by Elle Park
"You mean, Doctor Arturo," Nolan corrects.
The man, Arturo, appears to be somewhere in his twenties—though, it's hard to make a more specific guess. His small frame and youthful face make him look younger than I assume he is, but his thoughtful, knowing eyes make him seem at least a few decades older. His black hair is cut short in a way that makes me think it's more for efficiency than style, and horn-rimmed glasses are perched atop his strong nose. Although he's not sporting the tell-tale coat or a dangling stethoscope, he's somehow a lot more doctor-like than the one who's practically screaming to be acknowledged as such.
"How are you feeling, Kaia? Any pain?" Arturo asks, both his face and tone radiating a gentle concern.
"No," I reply, shaking my head. I'm not sure if it's because the movement was sudden, or if it's because of the injuries I sustained, but a slight throbbing begins to pulse at my temples. "Actually..." I pause, waiting to see if it goes away. It doesn't. "I think I'm getting a headache."
He nods, typing something into his tablet. "You're dehydrated. But don't worry, we've got you hooked on your third bag of blood now. That should make you feel better."
"Good, good," Nolan says absently, and I swear he just spoke in an American accent. Apparently catching his mistake, he loudly clears his throat. "I don't suppose there's been a change in your memory?" I've never personally met a British person, but even I can tell this god-awful accent isn't authentic.
Not in the mood to deal with this line of questioning—or talk at all, for that matter—I quickly draw a little moisture to my eyes. That usually does the trick. "I'm sorry." The tremble in my voice adds a nice touch, too.
"That's all right," Arturo says, his eyes widening at the sight of my wet lashes. "You should get some rest." He offers me a reassuring smile, then turns to Nolan. "I need to get going, actually."
"But—"
"It was nice to meet you, Kaia." Smiling at me once more, he takes a clearly unwilling Nolan out of the room, swinging the curtains shut. Their words are a little more hushed now, as if they don't want me hearing whatever it is they're saying. That only makes my ears perk more. "I would need to run a full examination, and I can only do that with the proper equipment." A sigh. "Nolan, I came here because you said it was an emergency—and I can see that it was—but there's nothing more I can do. Not here, at least." A pause. "You know where to find me."
Their retreating footsteps are followed by the sound of a door shutting—which is weird because hospitals usually have sliding doors. Come to think of it, there are no rushing footsteps, no telephones ringing or keyboards clicking, there aren't any beeping machines other than the one connected to me, and, maybe most importantly, there are no voices talking, whispering, yelling. So, either I'm in an abandoned hospital, or I'm not in a hospital at all.
Neither are ideal situations.
Currently, my life is split into two major, potential events: when I was attacked in the alley where I should have died, and when I woke up in this bed where I'll probably die.
I'm not much liking my life right now.
If what I remember is as true to the rest of the world as it feels to me, then I don't even know how I'm here, lying in a maybe-hospital instead of a cold chamber in the morgue.
I doubt the boy—the creature—left any of my organs in tact, and it's hard to believe he didn't nick an artery somewhere, if not rip them apart completely.
I should have bled out.
There should be chunks of my body missing.
But the only thing missing is the evidence of my trauma.
Slipping out from under the sheets, I notice there are no aches or pains straining my movements. If anything, my muscles feel loose and flexible. I don't have any visible wounds—no ugly bruises, no scabbing gashes, no protruding bones or swollen ligaments... not a single scratch. From what I can tell, there aren't even any gauze or bandages. It's as if the attack never happened in the first place—which really doesn't do much to comfort me.
If I wasn't savaged by some blood-sucking, flesh-eating monster, then I have a completely different problem on my hands, because the images in my mind aren't just images. They're memories, proof of experience—I know because they have yet to fade or disappear like dreams are supposed to do. In fact, they only become more pronounced with each passing second.
I can still see his vacant orbs of black and his thick, wagging tongue. I can still hear him hissing, wheezing, slurping, gnawing. And I can still feel all of it, too: the way he tore through my limbs as if they were drumsticks; the way he mauled my stomach as if he wanted to make confetti out of my organs. He wasn't just killing me—he was consuming me, literally devouring my life as if his depended on it.
