Thirst: The Kresova Vampire Harems: Aurora

by Knox, Graceley

He smiles, the side of his cheek lifting as I walk up. “Get that stupid smile off your face,” I order him before launching into a verbal attack. “You do realize what is happening in there right now? She’s feeding on children! You told me we fed from willing donors. She doesn’t feed. She kills.”

  “Yes.”

  “And you just let her climb all over you. Hump you with dead bodies surrounding her?”

  He rubs his neck. “Yes, I do.”

  If Carver was the sort of man to blush, I think he would’ve right now. Maybe he didn't say the words out loud, but I could sense his embarrassment of his actions.

  “Why?”

  “It is complicated, Aurora.”

  The tears I’ve been holding back finally break free and streak down my face. “I don’t care. There is nothing complicated enough to justify this.” I shake my head, “If this is what I am going to become, I’d rather stake myself right here, right now.”

  “Ma belle, that is not—”

  “Stop calling me that. Stop with the pet names.” I’m shaking, “Seriously. What the fuck, Carver?”

  He storms toward me. “You don’t understand.” He grabs the sides of my face and lowers his voice to a whisper. “You can’t understand, chérie.”

  This close, Carver’s scent is concentrated. Instead of the subtle hint I’d gotten all day, I can’t avoid it now. And just like before, it’s a drug to my senses. I inhale again, and all I want to do is thrust myself into his arms, but my pride won’t let me.

  “It is the way of our world, Aurora.” He furrows his brow. “I can’t stop it. . . maybe someday,” he says and shakes his head, “but not today.”

  I want to give him the benefit of the doubt, but I’m so goddamn angry, I can’t. “You’re one of her assassins?”

  “Yes.” He nods once.

  “And if she told you to kill me, would you?”

  He silence is fucking brutal.

  “Give me your god damn keys,” I say as I shove at him.

  He stares at me for a long moment before he finally tugs them free from his coat pocket and tosses them at me. I snatch them and quickly slip into the driver’s seat. I hit the locks as Carver reaches for the passenger side door. He groans and swears in French, before he comes around to my window and taps with his knuckles against the glass.

  Through it, he says, “Aurora, do not make me destroy my own car. If you don’t want to ride with me, fine. I will accept this, but I need you to listen for only one moment, chérie. That is all I ask.”

  I lower it barely an inch. “What?”

  “Aurora. . .”

  “You have ten seconds, Carver.” Could he still stop me? Sure. But for now, he is letting me have my moment to power play, and I’m taking it.

  “If you are angry and need time to calm down, I understand. And I will let you. But—”

  “Why? Why did you bring me here?” I ask, my eyes searching his for something good to hold onto.

  “Because, you must come to see her, and . . .”

  “And what?” I’m practically yelling again.

  He slams his palms down onto the door frame. “I had to know!”

  “Know what?”

  I sense someone watching us, and immediately, Carver looks across the lawn. I follow his head to see Charles standing near the house, arms crossed over his chest smiling.

  That kid creeps me the fuck out.

  Momentarily distracted, I rev the car engine on and slam into reverse. Carver steps back, the force of it almost causing him to lose his footing. I think he could stop me, but he doesn’t. Instead, he crosses his arms and watches me peel down the drive.

  The last thing I see is the Arctic blue of his eyes in the rearview mirror, before he vanishes from sight.

  * * *

  When I finally returned to the city, I couldn’t convince myself to go home and see Reina.

  I feel dirty, ashamed, desperate. Soon enough, I’d be just like the rest of Morana’s minions, eagerly doing whatever their mistress bids, no matter how right—or wrong. Reina would probably never forgive me for not intervening on behalf of those people. I should’ve done something, or at least said something.

  But apparently, I’m a coward.

  So instead of going home, I park Carver’s Audi beside my office building on Esplanade Ave and walk the semi-crowded streets of the French Quarter.

  I watch as young couples’ eyes lit up with each new part of New Orleans they discovered. I watch as they fall in love. I watch as mothers usher children across the street. I wander around and feel like I’m a part of something more. I watch life happen around me, and I realize that life would go on with or without me. Or more correctly, I would go on without it.

