Blatant Invasion
So this was what blood running cold felt like.

Logan never experienced such a feeling before – not even the night he watched helplessly as Diego tore into Francis’ neck and drank from her. There had been shock, sure, not to mention anger and fear and a large chunk of mourning. But even that paled in comparison to this. Logan couldn’t even describe the chill running through him as he stood in the doorway to his apartment.

The one place he thought for sure he was safe. The display before him, the collage macabre greeting the former Watcher, was something one might expect to find in a clichéd horror flick, maybe even an episode of CSI: or Law and Order.

But it was real. Staring him right in the face. Setting his black shoulder bag on the white counter separating the kitchen from the living room, the bookstore owner’s eyes scanned the walls, near and far, seeing only the windows and ceiling undisturbed by whoever put together this little exhibit.

It was like a museum, collecting all the darkest memories Logan preferred no one to ever see. Even though he’d told Izzy what happened to his Slayer, the former Watcher never went this far with it – his apartment had been turned into a walking tour of his months in Denver.

It wasn’t just the still images of the newscast. Scans of Francis’ face, fear etched into her eyes, blood trickling down the right side of her neck. Half the assembled crowd running off in fear, the other half standing by, just watching.

With his face buried in the side of Francis’ neck, Diego’s face was invisible in the images, but Logan knew it was him. He also knew the vampire was responsible for this, somehow. Even if he couldn’t enter the apartment, this was all his doing. Joining the scans were several newspaper clippings. The story detailing Francis’ death. Her obituary. Another story where her mother, in Denmark for whatever reason, expressed grief and anger toward Logan. A local columnist calling for the Council’s collective heads.

The irony was disgusting; a vampire killed someone, and it was the good guys’ fault.

Approaching one of the scans, the former Watcher felt his breath catching in his throat. His hand shook as it grabbed the image, pulling it from the wall. Francis’ body had slumped to the ground, her and Diego the only ones left from the crowd. Her body bent in several unnatural ways, her arms and legs broken as a result of the attack.

Not that she noticed. The blood dribbling down the vampire’s chin and onto her body told Logan all he needed to know. Diego’s sneer was clear in this image, despite his distance from the camera. There was no hatred in his yellow eyes, no malice in his smile. There was no morbid glee – his happiness was nothing but pure joy.

His Slayer’s blood caked into the black leather coat draped over Diego’s shoulders. Logan found himself wondering where that coat came from. Did he pull it off one of his kills, too, or did he just buy or steal one in a pathetic attempt to be like his idol?

Odd the thoughts creeping into a man’s head when he’d distanced himself from the grief.

Tossing the image to the floor, Logan grabbed another. It was a surveillance photo, not from the night of Francis’ death, but sometime before then. The Slayer walked along the sidewalk, a green backpack slung over her right shoulder. Her brown hair was in a ponytail and she wore gray sweatpants.

A shot of her walking on campus on the way to class. But how did Diego get this shot? The sun was out, and the time stamp on the photo read 9:34 a.m.

Unless the same person he had put up this little display was the same one who took all the pictures. At this point, that made about as much sense as anything.

There were other surveillance shots. Francis walking out of a Starbucks. Francis sitting in front of a café with her friend Jacqueline. Francis staking a vampire in one of the local cemeteries. Francis training with a punching bag at Gold’s Gym.

The photo taped to the door to Logan’s bedroom, all 12”x24” of it, made his heart stop.

Francis completely naked, straddling the former Watcher. Her back was to the camera, but a mirror on the other side of the figures in the frame made Francis’ face visible in the photograph. Her eyes were closed, her mouth forming a permanent O. The former Watcher felt his arm shake again as he removed the picture from the door, balling it up and squeezing the crumpled paper.

His breath became ragged, his nostrils flared. Logan turned around, taking in the full view of his living room. Of all the pictures, the stills of his Slayer’s murder, the private photos following her around on her daily rituals – mundane and otherwise – were one thing.

