Sam I Am

by Heather Killough-Walden

  “Can I feel?”

  He nodded.

  Brave boy, she thought. She gently nudged it and it moved, but just a little.

  “It’s loose, but it might be fine.” She stood and he closed his mouth. “I’ll get you an ice pack and a glass of water.” She went to the door and then paused, turning back to face him. “Did he damage anything else?”

  He looked up at her and it seemed to her that he took forever to do anything at all. And then, noncommittally, he shrugged. And stared back down at the carpet.

  Logan was packing ice into a plastic bag when the door knob turned behind her. She jerked in place, surprised by the sudden sound, and spun to face the doorway.

  Taylor Wright slowly shut the door behind him. His face was gaunt and pale, his eyes blood shot as if he’d been crying. He was visibly shaking and there were dark shadows under his eyes.

  He looked well and truly haunted.

  He glanced up at Logan and then froze there in the doorway, his expression instantly and tremendously pained. And then, without warning, he broke down before her and Logan’s heart instantly ripped itself to shreds.

  “I’m…. I’m sorry, God I’m sorry, Logan. You gotta believe me, I can’t –” He sobbed loudly, his whole body shaking with the wracking, painful sound. Logan stood frozen to the spot, as torn as she always was when Taylor was faced with the aftermath of what he had done to his kin.

  “I can’t help it, I don’t know why I do it…. Jesus Christ, I’m in hell, Logan. I wanna die, I just wanna die.”

  He fell to his knees before her, his knee caps slamming against the ceramic tile. If he noticed the pain, he made no indication of it. Instead, he buried his face in his hands and cried. His shoulders shook, his body bowed, and the sounds he made thrust Logan head-long into spiritual agony.

  Her brother was in immense pain. And he caused the same to those around him.

  As always, it wasn’t long before she went to him and held him in her arms. She let him cry, gently rocking him back and forth. As she did, the ice in the make-shift pack on the counter began to melt.

  It was night and she was standing in a field of red roses. They were growing from the ground as would sunflowers or poppies, and Logan knew that it was a dream.

  The moon was full and bright and tinted ever so slightly blue. A few wispy clouds floated across its face as a wolf howled in the distance.

  The air was crisp and cool and Logan could actually feel it through the thin long-sleeved shirt she wore. It wasn’t exactly uncomfortable, but Logan wasn’t used to feeling anything at all in her dreams.

  “I can make him stop hurting you,” came a voice from behind her.

  Logan turned to face him, already knowing who she would find when she did. And she was right. It was the same young man who had haunted her dream before. Dark brown hair, tall strong build, gorgeous young face, but with eyes older than creation.

  “Who are you?” she asked.

  “I am Sam.”

  “You already said that,” she countered, recalling what he’d told her before. “Who are you, really?”

  Sam pondered her question, his light blue eyes piercing her to the core. She stood her ground beneath the weight of that gaze and waited for an answer.

  Finally, he seemed to straighten and come to a decision. “You gave me this form, Logan Wright,” he told her. “You gave me my name. But you can call me whatever you like.” He shrugged. “I don’t care.”

  “Okay,” Logan ventured, slowly. His name doesn’t matter. “Then… what are you?”

  She regretted the question almost as soon as it had slipped past her lips. What was he? His name doesn’t matter, Logan…. Because a rose by any other name would still…. She remembered Meagan’s whispered, repeated words. October. An open door.

  Did people move through open doors?

  Anything can move through a door once it’s been opened.

  She thought of the new kid and his name, Sam Hain. She peeled her gaze away from Sam’s and looked around them at the field of red, thorny roses – and watched as they slowly darkened into the deepest, midnight black.

  Black as the one she’d pierced her finger on.

  She glanced down at her finger and watched as blood welled up around a fresh wound and then dripped to the dark soil beneath her.

  “What am I?” he repeated softly.

  She looked up, already knowing the answer. His eyes captured hers once more. “You know, Logan.”

