by C. N. Owens
“This is Leila,” Andre says to the scrawny freckled man. “What did I tell you?” He turns to me. “This is Devin. He has been dying to meet you.”
Devin stands from the couch and walks to me, reaching out to shake my hand. I reluctantly return the gesture. He looks at me for a moment, not even blinking, and mumbles, “We have a deal.” He has an annoying freckle on his bottom lip that seems to dance when he talks.
“My man,” Andre says. He leads us to another room in the house with a single bed and nothing else.
Heavy curtains obscure the windows; the only light comes from an old fixture in the ceiling. I stop in the middle of the room, trying to clear my mind, feeling the itch for another fix creeping in. I tremble as cold, bony fingers feather my bare shoulder.
“You really are beautiful,” Devin squeaks with a rodent-like voice.
I turn around to see him studying me, his face reddened—the look of lust.
“I won’t hurt you,” he says as he plays with a lock of my hair.
I swat his hand away. “They all say that.”
“How long have you been doing this?”
“What, are you my therapist now?”
He laughs and reaches for my neck, but I push him away and walk to the other side of the room.
“Are we doing this or what?” His voice is nasal and monotone, oozing weasel.
I remain silent, knowing that he’ll get forceful, or something worse. With a sigh, he walks out, shutting the door behind him.
Moments later, I hear the heavy footsteps of Andre approaching. He lumbers into the room, grabs me by the hair, and flings me onto the bed.
“Are you trying to be cute? I thought we had a deal.”
I see stars when he backhands me.
“I’m going easy on you right now because I don’t want you too marked up for Devin, but you wait till he’s gone. You’ll wish you behaved. Look at me when I’m fucking talking to you!”
My right eye is already swelling as he turns my head to face him.
“This is your last warning,” I say with a growl, knowing what will rise when he pushes me too far, no longer afraid of the pain. I just want this to end—and end it will. “I’m not going to work for you.”
“Oh, you’re gonna work.” He lifts me up by the slutty red dress, ripping the material apart, and shoves me onto the floor. “I’ll tie you to the bed if I have to, then when Devin is done, I’ll break your skinny little neck and throw you dead in the garbage can.”
I gather up the ripped dress and return to my feet. My skin is itchy and alive with that familiar burning sensation. Fearless, I glare up at him and slap his unshaven face. “Kill me, you pig.”
***
The beating that followed brought about the change in a flurry, and although I wanted to relish killing every man in that house, it all passed by in a flash. I come to my senses outside, lying naked on damp, blood-covered grass, surrounded by the smell of shit. My last victim, a pit bull, lies in pieces next to me.
I stand from a steaming puddle of what looks like piss and whale blubber. Some of the pain from my injuries is gone. Broken glass, nails, and hundreds of other objects that could shred my feet litter the backyard, but I make my way toward a gaping wound in the back of the house—the opening the beast made when it went for the dog.
The sight of my work is almost as gratifying as it would have been watching it happen. In the living room, Damon lies on the floor chewed in half; his friend doesn’t look much better. Devin’s mangled body is near the front door, no doubt trying to escape the slaughter that overtook him too fast. Next to Damon in a pool of blood is Andre’s chrome pistol, fully loaded. There’s a bloody drag mark leading out of the bedroom, fading and then disappearing.
“I will not be caught up in this life again,” I whisper to myself, fingering a slimy bit of flesh that still clings to the heavy gun. I look at the drying stain on the floor, and I can almost taste Andre’s blood again. I smile at the memory of his flesh tearing as I bit his neck open.
Wasting no more time, I find keys and cash and then hurry to put that little red dress back on. It’s ripped so I have to hold it up. It must have slid off when I was shifting. On my way to the door, I notice the cigar box containing Andre’s main stash and consider for a moment taking just enough to keep me pain-free, just enough until I get where I need to go, but I shake my head and leave it behind, remembering he has more in the car.
Feet away from the exit, I feel a sudden shock to my back from something large—Andre’s foot. I see a bright flash as I hit the door face-first and then fall to the floor.
“What the hell was that?” Andre asks, limping toward me.
