by Roh Morgon
“Do I need to come back to the estate?” The concern in his tone weaves through my blood. I take a breath before answering.
“No, I’m fine. I was just getting ready to leave anyway,” I declare as steadily as possible.
“In that case, I am confident you have the situation under control. Call me when you are on the road. I would like for you to stop by the club before taking care of your errands.” His tone is neutral, but I can feel his worry along with his impatience.
Interesting. Lying to me now may be a little difficult as well.
“Okay,” I answer. The phone goes silent and so does our other connection.
I toss the phone into my bag, grab my hat and gloves, and stop to take a last look in the mirror. And now I realize what seems different.
Whatever has been staring out of my eyes for the last five years has become more intense, more lethal, and I feel a ripple of fear as I look at that creature.
Great. Always did scare myself, but terrify now seems like a more appropriate word.
Disgusted, I walk out the door and head down the stairs. I’m acutely aware of Marie’s lingering scent and hasten across the foyer to the front door, anxious to get out before anything else happens.
Just before I reach it, the library door opens, and Marie walks into the foyer.
Though I’m better prepared this time, I still have to fight the beast as it jumps to the surface, screaming its hunger and frustration.
I grab the door handle and twist it down. Holding tight to the door, I pause and look at Marie.
She’s wide-eyed and holding onto the library door.
The phone starts ringing.
Damn you, Nicolas. Leave me alone. I can handle this.
I hit the off button.
“Marie, I’m sorry if I scared you upstairs,” I say quietly.
“Mademoiselle, it was my fault. Mr. Ambrus suggested I stay in my quarters until he returned, but it was so quiet, I thought no one was here.”
I nod and turn to leave.
“Mademoiselle?”
Don’t stop me now, Marie. You’ve been really smart so far.
“Yes?”
“If you don’t mind me asking, what happened to you?” Her curiosity and concern apparently win out over her sense of self-preservation.
“I, uh, was injured in an accident, but I’m better now.”
“Yes, Mr. Ambrus told me that night. But your recovery . . . it has not gone well?”
“Well enough. Why do you say that?”
“It is just that you do not seem to be yourself,” she says softly.
I clench my jaw and try not to think of the reason for that, but the thought breaks through my defenses anyway.
Her blood. Her blood is the first that made me not myself, at least the self I’ve been since my escape from the warehouse a lifetime ago.
I close my eyes, focusing on beating back the hunger that now has flames racing through my veins. The beast roars impatiently and I shove it back down.
“What do you mean?” I carefully open my eyes, grateful that my vision is clear again.
“You are . . . more like the others now. You . . . you frighten me,” she whispers.
“Marie . . . I frighten myself,” I admit, and giving her a sad smile, head out the front door.
CHAPTER 49
As I pull the Audi through the black raven gates, I mull over what Marie said and agree with her. I have seen and felt the changes, and am aware that I’m becoming more like The Chosen. It’s just a bit disturbing that it’s noticeable to someone else, especially a human.
I think back over the time that’s elapsed since I crawled off the mountain. It’s been exactly one week. One week. And in that short amount of time, I have walked dangerously close to the cliff I’ve been avoiding for the last five years.
And now that I’m away from Nicolas, away from his influence and his overpowering presence, it seems as though I can finally think, finally breathe. I question the decisions I’ve been making—and am not too happy with them.
Yet if I want to be with him, to love him and be loved by him, I can’t see any other way I could’ve made them.
Frustration blossoms as I weigh my choices. It basically boils down to two realities: I give up myself and who or what I am, and become something I don’t want to be.
Or I give up what is likely my only shot at love and companionship, and resign myself to an eternity of loneliness.
The silver sports car is halfway up the pass before I remember to turn the cell phone back on. I debate whether or not to do it. But the consequences will probably be pretty unpleasant if I wait any longer, so with a sigh, I pull it out of my bag and press the button.
Wow. Nine missed calls and three voicemails. Crap. He must be bent.
Good. The rebel part of me is feeling a little exhilarated at the unexpected freedom, and I laugh at the idea that I get to pull his strings for a change.
But then I remember his fear of losing me, and the depth of his feelings, and the guilt starts to creep in.
Oh, this is going to hurt.
I press “1” and push SEND.
“Where are you?” His anger and frustration pour through me.
“Taking care of some things.” I wince at the sound of my own defensiveness.
“You did not answer, and you did not call me as you said you would.” His voice is tense, and I feel his anger rise a little more.
“I, uh, turned off the phone and forgot to turn it back on,” I admit then wish I hadn’t.
“You what? You were having a problem, and you turned off the phone?” He’s now furious. And so am I.
“I don’t need you to call every single time you think I might be having a problem. I am capable of handling things myself. Frankly, the ringing was distracting me and making it more difficult for me to focus!”
“Focus on what?” he asks quietly.
“On . . . on not attacking Marie,” I answer in defeat.
His silence seems to be a reprimand, but I can feel it in my blood as well.
“I take it you also did not go to the club as I asked.”
The feel of his rebuke literally nauseates me. I fight to block it, along with the regret and conflicting rebellion it’s spawning in me. I struggle to answer him.
