Blood Song

by Cat Adams

  plane of consciousness, so it’s very clear why her return was faster.”

  Clear? It didn’t seem clear to me. In fact, I was suddenly having trouble thinking clearly about

  anything. The final rays of sunlight behind Dr. Scott had turned that startling bloodred that spoke of

  clear sailing tomorrow. I found myself staring at the neck beneath that melon-colored col ar, watching

  the pulse beat under his red-tinted skin. I could actual y hear the blood pumping through his veins. My

  mouth started watering and my stomach rumbled audibly. I had to fight not to lunge across the distance

  between me and the doctor. I dug my fingers into the chair arms and felt them sink down, and down. An

  odd squeaking accompanied the sensation, making me twitchy.

  Dr. Scott’s eyes widened and he began sweating. The scent of his sudden fear tasted salty on my

  tongue. My stomach rumbled again, but I didn’t move. That tiny part of my brain that was stil me dug in

  with every ounce of stubborn wil , refusing to give in to the overwhelming craving that had nothing to do

  with me, right here and right now. I moved my hands to my legs, forcibly holding them to the chair. I

  would not stand.

  The last vestiges of glow settled into the ocean and the pale blue of the sky turned to new denim.

  Unexpectedly, things in the room grew brighter, as though each piece of furniture had an internal light.

  Brightest of al was Dr. Scott himself. He glowed and pulsed with healthy, vibrant life and I absolutely

  knew that he would taste as sweet and syrupy as the finest melted Swiss chocolate.

  My eyes fol owed him with preternatural clarity as he moved with exquisite slowness to reach for the

  telephone extension on the end table next to him.

  “Ms. Graves, can you hear me? Are you stil in there?”

  “Yesssss.” My voice sounded odd and strained.

  “When was the last time you ate anything?” He started punching numbers … misdialed, and had to try

  again. But his voice was steady and he was keeping his wits about him. So long as he didn’t run, didn’t

  move, I was almost sure I could hold on. Almost.

  “Before the attack.”

  He swal owed convulsively. I watched his Adam’s apple move, saw the pulse in his throat speed up. I

  forced myself to close my eyes, taking deep breaths through my mouth rather than my nose until I was

  almost panting. If I didn’t see his pulse, didn’t smel his fear, maybe it would be easier to stay in control.

  I needed to do something, because every second frayed that last thread of humanity I was clinging to.

  “Heather, I need appropriate nourishment for Ms. Graves. NOW. ” He didn’t sound panicked, but the

  tone of his voice left no doubt it was an emergency. I had to admire his self-control. As a bodyguard

  I’ve seen men who seemed far tougher than he was crumble in the face of this kind of stress.

  I heard him set the phone careful y back in its cradle. “You need to hang on just a few more minutes.

  I’m going to stay very stil .”

  “I’l try. Staying stil would be good.” Actual y, stil wasn’t good, as far as my stomach was concerned. I

  wanted him to run. Wanted him to scream and fal and claw at the carpeting in a futile attempt to get

  away. My voice was thready, but oddly, the lisp was mostly gone. And my body wasn’t moving. In fact, I

  could feel my fingernails digging through the fabric of my sweats, hard enough to draw blood from my

  quivering thighs. The pain centered me, made me feel a little more human.

  “Ms. Graves, listen to me. You must eat every four hours without fail, and you wil need to take

  particular care to eat just prior to sundown. Right now you’re feeling your sire’s hunger combined with

  your own. It makes control ing yourself considerably more … difficult. Do you understand?”

  I didn’t say anything. I wasn’t sure I could. Coherent thought was fading in a haze of overwhelming

  need that throbbed in time to the sluggish beat of my abruptly undead heart.

  “Ms. Graves, Celia. You need to answer me. Stay with me.”

  “Hungry.” The word was an almost-hissing growl, and I could feel the heat of magic fil ing the room.

  Stil , I forced my body to stay utterly stil , even though I couldn’t seem to remember why it was so

  desperately important.

  I heard the door creak open, felt the slight shift of air displaced.

  “Don’t come in! Leave the tray just inside the door.”

  My head snapped around and I locked the intruder in a stare. She was glowing so bright I couldn’t see

  the color of her hair or skin. But her eyes … they were deep blue. And they were mine. Heather

  responded like she’d just come upon a cougar or wolf in the wild. I could watch each individual hair on

  her arms rise and her muscles twitch. “Sir—” There was fear in her voice. It resonated through my

  body like the ringing of a bel . I shuddered; my body jerked as I fought an instinct to lunge for the very

  human source of the terror. Her glow was strong, too, and her fear a vibrant thing that was nearly alive

  on its own.

  “Close your eyes, Heather. Don’t let her entrance you. Just put the tray on the ground and leave.”

  She paused and he final y raised his voice. “Do it!”

  The blue eyes closed, and my attachment to her faded. I heard the clatter of silverware against china

  as she nearly lost her grip. I fol owed her every motion as she set the tray on the carpeting. She

  backed out in a sudden movement, the door closing behind her with panicked finality.

