by Roh Morgon
I nod and go over to sit down while he leaves through a door at the other end of the room.
My gaze wanders along the walls, covered in rich dark paneling and lined with paintings, and takes in the expensive furniture and plush carpeting. I shake my head. Even when he slums it in a warehouse, he surrounds himself with opulence. But the inferno in my belly and the flames in my veins reassert themselves, and I can no longer speculate about anything.
Nicolas opens the door and walks in, accompanied by a young man in his early twenties.
A human.
I feel myself snap to attention and a strange tingling overtakes my body. I stand up, barely able tear my eyes away from him to look at Nicolas.
“This is Skeeter, and he has volunteered to help us with your . . . situation.” His green eyes are dark, and as he says this, the red flares through them.
Skeeter doesn’t say anything, just nods, his light brown eyes bright and expectant. Nicolas walks him over to me, his hand on Skeeter’s back. They stop in front of me and I’m nearly overcome by his warm human scent. The beast in me tenses in excitement and I close my eyes, my jaw clenching in frustration.
Somewhere in me alarms are going off, telling me that this is wrong, telling me to get out of here, telling me to run.
But it’s too late. My mind fixes on the words “donor” and “volunteer,” and my eyes open against my will and look at the frail young man through a red haze.
He rolls up his sleeve eagerly and offers me his arm—an arm riddled with small scars along his veins. His veins.
The beast roars in my head, and I squeeze my fists and look one more time at Nicolas, pleading silently to take this boy away.
But Nicolas only reaches out to support Skeeter’s arm. Feeling as though I’m in a dream, I step up and take it in my hands. The silent wail in me is not from the beast, however. It is from the little slice of human soul that has guided my life these last five years. The pain that now lances through me has nothing to do with injuries or hunger, but I ignore it as my hands raise his arm to my face.
The beast springs and I sink my teeth into the soft flesh of his inner arm, just below the elbow. Sweet, hot, liquid ecstasy pours into my mouth and I begin to draw greedily. I’m dimly aware of his gasp and his groans, and then waves of pleasure wash through me. They begin in my mouth, move down my throat, and spread throughout the core of my being, following the path of the blood as it enters my system. I have felt nothing like this in the whole of my existence. I pull harder. Each mouthful brings a new flood of sensation that is beyond my comprehension, and the beast in me howls in rapture as I lose myself.
I’m suddenly jarred from my euphoria by Nicolas, his fingers wedging my jaw open and pushing my mouth away from this fountain of bliss. I snarl and try to take another bite, but Nicolas slaps me, hard, knocking my face away, and the shock that he would hit me is enough to break my blood focus. My grip on the arm loosens, and my hands are brushed off as though they were nothing more than mosquitoes.
As I war with myself to regain control, I hear them leave through the door.
“NO!”
But my cry is not just for the loss of the warm red ambrosia that has left the room and forever altered my life. It is also for the final remnant of my innocence, ripped away and washed from me in a river of human blood.
I sit curled up in the chair, trying to hold myself in one piece. I feel as though I’ve been split in two. One part of me is screaming and cowering in fear from the other part, the now dominant part. The one that is still caught up in the intoxication of the blood, the beast singing in triumph.
But my inner conflict cannot compete with the serenity and peace that permeate my body. No pains, no flames, no hunger. Only a warm, cozy feeling of floating on a soft cloud that I want never to end. I close my eyes and drift, and my turmoil fades away in the nothingness.
Nicolas opens the door and comes back into the room. I have no idea how long he’s been gone, but it feels like I’ve circled the globe several times on my fluffy cloud of tranquility.
He walks over to the chair and looks down at me, his pale green eyes unreadable. I make no move to get up, but lethargy is not the only reason. I’m so furious with Nicolas that I can’t even speak to him. I feel betrayed, by my own body and by him, but especially by him.
“I . . . trusted . . . you,” I growl in a low voice.
He tips his head and says, “Stand up.”