“Uh, no, I didn’t go to the club.” His words suddenly hit me. “What do you mean by ‘go’? Aren’t you there?”
“No, I am here at the house. When you would not answer, I feared the worst.”
I remember how the deaths at the club affected him, and know that he is far more attached to Marie.
Crap. My guilt begins to take a stronger hold.
“Ah.” He takes a breath. “Well, at least you recognize that you caused unnecessary concern with your disregard of what I had asked. Perhaps next time you will listen to me, as I generally have very good reasons for what I say.”
His annoyed parental tone irritates the hell out of me, and I rebel again.
“Well, I’m sorry that I am so . . . difficult. Maybe you need a break from having to manage every little aspect of my life. I’m sure it can be quite exhausting.” My guilty feelings evaporate as my temper flares, and I feel his flare back in response.
He stays silent, and I have nothing further to say. But our angers chase each other around, and as they escalate, the beast wakes up and I am now livid.
The phone goes dead, and relief courses through me as our other connection cuts off.
Wow. Guess that’s one way to calm down a fight, at least a long-distance one. But I’m still torqued, and the Audi whips between the cars on the pass like they were standing still.
I pull up the driveway, park next to the BMW and, slapping my hat back on, get out. I take a deep breath of the mountain air, and it begins to dissipate the assortment of negative emotions raging throughout my body.
As I stand there breathing and looking at my mountain, I want nothing more than to go tearing up there at a dead run. But I have
other things to do and must wait until the sun goes down anyway.
Resigned, but in a much better mood, I go into the house.
I give up and stop scrubbing. There’s no way the blood is going to come out, and it looks like I’ll have to replace the carpet.
Damn. I wonder how much that’s going to cost.
Getting to my feet, I pick up the bucket and walk over to the sink. As I pour out the pink water, I think again about how much my life has changed. I don’t know if I should blame that goddamn bear or Nicolas. Hell, I guess it’s both, and I better include me in there, too.
I walk around the house with the sponge and the spray cleaner looking for any spots I’ve missed, then step outside. I already scrubbed the door and doorframe, but I give them another wipe-down just to be sure.
The sun is finally getting lower in the sky, and a thrill runs through me at the thought that I will soon be running on my mountain. With one more glance up the slope, I go back inside to the bedroom.
The bed is ruined. I shake my head and strip off the bloodied covers, and look at the stained mattress in disgust.
Great. More money. I wonder how much the rental company will charge to replace it.
I flip the mattress over for the time being, then gather up the bedding and take it into the living room. As I dump it in front of the fireplace, I try to ignore the elaborate bookshelf that overpowers the room.
Just like its owner, dominating everything. I snort, realizing that even though Nicolas gave it to me as a gift, I still think of it as his.
Grabbing a pair of scissors from the desk drawer, I plop myself on the floor next to the bedding. The fire I’d built earlier is pleasantly dancing in its little space, and flares up in appreciation as I begin to feed it snippets of fabric. I cut out all the bloodstained material and watch as it hits the fire. The dried blood burns in a shimmer of color, and I think about how it burns in my veins when I’m hungry—for either a meal or for Nicolas.
Bad thought. My blood answers it, and I feel both hungers flare up, mimicking the flames in the fireplace.
I shake my head to try and clear it, and get up to look out the window for what must be the ninth time. The sun is definitely low enough on the horizon now—I’ll be safe from its direct rays, especially if I stay in the shadows until true dusk. I turn back to the fireplace and quickly shred the remaining bedding, burning anything with blood on it.
I’m not sure why my instincts demand I destroy all traces of my blood—I just know I have to. As for the mattress and the carpeting, I’ll need to pick up a sharp knife and a blowtorch.
Gathering what’s left of the unstained bedding, I take it outside to the trash bin. I look one more time at the sky, and then skip back inside and head to the bedroom.
I quickly change into dark brown hunting clothes and pull my hair into a pony tail. As I come out of the bedroom and head to the back door, the cell phone rings.
I stop and take a breath and, resigned to hearing a lecture, answer it.
“Yes?” I say, trying to keep a neutral tone.
“Please be careful.” His tone is neutral as well. But it holds a hint of concern, verified by what I’m feeling from him.
“I thought you couldn’t read minds.” It sure seems like he can read mine, and I’m not sure I like it.
“I can sense your anticipation for your hunt, and frankly, it is a bit overwhelming.” His amusement weaves through me, and I start to relax, but then I realize how far apart we are.
“You can feel me at this distance without being on the phone?” My suspicion flares, and he can’t hide his frustration at it.
“I have been feeling your anticipation all afternoon. You forget last night was not the first blood you have given me. Our sharing of feelings is still quite one-sided.” The feel of his frustration gives way to loving warmth, and I’m suddenly at war with myself.
“I need to go, Nicolas. The sun is almost down.”
“As I said before, please be careful. And keep in mind that your pain is mine as well.” His warmth and caution flash a moment, then both phone and emotional connection go dead.
Nice parting shot. Thanks for the guilt trip.
Growling, I open the door, and with a last check on the dwindling sun, race up the mountain.