But this? This blatant invasion of privacy, capturing a moment of complete release and vulnerability? Logan couldn’t describe the anger; he could only bellow the vampire’s name and toss the balled-up photograph across his apartment before turning to kick in the door to his bedroom.

Afraid of what he might find there, Logan paused. His entire body shook, the anger and fear threatening to overwhelm him. Barely managing to undo his black tie, the former Watcher bought himself some time by balling that up and tossing it onto the floor of the bathroom to his left.

A quick glance into the bedroom showed nothing out of the ordinary. The bed was made, just as it had been that morning when Logan left for work, and as far as he could tell, all of his possessions were still there.

The former Watcher took one step, then another. The room appeared untouched, but Logan’s eyes soon caught sight of a piece of paper laying on top of the bed, contrasting with the black comforter. That cold spread through Logan’s frame again, and he stood still. Based on what had been tacked on the door to the bedroom, the former Watcher dreaded looking at whatever was on that sheet.

Forcing himself to move again, Logan climbed onto the mattress, grabbing the slip of paper. There were actually two, and the bookstore owner could see that one was a photograph and the other was a message. Taking the smaller piece of paper, Logan unfolded it, his breath hitching once more when he read the scribbled writing.

I wonder, Watcher – is the blonde as good?

Dropping the message, Logan hesitated. He really didn’t want to see what was in the picture, because the message already told him what it probably was. Taking a deep breath, the former Watcher flipped over the larger sheet, holding his breath to brace himself for an image of Logan and Izzy in bed together.

Instead, he saw a picture of his girlfriend entering the bookstore. While not the graphic depiction he’d been expecting, Logan still felt that chill again. Nausea began to tug at his gut, the grim reality of the whole thing finally catching up with him. He hadn’t given the vampire enough credit to come up with something this elaborate, but if he had someone working with him – and he had to, considering he never had an invite into the apartment – that changed things.

Leaving the image and corresponding message on the bed, Logan bolted from the mattress and made a beeline for the bathroom. That chill became a disturbing warmth, and Logan knew what it signaled as he dropped to his knees in front of the toilet.

Coughs and pained hacks filled the otherwise silent apartment before Logan flushed the toilet, taking a deep breath and struggling to stand. Splashing cold water over his face, the former Watcher stared into the mirror, seeing how pale he was.

And another message.

Written on the mirror, in red. Lipstick? Red magic marker? Blood? Logan couldn’t tell.

Not that you’d care.

Finding his second wind, Logan sprinted from the bathroom back into the living room and digging out his cell phone. He thought of calling the police, since his home had been broken into – with no sign of forced entry, though – and that likely meant a human was responsible. But that human was working for Diego, and even with everything that happened over the past year and a half, Logan knew the police were still ill-equipped to handle vampires.

So no calling law enforcement. But he could call Izzy, if for no other reason than to warn her.

Hitting speed dial, Logan closed his eyes and clenched his jaw when he got her voicemail. She was just busy, right? Diego hadn’t gotten to her yet, had he? Or was threatening Izzy just a bluff, designed to scare Logan or send him in one direction before the vampire swooped in from another?

The former Watcher really didn’t know.

“Izzy,” his voice was ragged, breathing was difficult. “We’ve got …” Logan paused, taking a deep breath. He had to idea how to say any of this. “Diego’s surfaced again. Had someone bust into my place and leave a bunch of pictures of Francis. He had one of you too, I – I think he might be after you. Or he might not, I dunno. I know, I’m rambling, I’m sorry, just … be careful, okay? There’s no telling what he might do.”

The former Watcher fell silent. The corners of his eyes burned. He wanted to tell Izzy he loved her; this seemed like a pretty good time for it. But Logan couldn’t actually form the words. Why? Because when he said it on New Year’s Eve, she didn’t say it back? That was an odd thing to be sacred of at a time like this.

Still, Logan couldn’t say it. He thought maybe it was the fear.

“Call me back. We’ll, uh – we’ll figure something out.”

At least, Logan hoped they could.