  My five-year plan is crumbling around my feet, and I’d run off like a scared little girl rather than a full-blown adult fully in charge of her life. Morana frightens me, I won’t deny that, but perhaps someone can be a voice of reason in this world. An advocate for those who don’t have a voice.

  Is that person me? Not today. But maybe because I can’t live in their world as it is. It’s wrong. I know that much.

  The emotional roller coaster of the past two weeks has left me up, down, and every which way but my normal even keel of logical and methodical.

  I’m a level three harpy, and I’m not happy about the situation. But I need to learn to roll with it, rather than control it, or I’ll only spin further out of control. This darker side of me doesn’t push as hard at me when I give into her. Maybe if the human side can influence the Kresova in me, I can form some resemblance of a somewhat normal life.

  I shake my head as I walk. I’m reasoning with myself inside my head. I’m about as far away from normal and rational as I can get right now. God, how I crave the innocence of ignorant bliss.

  I plop onto the curb and sit, contemplating how fucked up everything has become. I don’t know how much time passes before my stomach growls, and I realize I haven’t eaten since the breakfast buffet Reina and I put on.

  I grab my cell phone from the small purse I’d brought with me to Morana’s, grateful that I’d left it in his car instead of bringing it in and more than likely losing it. I glance at the screen, ten-forty. It’s still too early to go home. I want Reina so blackout tired that I can hold off on having to recall the events of this evening for another few hours.

  I want to forget about the past few days. Hell, the last few weeks. I just want to get home, grab a bottle of Vodka, slam back a few shots, and pass out. I don’t think I can handle one more thing thrown at me today. Not one. I’m certain that if I get home and scamper around in the fridge, Reina will wake up and want to talk, and right now—that can’t happen. So, I choose to grab a small bite out. Just enough to hold me over until it’s safe enough to go home.

  Thirty minutes later, I’m seated at my favorite restaurant, La Pâtissière Extraordinaire, finishing up my second order of beignets. No matter the hour, they serve the best treats in Louisiana. Plus, the eclectic mix of patrons makes it easy for someone like me, a mud speckled, barefoot chick in a ball gown, to blend in.

  I reach for a napkin from the dispenser on the table beside me, when my gut lurches to my throat.

  Holy fuck.

  All at once, the lights overhead are too bright, and I can’t stomach the way they feel on my skin. A burning sensation overtakes me as though a match has been lit under my flesh. My hands itch to claw at myself as a way to relieve the pain and the burn, but it doesn’t do any good.

  I need to get out of here.

  I had known this day was coming. I knew and did nothing to prepare. Instead, I avoided the reality. Carver said my transition was only hours to days away. He’d been right. Now, I can’t even stuff another delicious fried pastry into my mouth without breaking into convulsions. I glance around at the dozen or so people on the patio. It’s crowded. It always is Thursday nights. College kids typically don’t have classes Friday’s and need some place to socialize at the commencement of their three-
day weekend.

  Fuck, this was a mistake. I should’ve gone home.

  No Aura. If I would’ve done that, I’d be alone with Reina, and god knows if I could stop myself from hurting her—again.

  I rub at my temples, ignoring the sharp, stabbing pain in my gut. It’s as though there’s something inside of stomach, clawing my insides, trying to get free. I open my mouth but can’t even force myself to eat. The sweet scent touches my nostrils, but all I want to do retch on the cement floor.

  I stand up and drop what I assume is a five on the table. My fingers tremble, and I can’t tell whether I’ve chosen the right money, and I don’t care as agony trips its way through my already aching body.

  I turn and almost slam into a pretty young hostess as she leads an attractive couple to one of the few vacant tables left on the patio. They’re blocking my path. The only way out.

  Not giving a shit about politeness, I shove past them, knocking the woman onto a nearby table. Audible chatters and shock radiates through the crowd of onlookers. A few people chuckle, and I hear someone mention “another drunk woman.” Someone calls me a bitch, but I barely take notice.

