what appeared to be a nightgown. There were dark stains on it, but I couldn’t tell what they were. Her hand was stone-cold, and I drew back prematurely, feeling a bit like she had tried to suck the warmth out of my own hand. She didn’t seem to notice my blunder.

    “I’m Matthias,” I said. She tilted her head at me like a little bird and smiled again.

    “Do you like my nightgown?” She had spotted me looking at it. “My mother made it. It’s my favorite.”

    I saw her bare, dirty feet as she scooted toward me, and began to get the feeling that Marlene wasn’t really all there. Her slightly singsong manner of speech and blank black eyes raised my suspicions.

    “It’s very nice,’’ I said. “Marlene, where is your mother? Do you know?’’

    She shook her head.

    “I haven’t seen her for a long time. I miss her. And I’m hungry.”

    That was the final nail in the coffin; something was wrong here. I wondered if I could get her to the police or a hospital or somewhere else safer than the street.

    “Listen, Marlene—“ I eyed a pay phone next to us. “I’m going to call someone that might help you find your mother, all right?”

    “I’m hungry,” she whispered, as I reached for the phone. I stopped. Her cheery demeanor had turned inside out in a flash— now she was trembling, curling herself into a ball, tucking her head behind her knees as if she had a terrible headache. I was at a loss. I touched her arm gently in a gesture I hoped would come across as comforting.

    She grabbed my hand so tightly, I thought that if I tried to struggle she might break it. Then, with incredible strength belied by her delicate frame, she slammed me against the glass wall and sank her teeth into my neck. I let out a strangled cry. We both slid to the ground, struggling against each other. She overpowered me easily with a slap to the face that bloodied my nose. I tried to call for help, but my voice wasn’t working, and the rest of me was quickly becoming weak and numb. I couldn’t even keep my eyes open after a minute’s worth of fruitless straining. When I think of it now, it reminds me of the kind of nightmares where your limbs turn to jelly, and you’re too floppy to run from whatever horror is approaching.

    I didn’t know what it was at the time, of course, but the last thing I heard was a gunshot.