I don’t want to, and yet I do. Very much.
I uncurl myself and get to my feet, facing him. He steps forward, and his expression is fierce, his eyes filling with red, and he roughly takes me in his arms. He kisses me, insistent that I respond, and I can’t help myself, and I do. He then starts kissing all around my mouth, nipping at my lips, my jaw, and moves to my throat. I feel his teeth graze my skin, and then he moves to the back of my neck and down my shoulder.
My veins ignite, but not in hunger. It’s a sweet fire, enhanced by my blood-induced euphoria, and I inhale the scent of his hair as he caresses my collarbone with his lips.
He moves his mouth up my neck, kissing and nibbling, and then in the hollow below my ear, right under the bone of the jaw, he slowly sinks the twin daggers of his fangs.
I don’t have time to be shocked. He takes in one mouthful, and as he pulls, I am overcome with a wave of ecstasy. He swallows and pulls again, slowly, and I nearly collapse in pleasure. He tightens his arms, drawing me closer, and pulls again, and another wave washes over me. I hang there, helpless, waiting for the next onslaught, and he waits, growling.
Please, again.
And he pulls again, and I feel like I’m imploding, everything that is me being pulled into a molten core of rapture. He leaves me suspended above the fire, longing for more.
He waits, for eternity it seems. Then he slowly withdraws his fangs and kisses the wounds they made. He continues to hold me, softly growling, and I gradually come back to myself, once again forever changed.
“You see,” he says huskily, “they do not suffer.”
We are driving back to the estate and I sit frozen in silence. But that is only on the outside. Inside my mind is a raging maelstrom. I’m trying to make sense of how this happened, how I came to this. I fed from a human, a person. I keep thinking back further and further in time, trying to find the pivotal point in my life that brought me here. But they are all pivotal, and I can find no one to blame except myself.
I would weep, but it’s impossible when I’m still trapped in the elation of the blood flowing through me and the memory of Nicolas’s sharp caress. I finally reach over and touch his neck, all rational thoughts forgotten. His lip curls as he presses against my hand, and my blood begins to heat up again.
We pull into the driveway and park in front of the steps. As Nicolas helps me from the car, his touch electrifies me, and I look up at him through a red haze. His crimson eyes stare down at me and he takes a breath, and we walk up the stairs and into the house.
He leads me up to my room, opens the door, and ushers me in. He stops and just looks at me, and I feel myself melt as I look back into his blood eyes. He slowly takes me in his arms. His kiss is full of promise, and I am his. Completely.
As I lean in and press my lips to his throat, he gently pushes me back. He caresses my jaw with his lips, and then, in a voice hoarse with emotion, says, “We must wait a little longer. It is not time yet.”
NO! I scream for the second time tonight, but this time in silence.
Don’t do this to me again. Don’t leave me wanting you so much I feel like I’m going to die.
“Nic . . . I . . .” But I can’t get the words out because I don’t have the words for what I want, what I need.
“Sshhh . . . ,” he whispers. “Soon. Very soon. I promise.”
He slowly releases me, kissing my forehead as he steps back.
Nicolas leaves the room without another word and closes the door behind him.
I look at the door, and at the hole I put
in it, and wonder how much longer there will be closed doors between us. I realize that he’s been opening them since we met, but I’ve been reluctant to step through. The door he took me through tonight was one I swore I would never enter, and now that I am on the other side, I would do it again. And again. And I don’t know if it will open for me to cross back over, but tonight, I don’t care. As long as I get to be on the same side of the door as he.
április 18., szerda
She has finally done it. Though she does not yet realize it, it was for the best. If she is to survive in The Chosen society, then she must learn to feed as we do. Yet a part of me mourns the wild innocent creature that she was when I first found her.
And I am the one who killed that innocence. I loathe myself for what I am doing to her.
And afterward, I crossed another line. I gave myself a pathetic excuse—that it was so she would understand. But I did not ask her permission, and that was bastardly of me. Yet I will never forget the exotic fire of her blood, and her sweet essence that was beyond anything I could have ever imagined. I cannot wait to drink of her again.