  I was panting in earnest now, breathing as hard as if I’d done a ten-mile run. I heard movement, knew

  the doctor was easing his way out of the enveloping chair. “I want you to stare at the plant in the corner,

  Celia. Look at the plant. Tal , lush … alive.” I moved my eyes toward the towering ficus. It was tal and

  lush and alive, but it didn’t have Dr. Scott’s pulsing, glorious glow. The bright light of blood. It was

  starting to hurt not to move, to chase.

  His voice came again, soft and soothing. “I’m going to leave the room now. The food is here. When

  you’ve finished, and you’re yourself again, you can cal out and I’l come back in. Do you understand?”

  I made a noise that should have been assent. Instead, it was an animal moan. Stil , I held on, feeling

  the wet blood on my pants as my nails dug even deeper so that I would not chase. I stared at the plant

  even as I heard him move, the scent of his fear like baking bread that I should fol ow to the source.

  Only when I heard a door close and the sound of a dead bolt sliding home did I let go and move my

  eyes.

  I could barely see through the blood vessels that had burst in my eyes. But I could smel . Food. There

  was food. I moved in a blur of speed, throwing myself across the room. I ignored the bowl and spoon

  and just grabbed the pitcher, pouring liquid heated exactly to body temperature down my throat so fast

  that some of it spil ed out of my mouth and down the front of my shirt. Blood and juices from rare,

  nearly raw beef. No salt or seasoning. It should have made me gag.

  It didn’t.

  11

  I had been right about the bathroom. Not only did he have one, but it was as oversized and as

  luxuriously appointed as the rest of the office. Shining cream-colored marble with veins of gray,

  caramel, and gold covered 90 percent of the surfaces. The ceiling was painted the color of California

  sands. The throw rugs matched towels nearly the si
ze of bedsheets, both a deep caramel gold that

  exactly matched the veins in the marble. The wal behind the counter and oversized double sinks was a

  single sheet mirror.

  The reflection that stared back at me was the stuff of nightmares.

  My skin glowed white. Not pure white, but pale grayish white with a greenish sepulchral undertone.

  Was this what Emma had seen? My eyes cast a reddish gold light that was the only color other than

  the stark stains that soaked my clothing. The cotton was stuck to me like a second skin and droplets of

  reddish brown left a dark trail where I passed over that pale, beautiful stone. I’d pul ed my hair back

  when I cleaned up at the office, so there was nothing to soften or distract from the primal ferocity of a

  face that was both my face and not.

  I stared at my reflection in horrified fascination, unable to look away.

  I heard the creak of the door outside with unusual clarity, but it didn’t make me react the way I had

  before. I could smel Dr. Scott on the other side, but now it was just his cologne and the lingering hint of

  Irish Spring soap, instead of the scent of his blood flowing under thin skin. “Ms. Graves, I’m leaving a

  stack of clothing and toiletries outside the door. When you’re done cleaning up, we need to talk.”

  The sound of his voice brought me to my senses. I turned toward the door to answer him. “Thank

  you.”

  I was pretty sure there was a sigh of relief in his next words. “It’s no trouble.”

  He sounded so … calm. It was uncanny. Of course, the danger was over. My bel y was ful , the

  bloodlust sated, if only for the moment.

  What is happening to me?

  Stupid, stupid question. I knew what was happening. I just didn’t know what to do about it.

  I stripped off my fouled clothes and let them fal in a pile on the floor, then padded, naked, to the door.

  Keeping my body hidden by the bulk of the door, I opened it and grabbed the promised stack. Setting

  the clothes onto the counter, I took the soap, shampoo, and conditioner with me and stepped into the

  shower.

  A long, hot shower could scour my body clean of the gore, but it couldn’t cleanse my mind of the

  image in the mirror. I wasn’t human anymore. I might not be a vampire, but I wasn’t human, either. Stil , it

  felt good to be clean, and hiding in the shower wasn’t going to accomplish anything. So I stepped out of

  the stal and began toweling myself dry.

  The clothes he provided were sweats. High-quality plain gray sweats with a sports bra and underwear

  with the tags stil on. He’d guessed fairly accurately on the size. The bra fit wel . The panties were a

  little loose, but I wasn’t about to argue.

  I pul ed on the sweatpants, over legs that had already healed the bloody punctures I’d inflicted on

  them. Using a drawstring, I tightened the waistband to fit.

  I remembered Vicki talking about how, the first two weeks of their stay here, everyone was required

  to wear the same plain sweats. No jewelry. No sign of status or prestige. She said it was a great

  leveler, kept people from being distracted by trivialities and competitive attractiveness while they were

  supposed to be concentrating on getting wel .

  I felt another stab of loss at the memory. Dammit anyway.

  “Ms. Graves?” The doctor’s voice came through the door. “Are you almost ready? We need to talk.”

  Shit. “I’l be right there.”

  My shoes were splattered but not soaked, so I put them back on and returned to the main office.

  He sat behind the desk, the lamp providing dramatic lighting that cast the fine bones of his face in

  harsh planes of light and shadow. He gestured wordlessly toward the seat across from him. I took it.