The bouquet of scents embraces me as I sprint up the trail. The smell of the pines and the earth, mixed with that of the small and large creatures, is heavenly. I drink it in, searching for the specific scents of my prey.
I run all the way up to the top of the mountain, and when I reach it, turn and look across the valley. Pikes Peak stands there, imperious and magnificent in the twilight, its snow-covered sides pink from the setting sun. I can’t help but think of Nicolas, his arrogance and his beauty, his cold hidden side and the heat he shows me, and a little of my resolve begins to break down.
The war inside me threatens to cut loose, one side fighting for me and the other for him. I try to shove the conflict away, and fortunately for once the beast jumps to the rescue. As it starts to rampage, I let it go and give in to its rage and frustration. Its roar explodes from my chest, and as it booms across the valley, the mountain and its denizens go silent.
In the fading echoes of my outburst, I hear a distant answering scream from a big cat and smile as I think again of Nicolas.
Yeah, hope you felt that, you bastard. You’re tearing me apart, and I want you to feel every bit of my pain.
With a last glance at the darkening Peak, I work my way across the mountain, angling down toward the meadows where I hope to take out some of my pent-up anger. I keep my nose in the air as I travel, looking for a tendril of scent that will lead me to my quarry, and finally I catch one.
I eagerly follow it, and the hunter in me thrills to be back in action. This is how a real hunter is supposed to hunt, using stealth, power, and violence to take down and subdue its prey. The scent grows stronger, and my thoughts fade away as the instincts take over.
The smell of the sweet grasses in the meadow below floats toward me, and I slow my pace. I approach the clearing warily, and spot a small band of bull elk grazing in it. I watch for a few moments, then carefully circle the area, casting for the scent of any other predators who may have targeted this herd as well.
I finally reach the place on the far side that I’d noted earlier. It will give me good cover from a position above and to the side of the herd, and I study the several animals I’ve already selected. As I hoped, one of them takes a few steps closer to me, his head down as he nibbles on the short spring grasses. He must be a two-year-old, weighing only four hundred and fifty pounds or so, not much larger than a muley buck and quite a bit smaller than the other elk. I change my strategy.
Muscles coiled like springs, I crouch, watching as he takes another step forward, then another. He raises his head and looks at the herd he has strayed from.
Now.
I launch, grabbing high around his throat as my body slams against his neck and shoulder. My nails sink into his windpipe as he staggers under the force of my impact. I throw myself backward, his throat still in my lethal grip. As my feet touch the ground, I take a step back and yank. Hard. Already off-balance, his front legs rake the air as he topples toward me. I release him and dance back as he crashes into the ground at my feet.
Before he can raise his head to get up, I leap onto his neck, grab his muzzle, and wrench his head to the side. His neck breaks, and my teeth are in his throat before he even stops kicking.
The hot thick fluid pumps into my mouth, and I blissfully swallow several mouthfuls before I realize something is wrong. It tastes . . . wrong. I push back and spit out what’s left in my mouth, and stand there watching as it pours out uselessly from his throat and onto the ground. My hunger rages in frustration at the sight of the waste.
What the hell? I bend down and dip my fingers into the red stream, bring them up to my face, and smell the blood. It smells okay, but not okay. I taste it, trying to isolate the problem. It tastes w
eak, and, well, just . . . not . . . right.
I bend down and examine the dead elk, looking for signs of disease. I go over him from head to toe, but can find nothing unusual.
Huh. This is really weird. I remember once taking a sick deer. The blood had a slightly odd taint, but was still palatable and satisfying, and I’d had no trouble draining him dry.
I stand there puzzled, and finally decide I might as well clean up. I have no desire for the red life that is trickling out of the elk’s body. I snort in disgust and walk to the pond at the lower end of the meadow to wash.
Shit. Well, I just have to find another one. Maybe I’ll try a mule deer, my old standby. I trot back up the slope, feeling remorse at the unnecessary death I inflicted tonight. But it won’t be a complete waste. That carcass will feed many mouths for a while.
I work my way up and across the slope for several miles, then turn down and cross back. But I’m not having any luck, and the beast growls in anger.
Finally I catch a whiff and quickly make my way to its source. However, it turns out to be several does with fawns, and I regretfully move on. I absolutely refuse to kill females or babies.
I keep moving, and at last pick up another trace. I follow it, slowing to a near crawl as the scent grows stronger. I stop on the edge of a small clearing and finally spot a mule deer buck bedded down under the trees on the other side.
Quietly maneuvering around the clearing, I come up behind him. I am on him before he can even get up. I pin him and viciously tear out his throat, and bury my face in the hot red flow. As it splashes over me, I realize it tastes foul as well.
Nooo . . .
Screaming in frustration, I give in to the beast. My hands grab the dead buck’s head and savagely wrench it from his body, then I stand and fling it across the clearing.
Goddamn it, Nicolas! What have you done to me? What the hell have you done to me?
I take several steps, then sink back to the ground, weeping in fury. The hunger, already flaming, spreads to scorch my veins and starts to rage out of control.
Oh, no, no . . . I don’t understand. It’s only been two days.