  I trip over my own feet and throw my hands on the nearest table to catch my balance. The occupants shriek at me to pull it together. I think I knock over soda, as brown liquid clashes with the white table cloth as it seeps in.

  After too long, I manage to escape the restaurant, and I turn toward the back instead of the front, hoping to limit the audience—or victims—of what is about to go down. A small, dark green gate lines the far end of the restaurant property, and I climb over instead of opening it. I’m losing control.

  I make it to an alleyway before I collapse. I suddenly smell two approaching people. I can smell their age. Older. Less likely to fight back. Weak.

  I whip my head around. I think the man offers me help, asks if I need him to call me an ambulance. I stare at him before turning to who I assume is my wife.

  And I lunge.

  This is not what I want, but I have no self-control. I can’t stop myself, even if I want to. And maybe I don’t want to stop. My teeth elongate, and I feel my canines slide from my gums, ready to feast, ready to pop her beautiful blue vein with my teeth and drink her blood like it’s wine.

  But before I can do that, two strong arms wrap around my waist. I barely hear the couple scamper off, and I roar out my frustration.

  “Calm down, chérie. It’s okay.”

  I know that voice, but it doesn’t stop my struggle. My need. I am longing, yearning and anguish all rolled into one. A contraction of untamed pain quakes through me, and my knees buckle.

  I writhe and toss as soon as I hit the floor. “Stop! Please, make it stop!”

  A strong hand gently caresses the hair away from my face. “Shh,” he orders me.

  “I can’t!” Oh god. Oh god. I’m going to die. Tears streak down my cheeks as pain radiates in rapid succession through me.

  “Aurora,” the voice calls out, and the sound of my name stops me, only for a moment.

  “It’s okay. Everything is going to be okay, ma belle.”

  And suddenly, I know that voice. I can feel him. Feel his presence. Like a warm cotton blanket fresh out of the dryer, it soothes me.

  I turn and look to him through the narrow slits of my painful eyes.

  Carver. Of course, it’s Carver.

  He came for me.

  He’s so close to me, if I raise my chest, I can kiss him. I find myself wanting to kiss him. I find myself wanting to do more than that.

  I swallow, igniting the press of his solid chest against my own.

  Without warning, he swoops me up in his strong arms and leads me away from this mess I’ve created. I don’t struggle anymore as the pain takes me.

  Chapter 9

  I awaken to the gentle glow of moonlight braking through my curtains.

  Night.

  It’s night. I’m home—and alive.

  Technically, not alive, but I survived the night of my change. I’d call that a success. I can sense the difference in myself, and yet, I feel the same, causing my mind and body to be at odds. I’m almost certain, and I can hear the echoes of the busy world beyond the walls of my apartment. Car engines hum and conversation echoes from the busy cafe at the end of the corner. A woman laughs in the apartment on the top floor. Two houses over, children run up the stairs playing tag, and I can practically taste the delicious scent of the chicken marsala cooking across the street.

  Still lying flat against my pillow, I take a slow breath in and pause, placing a hand over my heart.

  No beat. No pulse. Nothing.

  Okay, that’s gonna take some getting used to.

  I expect my flesh to be void of warmth, but it’s not. Sweat covers every inch of my skin, and though I feel chilled by the hot-flashes that have now passed, I feel better than I have in weeks. Hell, in years.

  It takes me a second to realize that I’m naked, aside from the soft-cotton T-shirt that’s draped over my otherwise bare flesh. The sheets that surround me are damp from the night-sweats that consumed me over the last god-knows-how-many hours.

  I hear the faintest of movement and realize that though I’m surrounded in darkness, I’m not alone. My predatory instincts kick-in, and I sniff the air.

  Carver is here.

  I can feel him. Sense his presence long before he speaks. As though my awareness is on an entire other level. He sits in the worn-leather armchair beside the window. He’s not even that close, and yet Carver’s scent is concentrated. Instead of the subtle hint I’d gotten before my completed change, I can’t avoid it now. And just like before, it’s a drug to my senses. Arrows of need shoot down to my core, dampening my folds. My mind flashes, and for a moment, I remember pieces of the night before.