Maybe it did.
But if everything happened the way I remember them happening, then that just leads to more questions, more unknowns, more mysteries. My thoughts are whirring in a seemingly endless cycle, driving me perilously close to the brink of insanity. How am I supposed to tell what's real and what's not? Nothing makes sense either way.
First things first: I need to find out where the hell I am.
My hand is already hovering in the air, my fingers just barely an inch away from gripping the curtains, when I freeze. Someone—possibly the alleged doctor—is here on the other side of this green fabric—and they're not staying still, either. Whoever it is, is taking a leisurely stroll on the fringes of my makeshift room, the sound of light footsteps and snappy chewing betraying their ever-changing position.
I wait until they're at the opposite end of me before I sneak through the slim opening, only to come face-to-face with yet another stranger.
A very young stranger.
He looks about ten years old, give or take. His eyes are long and narrow, and the deep, dark orbs are equally as piercing as Nolan's but in an entirely different way. There's still a roundness to his cheeks and a softness to his features, and he'd have to stand on his toes for the top of his head to reach my shoulders. What's even more odd is that he's wearing a nurse's outfit, his short limbs nearly drowning in the loose scrubs.
Glancing past the boy and around my unfamiliar surroundings, I can now confirm—with no small amount of dread—that I am definitely not in any sort of medical center, but rather someone's home.
Someone's absurdly large, ridiculously messy, and highly eccentric home.
The layout is a clear, open-space concept, and although it's nearly the size of a football stadium, the room feels almost stuffy. There's just too much... stuff. Everywhere. Life-size action figures are lined up in one corner, stacks of comic books occupy the other, and the most random objects—everything from plastic pumpkins and rubber ducks, to a giant claw-machine filled with stuffed toys and candy bars—are crammed in-between. Embedded in the left wall is a screen fit for a movie theater, and dominating the center of the room is a glossy black slide that runs straight down the middle of a wide, polished staircase.
Nolan reappears around the corner, the metal rings screeching as he flings back the curtains. "Oh, thank God," he breathes in relief, a hand gripping his chest, "I thought you were dead."
It only takes a second for me to realize what he's referring to, the unending beep still playing behind us. It takes me a second longer to realize his wonky British accent has vanished once again.
The younger boy sighs softly.
"Henry, be a good little nurse and fetch me a burger. And a milkshake. And, yes, I will have fries with that, thank you for asking."
Henry turns around and leaves without another word.
Nolan is openly staring at me now, rubbing his chin and pursing his lips, as if this situation is not absurd in the slightest. The thought that this might even be a common occurrence for him has my heart thudding in a heavy, uncomfortable rhythm.
"Who are you?" I blurt, inching my body away from him.
Puffing his chest, he squares his shoulders. "I'm Dr. Bo—"
"You're no more a doctor than I am."
After a few
moments of slow, even blinks, he grins. "You're right. I was getting bored, anyway—nothing beats playing myself." Clearing his throat, he goes on to introduce himself as if he's the king of some grand, foreign land. "I'm Nolan Drake, but you can call me Sir Drake, Master Drake, Almighty Drake..." he pouts when I don't immediately fall to my knees and bow down to him, "or just Nolan, I guess."
"Where am I?"
"My house. You like?"
"Why am I here?"
"Because I brought you here, silly goose."
He's not making this easy. "Why did you bring me here?" I grit, no longer sure if I should be feeling scared or annoyed.
Feigning offense, he crosses his arms. "Well, excuse me for being a Good Samaritan. I was just in the neighborhood, walking past the scenery of New York charm, when I came across a young lassie crumpled on the ground like the old receipt in my back pocket. You were a mess, I tell you. Practically dead, really. Hate to honk my own horn, but I really am your savior. Local hero, that's me." Already, I can tell he's someone who can talk for days without actually saying anything.
"And instead of calling for an ambulance, you brought me here." There's an accusation in my words, and it's fully intentional.