  She tried to swallow, but her mouth was dry. Her throat, swollen. “A rose by any other name,” she muttered, not knowing why she said what she did.

  He smiled then, as if she amused him. Logan saw that his canines, once slightly elongated, were now full-fledged fangs.

  Logan was no longer feeling calm. Her finger hurt and the roses felt thorny around her and her chest felt too tight.

  “You know full well what I am,” Sam said. He took a step toward her and the flowers swayed, parting to make way for him. “In all of its many forms.”

  Logan shook her head.

  “Forms that you gave to me, Logan.”

  She backed up and the thorns caught at her jeans, ripping gashes into the material.

  “I think this one is my favorite.” He gently gestured to his own tall form, his fangs flashing in the moonlight. “In your world, I would be nothing without your words. I would have no shape, no structure, no purpose or reason beyond that which acts as a close to all things,” he continued as she took another step back and several thorns pierced the taut skin of her legs. They dug deep, as if grasping at her, longing to hold her in place…

  …keep you forever….

  “An ending,” he said. “A period at the finish of a story. And nothing more.”

  “It’s you, isn’t it?” Logan found herself asking, even as she continued to back away, despite the blood now running down her legs. “You’re the new boy in school. Sam Hain.”

  He didn’t answer, but the blue in his eyes began to lighten further and then to glow. Within seconds, they were pools of molten, spinning silver; utterly inhuman.

  “You’re Samhain,” she said, now pronouncing his name correctly. Samhain was the Celtic god of the dead.

  Again, he didn’t answer. It was as good as a confirmation.

  “You’re also the one who hurt Meagan. Aren’t you,” she said. It wasn’t really a question and it sounded like a wild accusation, even to her ears. But she knew it was true. She didn’t know how and she didn’t know why. She just knew it was true.

  He still said nothing, but now he laughed.

  “What did you do to her?” Logan demanded, her cheeks wet with tears she’d unknowingly shed.

  “Nothing,” he told her, a simple shake of his head. “I didn’t touch her. She was too young and too foolish to keep me at bay. Her essence paid the consequence of my appearance.” His expression became harsh, just for a moment. “She was lucky, in fact.”

  “How are you here?” Logan asked. “Why are you here?” She shook her head. “What the hell do you want?”

  “The little witch let me in,” Sam told her. He was drawing ever nearer and Logan didn’t think she could fight the roses any longer. Her legs were on fire as if they’d been poisoned, and the pain was easing up her body, slowing her down.

  “As to what I want,” he said as he tilted his head to one side and smiled at her with slight admonishment. “Of course, I want you, Logan. I should think that would be obvious.”

  “You can’t have me,” she told him stubbornly.

  He threw back his head and laughed then, and the sound was both beautiful and terrifying. “Oh, you are a passionate and strong girl,” he said, shaking his head. “But I always get what I want, Logan. In the end,” he told her, softly, “everything comes my way.”

  “Why me?” She stopped trying to back away. She felt tired and the pain was becoming overwhelming. She felt a little sick.

  She also felt warm. Standing there, gazing up at the most gor
geous boy she had ever seen, it struck her that he was everything she’d ever wanted in a man. He was tall and strong and magic. And he definitely wasn’t human.

  “You gave me life.” He seemed bewildered suddenly, as if surprised by the fact he was voicing. “Your words gave me life. It’s impossible.” He shook his head and glanced down at his hands, turning them over slowly and then flexing them for good measure. “And yet, I live. I breathe. I smell and eat and drink and feel.” He looked back up at her and Logan saw that his pupils had expanded hungrily.

  “I don’t know how long I have,” he told her then, his tone softer and more serious. “But when I do go back,” he shook his head slowly. “I won’t go back alone.” Another step and he closed the distance between them. “I’ll take my bride with me.”

  Logan stared up at him and tried to catch her breath. Her heart was beating too hard; it hurt in her chest. Her head felt light and yet ached at the same time. Her mouth was too dry, her tongue too swollen for her to form words.

  So, she shook her head. Just once. It was a final act of rebellion, and she didn’t even know why she did it.