I remain silent. His neck looks like hamburger, and he has to hold his stomach together to keep its contents from spilling out. I hear my ribs crunch when he drops a knee onto my chest and begins hammering me with his giant fist. I feel with my hands for the gun I had, but I can’t find it, nor can I shift again as he pounds my face and ribs with a mind to kill me. The blood from his wounds flies about, making a mess of me and the room. Tiring fast, he sits back and takes a breath, giving me a second to feel again—the gun was under my back. I flick the safety off and stick it in his face.
“Just tell me what that was… What are you?” he asks with a winded, raspy voice.
“The devil.” I pull the trigger, and the gun goes off with an ear-shattering bang and his head explodes. He collapses onto the floor against the wall near the door, and with my last bit of energy, I stand and walk out.
Chapter 20
Leila
Trent’s home is in Eagle Lake Florida. Literally, a town with two streetlights and a post office… I counted. Most of Main Street is old houses, with a grocery store and a few small used car lots mixed in. The sidewalks bustle with people, most appear to be farmworkers and day laborers. Their clothes, jeans and dirty shirts, all bear the stains of a hard day’s work in the field.
You would miss his driveway if you weren’t looking hard for it, but once you pass through the narrow entrance, it opens up to a wide pasture of deep emerald grass dotted with enormous oak trees. At the end of the dirt drive that spans some hundred yards, an old farmhouse appears. It’s square in shape, two stories, with faded white paint. It looks old and run-down, but there are stacks of supplies everywhere. People swarm the house, performing repairs, restoring it to the majestic house that it must have been.
I stop in the grass, right in front of the house, and make my way to the door when some of the workers clear out. It’s quiet out here; above the racket of carpenters and laborers, the traffic can’t even be heard on the main road. There is a window in the front door, and through it, I see the kitchen.
I look at my palm and then at the numbers next to the door. 4133, this has to be the place. I gently knock, and the door opens a little… it wasn’t latched. I push the door open wide enough to slip inside. The kitchen has light-brown cabinets with flaking varnish, and white counters with silver flecks. The floor is gray, all-weather carpet, and it’s covered in stains.
“Hello?” I call into the silent house. Aside from a large rectangular table and six chairs, the dining room is empty. The chandelier above it is lit, but the lights are dim, giving off a faint, flickering gold light.
“Alpha. Speak now—friend or foe?” a male voice says.
I freeze and scan the area that can be seen without moving. “Friend,” I say, my voice cracking nervously.
“You’re leading him to us.”
“Who?”
“Bento.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” I raise my hands and turn around but still can’t find the source of the voice. “Trent?”
He emerges from a shadow, still blurry with my poor vision, but I can make out a pistol in his hand. “Even good girls go to hell for lying.”
“I’m not lying. Yes, he and I fought, but I got away and hid. That’s when I attacked you.”
“Why are you here?”
“I hurt you… I’m here to make it right.”
He raises his gray tank top a little and shoves his pistol into the waistline of his blue jeans. “I’m fine, you can leave. You probably should before Cassie wakes, she won’t be so forgiving when she sees you.”
“No,” I say and step toward him. His eyes widen when he sees my battered face. “Please don’t kick me out. I’ve come so far, and I have nowhere else to go.”
He takes my hand, leads me to the couch, and nudges me to sit down. “You had sex with Bento?”
I let out a sigh and look away.
“Leila.”
“I wouldn’t do it willingly, so he took what he wanted.”
“Shit.” He stands and looks off. “And you were still willing to get away?”
What an odd way to ask that. “Yeah, why would I have a problem leaving him?”
“Never mind.”
“Okay,” I say.
He cut his hair, but I also notice that his skin is clammy, and he has dark circles under his eyes. He stands and disappears through a door on the other side of the room. I follow, walking through what looks like a temporary bedroom. There is construction equipment everywhere and bare wood that’s currently being worked on. We stop in a bathroom.
“Are you okay?” I ask.
“Yeah, I’ll live.”
“You’re sick… doesn’t this mean I marked you, or something?”