"Trust me, Sweets, a hospital couldn't have saved you. To be honest, I'm even surprised we were able to save you."
My immediate reaction is one of complete disbelief, but then my thoughts—and my eyes—zoom over the span of my body, remembering the assault that should have made me into a bloody mess of splintered bones and shredded flesh.
Then I ask the question I've been afraid to know the answer to.
"What happened?"
"Well, like I said—"
"What really happened?"
He groans, squeezing his cheeks with tense fingers. "See, lying is bad, Henry," he yells into the air. "Who taught you to do that, anyway?" He shakes his head. "You know what, whatever. I'm going to tell her, and you can't stop me. I'm the adult here..."
My brows furrow on their own accord—partly because of the words coming out of his mouth, but mostly because of the crown of pressure that no amount of oil or soap would be able to slip off of my head. It's getting tighter by the second, threatening to squeeze my skull until it shatters at my feet like a broken vase. The shallow pulse at my temples is rapidly escalating into a full-blown pounding, and I almost want to hunt down a mirror just so I can make sure there isn't some sort of torture device making dents in my scalp.
I must have closed my eyes at some point, because if they were open, I would have surely seen Nolan's thumb flying toward my face.
"See," he mutters, smoothing out the creases in my forehead, "this is what happens when you don't follow doctor's orders." Fortunately for him, he steps back before I can even think to snap his wrist. "Henry, bring our patient some O—stat."
The boy doesn't bother with a reply, but he does make his way to my side, wordlessly handing me a flat, rectangular object.
Its body is coated in a smooth, matte black, and embossed in a bold white is the letter O, small but visible at the bottom right corner of the flask. The apparent high quality gives the impression of a sturdy, almost heavy material, but surprisingly, it's impossibly light. Literally weightless. As in, if I was blindfolded, I wouldn't believe I'm holding anything at all.
"Go on, drink it."
I snap my gaze to Nolan's. "I don't see why I should accept a drink from the person who just kidnapped me."
"You're not going to let that go, are you?" He rolls his eyes, waving his hand in the air. "You were so close to death, even a starving vorak wouldn't have wanted you." A starving vorak? "I did you a life-saving favor, and being the kind, generous person that I am, I'm about to do you another. Drink," he orders, pointing to the flask. "It will get rid of your headache, pinkie-promise."
Reminded of the invisible drill that's currently carving a map of America into my skull, I can't help but feel tempted to do as he says. I'd do somersaults in front of him if that meant an end to the growing pain, but it's one thing to be reckless—being stupid is an entirely different matter. And I may or may not have hit my head, but I'm pretty sure drinking an unidentifiable, most likely compromised concoction provided by the man who pretended to be a doctor, dressed a kid in a terrible nurse uniform, and set up a fake hospital room just so I wouldn't think he kidnapped me—which he definitely did—would count as really, incredibly stupid.
Abruptly snatching the object from my hands, he unscrews the silver cap with barely concealed impatience. "Look," he says, taking a loud, generous swig. "No poison. And, to be quite honest, it hurts that you would even suspect me of doing something so despicable, especially after going out of my way to nurse you back to health. Really, my heart aches—almost as much as your head right now. So, again, for your sake," he brings the flask to my closed lips, "drink."
I don't know why I look to the kid or why his subtle nod has even the slightest meaning to me, but I must have found whatever it was I was searching for, because it's only seconds later that I take the flask from Nolan's hand and grip it in my own. Tentatively, but with less reluctance than before, I take a small sip. Cool, refreshing, and reminiscent of a light breeze on a crisp, spring day, I find myself swallowing the chill liquid in long, greedy gulps.
Wiping my mouth with the back of my hand, I take a few moments before meeting Nolan's expectant gaze. "What was that?" I finally ask, anxious to hear his answer. It's definitely not something I've ever had before.
"Blood—filtered, by the way, so don't you worry," he replies, as if that should have been obvious.