  Again, Sam smiled, flashing her those long, sharp, white fangs. “You write very well, Logan,” he told her as his hand gently cupped the side of her face. “But the characters you create reflect an emptiness and a yearning you have within yourself.” With his other hand, he brushed a thick lock of hair from her shoulder, exposing the long pale column of her neck to his ardent gaze. “Why else would they all be so…” his gaze found hers and captured it. “Hungry?”

  With that, he lowered his head until his lips hovered over the taut flesh of her throat. Logan could not have pulled away if she’d wanted to; the poison of the roses had paralyzed her, and Sam’s grip behind her neck and at her back held her firmly in place. And there was a part of her – the very part he’d spoken of – that did not want to get away.

  That part of her yearned to know what it would feel like to give in.

  To let someone else be strong for once; to let someone else take control.

  And now she had no choice but to do just that.

  Sam smiled against her skin and she shivered, almost violently. The tips of his fangs grazed her, ever so slightly, and Logan closed her eyes.

  “You smell so sweet,” he whispered.

  Logan was lost. When Sam gently cupped her neck and nudged her chin to the side, she tilted her head back willingly, giving up the fight.

  “That’s it,” he spoke against her pulse and she felt his fangs once more.

  A touch, a hesitation….

  Her eyes flew open when his grip on her tightened and his fangs sank into the side of her neck. She hadn’t been expecting the pain. In her dreams, it had always felt like a push and a give and one long stream of endless almost-orgasms.

  But this was real. Dream or not, it was real. And it hurt and Logan went stiff beneath the onslaught of sensations that rushed through her. Sam’s fangs were no different than two thick, wickedly sharp prongs of a fork, slowly sinking into her body. She thought she would die under the attack; die of pain, die of blood loss.

  And then, like a miracle of mercy, came the pleasure.

  It washed over her like a wave of ecstasy, drowning the pain of his bite, smothering the fear she’d nearly given into only heartbeats before. The warmth was back, and piggy backing on the warmth was a weakness, a sweet surrender, and a moan of delight that she could not keep from escaping from between her lips.

  As if in response, Sam pulled her closer, hugging her tightly against his hard body as he began to drink. The pull of blood through her veins was a kind of agony, but now a delicious one. She knew it was wrong. She knew he was a monster. She should know more than anyone.

  And yet his hand, so strong and possessive at her back, the tender touch of his fingers in her hair, the taut cording of his muscles as he took what he needed… they were wreaking blissful havoc on her mind. Another pull, another swallow, and she was spinning wildly out of control.

  No… she thought. He’s going to kill me.

  It’s what he does best.

  Her body jerked and her heart beat thudded painfully as a rude, vicious sound sliced through her consciousness. It was a beeping. A screeching. Loud and unforgiving and relentless.

  Logan opened her eyes…

  … and found herself in her bed. Her body was heavy and soaked with sweat. The sun was already high in the sky and pierced the curtains across the room.

  Her alarm clock was screaming its warning. She’d set it for noon.

  Logan slowly sat up in the bed. Her muscles were sluggish to respond and she felt a little queasy as she swung her legs over the edge. She ran a shaky hand through her damp hair and tried to gather enough saliva to swallow. When she did, her throat hurt.

  She left the bed and made her way across the hall to the upstairs bathroom. She bypassed the toilet and shower and headed straight to the sink, turning it on to splash water on her face. When she was finished, she grabbed the towel and dried off.

  That was when she caught sight of her reflection.

  And the two gaping bite marks in the side of her neck.

  Taylor was in the kitchen, standing and staring into an open refrigerator, when Logan managed to make it downstairs.

  She wanted to get to the school. Check on Katelyn – just to be sure Sam hadn’t done anything to her the way he’d hurt Meagan. Then she would go to the hospital and talk to Meagan. Danger was all around them. Things had gotten out of control. The world didn’t make sense, but it was clear that Logan and her friends were at the center of this new chaos.