  “I took the liberty of checking with Security. Our video from your visit yesterday shows you driving up

  with the convertible top on your car down and no sign of your current … condition. Were you actual y

  attacked less than twenty-four hours ago?”

  “Yes, last night sometime. We don’t know exactly when.”

  His dark eyes grew very wide. For a long moment he didn’t seem capable of speech. Stil , he

  managed to col ect himself, and when he spoke his voice was admiring. “I have to admit, you surprise

  me. I assumed that you’d had your condition for some time and were merely using il usion to cover the

  more obvious effects. Otherwise I would never have been so careless, particularly at sunset. I

  apologize.”

  “You couldn’t have known. But why would you have thought that?”

  “Because of the way you present yourself.” He leaned back in the chair, steepling his long fingers in

  front of his face as he spoke. “In the course of my career I have met exactly one person with your

  condition and read of two others. Even after weeks or months of treatment, none of them were as …

  calm about it, or had a fraction of the control you’ve exhibited from the outset. Although …” He let the

  sentence drag off unfinished, his expression thoughtful. “Are you currently in therapy with anyone?”

  “I saw Dr. Talbert for several years when I was a teenager. But she retired recently for health

  reasons. Since then, no.”

  He gave me a long stare over his steepled fingertips. “Dr. Gwendolyn Talbert? She specialized in

  childhood trauma, I believe?”

  “Yes.” My voice sounded flat, inflectionless. If Dr. Scott wanted more information, he’d have to work

  for it. And frankly, we didn’t have time to go into my “childhood trauma”—not if I was going to hunt my

  sire or get to sanctuary.

  A hint of a smile tugged at the corner of Dr. Scott’s mouth. “Don’t give away much, do you?”

  “Not general y, no.”

  “Good. That kind of self-control may wel be what pul s you through this.” He set his arms on the table

  in front of him and reached for a notepad and pen. “I think you should consider checking yourself into a

  facility.” He continued hurriedly, in response to the look I gave him, “It doesn’t have to be this one.

  Although you are, of course, welcome here. You’ve gone through serious trauma before, so you know

  how difficult it can be to adjust. Combining that with the physiological changes—”

  “No.”

  He held up a placating hand. “I’m not suggesting one of the state-run facilities.” He shuddered. “I

  wouldn’t consign a rabid dog to one of those. But—”

  “No. Not there. Not here.” I wouldn’t go. I’d literal y rather die than go to a “facility.” If even half of what

  I’ve heard happened in those facilities is true, it would be far, far more merciful to just kil those

  committed. Other magical y dangerous types get locked up, but vampires get staked and beheaded. An

  abomination? Who knew? At least there’s a hope of getting out for some people. A minuscule hope, but

  a hope. Not for the furry, like Kevin. And, I suspected, not for me.

  I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t voluntarily lock myself away and risk being official y labeled dangerous. That

  might put me in line to go to one of those places if anything went wrong in the future. Yes, Birchwoods

  could probably help me. And I make a good living, so it wasn’t the money, although God knew a place

  like this would set me back. But unless I absolutely knew I was a menace to myself and the public, I

  wasn’t checking in. Stil , I needed to be careful. Because the good doctor could commit me. There

  wasn’t a judge in the cou
ntry who wouldn’t back him up on it. The standard for commitment was “is

  he/she a danger to him/herself and others?” Based on my display a little bit ago, I quite obviously was. I

  kept my voice calm, not betraying even a hint of fear. “If possible, I would prefer outpatient treatment.”

  “Ms. Graves—”

  “Dr. Scott, I’m not being deliberately difficult. Truly. But there are … practical considerations, things I

  need to deal with that can’t be put off. I didn’t attack you. You said I need to eat every four hours. I can

  do that as an outpatient. You say I’l need therapy. I can do that, too.” I needed him to believe me.

  Needed him to work with me on this. As I focused my thoughts, I realized I could almost hear the sound

  of lapping waves through the window behind him. I smel ed salt water on the air.

  He stared at me through narrowed eyelids. I felt the weight of that gaze. He was testing me. Long

  minutes passed before he spoke. I sat silent, waiting. I didn’t squirm. Didn’t react much at al .

  “The two people with your condition that I read about were kil ed by their sires within twenty-four hours

  after leaving a protected facility.”

  “And the one you treated?”

  “Suicide—again after leaving the facility. She apparently couldn’t live with the guilt of what she’d done.

  ”

  I asked because he expected me to, not because I wanted to know. “What had she done?”

  “She murdered her mother … tore her throat out, drank until she was ful , and then left her to bleed to

  death. Even though she remembered who she was, the bloodlust was too much for her.”

  If he was hoping to shock me into submission, it didn’t work. Oh, I’d be careful, damned careful. But

  the only way he was getting me to be an inpatient anywhere was by force. “I’m not easy to kil and I

  haven’t murdered anyone. I can do outpatient treatment, Dr. Scott. I can. ”

  The silence stretched long again. Now I could hear the rol ing crash of waves against rocks … even

  though there were no cliffs outside. The harsh caw of seagul s seemed right outside the window. My

  eyes flicked up when I saw movement over Dr. Scott’s shoulder. There were gul s right outside his