  My body burns, as though a match has been lit from underneath my skin. I’m shivering and burning up, as I dry heave the contents of my empty stomach. I’m desperate for relief in any form. My throat and stomach feel drenched in molten lava as I thrash on the floor. The bones in me break and twist and then reform as I cross over, losing my humanity. Just when I am convinced I won’t survive, he’s there.

  Carver drops down onto the floor and smooths the hair from my face. I beg him to end my suffering. He calls me ‘ma belle’ and speaks to me in French. Seconds later, he scoops me up into his arms, and though I’m frightened, I feel safer.

  He came for me.

  I remember brief flashes of him as he appeared like an avenging angel. I’d expected the change to be brutal, but in reality, I had no comprehension of just how brutal it could be.

  “Try not to move so much, chérie. Give yourself a moment to adjust to the change.”

  I grasp the blanket around my waist and breasts. My new gifts have made it impossible to not notice the delicious scent of Carver’s cologne mingled with his sweat and skin, or the way his tongue moves with the tinges of his accent. A dozen words from his lips, and my body is ready and aching.

  I clear my throat. “Where is Reina?”

  “Not here.”

  Panic settles into my chest, and I jolt upright. “Is she alright? Did I do something?”

  “No, chérie. Calm down, she’s fine. I informed her that it would be best, for her own safety, to return tomorrow morning, when the change has completed.”

  Relief—than immediate dread—hits me like a bucket of ice water. It’s done. I’d gone from Aurora Hedvige, human, to creature of the night.

  Christ, I could make things sound so melodramatic.

  “So, it’s over?” I ask.

  “Yes.”

  “And now I’m—I’m. . . Dead.”

  “Kresova,” he corrects me. “Not dead.”

  “You don’t consider becoming a vampire dying?”

  “No, chérie.”

  “I don’t have a pulse, Carver,” I state flatly.

  “Place a hand upon your chest. Perhaps your heart no longer beats, but do you still think and feel? Do you
still care? Do you still want?”

  My thoughts immediately imagine him adding, “me to fuck you?” to the end of his question.

  And the answer is, yes. Yes, I do.

  I want him.

  Naked. On the bed. Against the wall. In the shower. You name it. But I’m also furious after the events that transpired at Queen Morana’s court. I may have let it go, but I haven’t forgotten. And now, just when I thought my horny ass vampire desires would settle after the change as Carver had promised me before, they haven’t. Here I am, fully transformed and faced with just as much desire for this man, if not more, than before.

  “I’m failing to see your logic,” I finally answer.

  “Kresova is not death. It is a new form of life. Your heartbeat has gone, and in its place, you’ve gained another soul.”

  “Another soul?”

  “Yes.”

  “Your human one remains, and now you have your Kresova one as well.”

  I rub at the bridge of my nose. “Okay, this is getting complicated. Forget I asked.”

  He chuckles. “In time, I will explain everything to you, and in time, you’ll want to know.”

  “If you say so.” I’m about to stand when I plop back down recalling just how undressed I am. “Um, can you grab me some clothes?”

  “Of course.” The leather squeaks as he rises from the chair.

  I tug at the hem of my shirt. “Why am I wearing this . . . and nothing else?”

  “You ripped the clothes from your flesh, chérie. That can happen in the midst of your change.”

  I should be focused on the fact that I’d been so out of my mind I’d shredded my clothes, but instead, only one fact seizes my attention.

  “You saw me naked?”

  He shrugs. “It is nothing I haven’t seen before.”

  “Yes, it is.” I raise my chin, “You haven’t seen my body before.”

  Carver sighs. “Only days ago, you were ready to become naked with a strange man in public.” He runs a hand roughly through his hair. “Now, a man you know sees you naked, takes care of you, and covers you—yet you remain angry.” He moves toward my dresser. “I don’t understand you.”