Contrary to his relaxed expression, though, my own eyes nearly bulge out of their sockets, and his face would be sporting a fine mist of my drink if I had any left in the pockets of my cheeks. My arm raises of its own accord, but before my fingers can reach my lips, I spot it: a faint, crimson smear just above my wrist.
"I gave you O because that's all we keep in stock here at the Drake household, but if you have a refined tongue such as moi, you would prefer this, anyway. A is too sweet, B is too tangy, and AB has a sort of bitter aftertaste. None of them are too great, I tell ya." When he sees that I'm struggling to absorb everything he just said—mainly the fact that I just drank actual blood—he chuckles. "No need to look so shocked, Sweets. You lost a lot of blood, remember? You were dehydrated."
"Normal human beings drink water when they're dehydrated," I practically hiss, somehow keeping my composure. Mostly.
"Fortunately for you, I think it's pretty clear you're not one of those," he says, emphasizing the last word as if the mere idea of being human is unpleasant.
"Technically, she never really was," Henry adds.
Ignoring that unhelpful bit of information, I continue. "And if blood loss was the problem, there are IV's for that—you know, like the one you already stuck in my arm?"
Of course, I just had to be kidnapped by a guy who thinks he's a vampire.
"Vampire?" He scoffs, looking almost offended. "We're not dead. Jeez." My thoughts must have slipped, which just goes to show how out of it I really am—because that never happens. Ever. "And we only used the IV because you were unconscious," Nolan says, waving a dismissive hand. "The effects are faster when you drink it—you know that first-hand now. Your headache is gone, isn't it?"
Whatever rebuttal I was preparing to spit out immediately catches in my throat, slowly dissolving as I consider his words. After a few long breaths of saying and doing nothing, I realize that he's right. My skull no longer feels like it's being crushed in a giant's fists, and even the irritating pulse at my temples is gone. But it can't really be because of the blood, can it? Surely, this is all just a crazy—
"Right," Nolan nods, interrupting my jumbled thoughts, "now that Little Miss Grumpy has left the building, who's up for some story-time?"
For the sake of what little remains of my sanity, not me.
CHAPTER THREE
PLACED AN APPROPRIATE distance away from the cinema screen is a black couc
h made for giants. The leather is silky, the cushions are plush, and it molds to my body comfortably from my spot on the very edge of the seat—on the opposite end from where Nolan is currently sprawled out like a sloth.
He's been spouting nonsense for a good while now—definitely a lot longer than I should have bothered to listen—and, naturally, I don't have a head big enough to wrap around any of it, let alone all of it.
"So, that's the gist of it," he finally finishes, stretching his arms high above his head.
"And I'm just supposed to believe you?"
He has the gall to look genuinely confused. "Well, duh, why wouldn't you? I'm a man of my word, Kiki. Ask Henry—I take my duty as his role model very seriously."
"I do not wish to lie, so I will refuse to comment," the boy in question says, appearing from behind the couch. He's not in his nurse outfit anymore, but rather a fitted three-piece suit.
"Oh, good, you're here," Nolan wriggles himself upright, "did you order the food?"
"Yes, it should arrive any minute now."
Right on cue, a short chime rings throughout the house. It sounds more like a phone's notification alarm than an ordinary doorbell, but I've learned that nothing about this place or these people are ordinary—far from it, in fact.
Nolan immediately jumps up and tumbles over the couch. Instead of going to the front door, though, he heads toward what looks like a garbage chute. And when he slides open the steel cover, there's a grease-stained paper-bag waiting for him, along with—what I'm assuming are—three milkshakes.
Swiping the items up into his arms, he practically skips his way back to us, handing Henry a burger and a drink, then offering me the same.
He falls into his earlier position with a happy sigh. "Your day is about to be made, Kaia. These burgers are from the best chain in Chicago—heavenly, I tell you," he says, moaning between jaw-locking bites.
"No, actually, I think I should leave," I say, speeding past him.
Why I even bothered humoring him, I don't know. Maybe I did hit my head. I wasn't thinking straight. But he's clearly delusional, and I should have left the moment I realized where I was.