Fanged

by Elisabeth Wheatley

Chapter Five

  I’m going to die. For a moment, that one thought seems to consume all of me so that I can hardly feel the sharp pain in my face.

  My gaze trails up the barrel of the shotgun as I look to the man who’s going to kill me. He’s in his early to mid twenties with dark close-cropped, military style hair and a close-shaven face. His body is wound tense like a coil about to spring as he waits for me to move so he can pull the trigger. The rippling muscles in his arms stick out under his t-shirt as he clenches the shotgun. His face is an angled, fierce portrait.

  I’m panting in terror and I catch his scent—dusty, sweaty, yet slightly spicy. How ironic that the one I followed here is going to be the one to kill me.

  “Chase!” Mary exclaims.

  The man towering over me doesn’t take his eyes off my prone form. “You alright, Mama? Dad?”

  “Yeah, we’re fine,” James assures him.

  Great. The guy with the shotgun thinks I was trying to hurt his mama. I am so very dead.

  James and Mary totter off into the house, to do what, I’m not sure. They probably expect a horde of vampires now that I’m here.

  “How did you find us?” Chase demands, pressing the shotgun barrel harder against my chest.

  When he squeezes that trigger, there isn’t going to be much left of my chest. The idea scares the crap out of me and I just hope it’ll be quick. I pull myself together. There have been a few times before when I thought about dying. Many times, actually. I always decided that I would take my death without begging, crying, or letting the person who killed me know I was afraid. I inhale deeply, ignoring the press of the shotgun barrel on my chest. “Well, frankly,” I say nonchalantly, “you smell.” And yet I didn’t smell or hear him as he came up behind me. Even if he’d gone swimming in wolfsbane, I should’ve heard him. That’s just one more thing that’s my fault, I suppose.

  Chase swears. “How many more are there?” he demands.

  I play dumb. “What do you mean?”

  Chase’s jaw goes tight and he jabs me with the shotgun. “Don’t play around, vamp.”

  “I’m alone and it’s Hadassah.” I rest my head on the wooden porch and stare up at him with a face of pure serenity.

  Chase frowns. “What?”

  “My name is Hadassah,” I say. “You must be Chase.”

  Chase’s eyes flash irritation. “Don’t think for a second I believe that you’re alone,” he growls.

  “Oh, I never expected you to believe it. But you know what they say: Honesty is the best policy.” I try to focus on baiting Chase and not let myself think about how close I am to facing the Great Unknown.

  “What do you want?” Chase has so much aggression in his voice, so much hostility. I don’t think I’ve ever heard a human speak like this.

  “Like I told your mother, I need help.” I watch Chase’s eyes. If he’s going to kill me, I want him to remember my face for the rest of his life.

  “With?”

  I heave a theatrical sigh. “That is a rather long story with lots of subplots.”

  “Start!” he orders. Chase thumps the shotgun against my chest again. This time it’s so hard it drives the air out of my lungs. That seems to be happening to me a lot today.

  My head rolls back as I gasp for air.

  “What’s that?” Chase is looking at me with his head tilted to one side. “Pull down your collar,” he gruffly commands.

  “Do I look like a stripper?” I growl, stifling a cough.

  Chase glowers down at me. “Do I look patient?”

  No, he doesn’t.

  “Pull your collar down and don’t try anything, or I blast you to hell,” Chase hisses.

  I scowl up at him, but do as he commands. I pull down the collar of my turtleneck and show him what I’ve tried so hard to hide these past months.

  There is a collection of scars from deep puncture wounds left by fangs and shallower teeth marks running along the line of my jugular vein. Some of them are still in the red stages of scarring, others are paler and look like little calluses. Every single one of them hurt very, very much.

  Chase stares down at the marks. “You really pissed somebody off, didn’t you?”

  I make no reply. What I did to earn these is not something I want to talk about. “On multiple occasions,” I smoothly add.

  “So start explaining your problem,” Chase orders.

  I blink up at him. “You want me to give you my life story on your front porch while you have me pinned with a shotgun?”

  “Yep.” Chase gives a curt nod.

  “What will the neighbors think if they see this?” I ask.

  “I’ll tell them you were an escaped psych ward patient who tried to kill me. Our house has a way of attracting murderous psych ward patients.”

  “Hmm. I imagine it does.”

  “Who else knows where we live?” Chase demands.

  “I don’t know. I caught your scent at the mall and followed you here,” I answer.

  “Why did you follow me?”

  I’m starting to hope that I might get out of this alive. There seems to be a small chance. “I told you, I came to ask for your help.”

  “Hmm.” Chase looks contemplative. “Don’t move,” he growls. He draws the shotgun barrel away from my sternum.

  I hide my sigh of relief. Automatically, I pull forward to stand up. Before I can even prop myself up on my elbows, Chase turns the shotgun around and brings the back of the gun, the stock, straight down on my face.