  She hoped she could get to the bottom of all of this by three. She was supposed to be at the bakery for a stupid birthday party at three.

  I’ll never make it, she thought, as she pondered the rotting fruit in the fruit bowl on the counter. Her job at the bakery seemed like such an insignificant thing in the midst of the turmoil all around her. It was baked goods. Sam Hain was Death.

  I need to call Mrs. Witherspoon. Cancel everything. Will she understand?

  Logan ran a hand through her long, gold hair, which was still damp, but this time from the shower. She was shaking and weak and probably starving. When she’d looked at herself in the mirror before coming downstairs, her lips had been the same pallid color as the rest of her face. The turtleneck sweater she wore was stolen from her mother’s closet and was not at all like Logan. She felt displaced and off and trapped in some dimension between reality and a world she – and Meagan Stone – had created. All she really wanted to do was drink Sprite and eat crackers and lay in bed under fifteen covers, curled up with her plush Ludo from the Labyrinth.

  She was confused and scared and confused some more.

  But the sun had risen in the East like it always did, and the kitchen smelled like burnt toast, and it appeared that despite everything crazy and chaotic and impossible that had happened to her over the last few days, life was continuing as normal. She was probably going to have to make the birthday party, after all.

  So, she ignored the rotting oranges, passed Taylor by without a word, grabbed her key from the table beside the door, and left the house. When she got out into the driveway, it was to find that Taylor’s truck had her car blocked in.

  Logan stared at it as if it were the devil. She stared at it as if staring at it could make it begin to float into the air and move the hell out of the way. And then, eventually, she succumbed to nervous habit, ran a hand through her hair, and faced the fact that she possessed no magical powers whatsoever. If she wanted the truck moved, she was going to have to ask Taylor to move it.

  She turned around and stumbled a little when a dizzy spell washed over her.

  She paused, waited for it to pass, and then went back into the house. Taylor was still gazing, unseeing, into the open refrigerator. By now, Logan was certain that he’d been doing it for ten or fifteen minutes. He did that sometimes. And everything in the fridge began to grow warm.

 
; It was a sign that he wasn’t in the best of moods. He was inside of himself – and wanted to stay that way.

  But Logan needed her car. She needed to get to Katelyn. She needed to talk to Meagan….. Meagan had talked about opening a door. Obviously, Sam had come through it. So, maybe Logan could get her to shut it again.

  “Taylor, do you think you could move your truck real quick so that I can pull my car out?” Her voice came out softer than she’d meant it to. She truly was weak. Sam had stolen her strength along with her blood.

  Taylor remained where he was, his broad back to her, his eyes lost in the interior of the refrigerator.

  Logan waited a good full minute before trying again. “Taylor?”

  “Go the fuck away, Logan.”

  Not good, Logan thought. Not what I need right now.

  “Fine. Just give me your keys and I’ll move it myself,” she gently suggested.

  To that, Taylor slammed the fridge shut with such force that it popped back open again and shook violently, sending all of the cereal boxes on top tumbling over the edge to land on the tiled floor. One knocked the sugar bowl over on its way down and the ceramic pot crashed to the hard ground, shattering into a flower of white sugar and shards of glass.

  “I said get the fuck away from me, you stupid cunt!” Taylor’s face was instantly red, the veins popping out on the sides of his neck.

  Logan swallowed hard and backed up a step.

  And then the knife receptacle on the counter began to tremble. Logan glanced at it, her eyes widening. A single carving knife slid, almost soundlessly, from its wooden sheath and turned slowly in place. Its long silver blade flashed under the stream of light peeking through the curtains.

  Taylor continued toward her. Logan’s breath caught in her throat; her fingers beginning to quake where they rested at her sides.

  The knife trembled in the air for two full seconds as Taylor shoved the kitchen table aside and slowly stalked toward Logan. And then the knife shot forward and Logan screamed.

  She didn’t realize she was moving until her shoulder hit her brother’s abdomen, throwing him off balance and sending him flying backward into the same table he’d shoved aside.