THURSDAY
CHAPTER 39
I wake much earlier than usual, and I feel . . . fantastic. No hunger, not a trace. I stretch, feeling connected to every muscle and nerve in my body. My back seems perfect as I twist and shrug, as though nothing ever happened. Yet, in the four nights since I faced the bear, I feel like I’ve lived an entire lifetime.
Getting out of bed, I walk over to the long mirror. The silvery lines on my face and shoulder are no wider than a strand of my hair, and noticeable only because I know they are there. I pick up the hand mirror and am astonished at my back. The faint scars from the gaping wounds are as thin as a spider’s thread and the pattern they form resembles a giant silvery web.
Hopefully the scars will stay, but not just because I find them oddly attractive. I hope they will serve as reminders to not let the beast in me make the decisions. The reaction I’d had to defend my kill, attacking instead of fleeing, has changed my life in ways I cannot yet fathom. And as I consider this, images from last night spring to life in my head.
I glimpse a pale boy’s face, his eyes eager and feverish; and hovering behind him, Nicolas, his eyes red and predatory. A white arm, pitted with fang scars and gripped tightly in my fists, zooms into view and disappears.
But the image that doesn’t appear, that didn’t appear last night when I so desperately needed it, is that of my daughter. I’ve pushed her memory so far from Nicolas I can no longer see her clearly, nor my precious granddaughter. I struggle to bring their images to life, but their blurry faces fade beneath the avid expressions of Nicolas and the boy and a torn and bloody arm.
Squeezing my eyes tight, I try unsuccessfully to force the stark images down. But they keep swimming to the surface. In desperation, I find myself visualizing a shiny black box with a tight-fitting lid, and I stuff them in there, and I slam that lid shut.
It’s a big box, because I have a feeling I’m going to need it to be.
My head feels cleansed as well as my body after my shower. It is amazing how good I physically feel, and I marvel over the change. Getting dressed, I wonder what’s in store for today. For the first time in days, hunger no longer rules me, and I’m relieved that I may have gained back some independence.
Nicolas knocks at the door and I snort at my thoughts of freedom.
Yeah, right.
“Come in,” I say, as the warring feelings of anger and longing surface, fighting for dominance.
Nicolas walks in, closing the door behind him, and longing wins out—for now. I look at him, wanting nothing more than to run over and throw myself into his arms.
“Good morning,” he says cautiously. He cannot help but be aware of the battle raging inside me.
But then he smiles and tips his head as he acknowledges the winner.
“How do you feel this morning?” he asks. But I’m sure he already knows the answer.
“Good,” I whisper, unwilling and ashamed to admit just how fantastic I feel after savaging that poor boy and taking his blood.
A satisfied look crosses his face, and he walks over to stand in front of me. He reaches up and caresses the scars on my jaw and says, “How is your back?”
I turn around in silence. Electricity races up and down my spine as he lifts my blouse and traces the silver lines with his fingertips.
“You have healed nicely,” he says with a catch in his voice. He slowly lowers my blouse. I turn back around and look at him through a pink veil, and can see his eyes have reddened as well.
He takes a breath and steps back and says, “I thought we might go for a drive today. Does that sound agreeable to you?”
Yes, because if we stand here much longer, I’m going to tear your clothes off.
“That sounds great. Let me grab a few things and I’ll meet you downstairs.” Nicolas walks back to the door. He stops, looking at the hole, shakes his head, and leaves.
Curling my fist, I examine it from several different angles. The bones have knitted back together perfectly, but the skin over the knuckles wears a faint silver web. Huh. Another reminder to not be stupid.
I take a light jacket and my bag, hat, and gloves from the closet. Stopping on my way out, I look in the mirror one more time. Something in my face looks different. It’s not the scars, and I can’t quite pinpoint what it is. I shrug and head downstairs.
Nicolas helps me into the low-slung silver sports car, one I’m not familiar with. I study the interior as he walks around the car, and notice the Audi symbol on the steering wheel. He gets in and I say, slightly surprised, “This is an Audi?”
He smiles and replies, “Yes, it is. The R8.”
I nod, trying to look impressed, but I’m sure he can tell that I have no idea what he’s talking about. Amusement flits across his face, and I wonder what he has up his sleeve now.
We zip down the driveway, through the gates, and out onto the road. But when we reach the stop sign at the main road, Nicolas turns right instead of his normal left toward town, and we wind our way through the exclusive Broadmoor neighborhoods. We pass one of the many golf courses, then start heading up the mountain.
Guess he really meant a drive when he said it.
But we only go another half mile or so when the road ends in a parking lot with a sign for the Cheyenne Mountain Zoo. I look at Nicolas in surprise.
“The zoo?” I’m a little puzzled. And more than a little concerned.
He smiles and cruises the lot until he finds an empty space well away from the rest of the cars. It’s not crowded, as it’s early on a weekday morning.
I try again. “You won’t show me your horses because you’re afraid I’ll lose control and attack them like some wild beast. Yet you take me to a zoo where there are likely exhibits containing the very animals I do hunt. I’m not sure I understand your reasoning.”
“They have a rather nice collection at this zoo and I enjoy visiting it periodically.” Ignoring my sarcastic remark, Nicolas gets out of the car, walks around to my side, and opens the door. “Since your recovery from the attack seems to be complete, and hunger is not an issue for you today, I thought it would make a nice outing.”
Okay. Well, he is right about the hunger. Guess we’ll see about the rest. But thinking about it, it occurs to me that I’ve never really been around any animals that I wasn’t hunting, so this might be a bit interesting.
I peer at Nicolas suspiciously and wonder if there might be more to this visit than just looking at the exhibits. But he just raises his eyebrows and gestures for me to get out of the car.
Damn poker face. I can rarely tell what’s going on behind that mask. Well, except for when we uh . . . yeah. Well, then he can hide nothing. Typical male.
With a glance at the sun, I slip on my gloves, grab my bag, and put on the hat, then get out. The jumble of odors that earlier wafted past the open door now becomes overwhelming. Some I recognize, or at least the fami
ly type, but there are many more which are completely foreign.
We walk up to the entrance, and Nicolas pays at the ticket window while I stand off to the side, taking in the scents bombarding me. The hunter, so far well fed and happy, stirs a little at the potpourri of smells, and I quickly shove her down. Interesting might be an understatement.
We pass through the gate and follow a broad walkway up the hill. I catch movement below us and to the right, and realize we’re overlooking a pen containing quite a few giraffe.
I stop and watch as they move across the pen, their necks swaying rhythmically as they walk. I’m completely captivated by their long throats. I wonder how I would get to that soft spot under their jaws, or if I would even need to go up that high.
Nicolas laughs out loud, and I look over to see him watching me, his hand over his mouth as though trying to suppress further chuckles.
“You should see your face.” He laughs again. “I can watch the wheels spinning as you contemplate that lengthy throat.”
You sick bastard. You brought me here just to torture me.
I glare at him.
“Sunny, please. I had those exact same thoughts the first time I saw a giraffe, and I do not even hunt animals.” He looks at me with an exaggerated air of pleading, and I give in and laugh.
It’s actually pretty funny. We’re always fascinated with throats, but one that long kind of boggles the mind.
He takes my arm and we continue up the path. We turn left toward the gorilla exhibit and my feet come to a dead stop. The corner pen contains several white-coated mountain goats, and the hunter snaps to full attention. This is a species I’ve researched, and have been eager to hunt, but they tend to be found more in the Rocky Mountains to the west. A big male jumps onto a rock and my muscles twitch. I drink in their musky scent, memorizing it for future use.
The mountain goats respond to my intensity by gathering together and moving up the rocky slope to the far end of the pen.