He lets out a sarcastic chuckle and turns to face me. “No, you didn’t, but you did do this.” He looks away and coughs, then pulls the neck of his shirt down to show me three angry, oozing wounds crossing his chest.
Tears fill my eyes. “Oh, God,” I say, feeling my hands cover my mouth. “I’m so sorry.”
“I’ll heal, how ’bout you?” He takes my hand and sits me on the toilet. “Stay put,” he says, and steps away and wets a rag.
“I’ll be okay,” I say while he wipes my face and gives me a quick look from head to toe. “If I change again, it’ll be like it never happened.”
“I know; that still doesn’t mean I want you shifting on my land,” he says, now focusing on my eyes.
I know what he’s thinking. It’s the first thing people always ask about. What’s wrong with your eyes? Can’t you keep them still? “It’s called Nystagmus. I know it’s weird, but it’s common with albinos,” I say, my words encapsulated in a long sigh.
“Sara,” he says under his breath. “Yes, that sounds familiar. How’s your vision?” he asks, continuing to clean the cuts on my face.
“It sucks; glasses help a little. The last time I went to the eye doctor, I think I was eleven. They said I’d be legally blind by my mid-twenties.”
“Sorry,” he says, finally finished with my face and moving to my neck. “You seem to get around all right.”
I laugh and take hold of his hand. “I’m not trying to be rude, but I can do that myself.”
He tosses the bloody rag on the counter. “Right.” His eyes lock onto my arms. He takes my wrist, but I snatch it away.
“I’m not proud of those,” I say, shaking my head, and using my hands to hide the needle marks that dot my skin.
“Then you won’t have a problem quitting.”
“I’ll quit but—”
“Good, whose car is that?”
I roll my eyes and groan. “You’re just getting it all out up front, aren’t you?”
“Did you steal it?” he asks, ignoring my question.
“I’m sorry.” Behave, I think, and take a breath. “I got it from a pimp.”
“What? Did he come for you? How did you meet him?”
“I found him because I’m weak,” I say, sniffling and wiping a little blood from my nose.
Trent drops to his knees in front of me. “Oh, Leila. Why would you do this to yourself?” he says, but I barely hear him.
He studies me with his big brown eyes for a long time, and rather than being creeped out, I feel comfortable… loved.
“Leila, you’re better than this.”
Such a warm, welcoming shade of brown, flecked with amber, the color of fallen leaves, I think, spellbound by this gorgeous man kneeling in front of me.
I want to argue, I want to get pissed off and say it’s none of his business, but I can’t. His nurturing demeanor, combined with his strong, deep voice renders me defenseless… my anger melts away. He’s not trying to trick or judge me, he’s worried; he doesn’t want to see me suffer, nothing more, nothing less.
“I’m sorry,” I say when I regain the breath to speak, feeling the tears welling up again. “I’m so sorry.”
“Don’t worry about it, you’re safe now, but you need to tell me, did you kill this pimp?”
I look away before I start crying again.
He takes me gently by the chin and my breaths start heaving. “You need to tell me everything.”
I nod, frowning, unable to control the tears. “The monster rose, and I killed him and his friends and his dog.”
He stands and walks through the other door in the bathroom; it seems to lead to a laundry area. “What kind of asshole would pimp out a kid like that anyway?” He rambles to himself as he reaches into what looks like a fridge. I can tell when I see a light come on from inside. There’s another opening at the other end of the laundry area, to the left, so I can only assume it leads into the other side of the kitchen. “The prick probably deserved it,” he says over the hissing sound of a beer bottle opening. “How old are you, anyway?”
“I turned eighteen in July.”
“Of this year?”
“Yeah.”
“Shit, you’re still a baby,” he says on the way back into the bathroom. He stops again, studying me with those eyes. I wish he was closer to me so I could see them better.
All this time I’ve been sitting on the toilet; I have no idea why I haven’t gotten up. “Got a beer for me?”
He laughs and walks back through the bedroom and into the living room. I follow slowly and find him sitting in an old recliner. He’s already finished his first beer and is opening another, having pulled a second one from a small fridge next to his chair.
“Trent,” I say, “I know about everything you’ve done for me. When I hurt you, all I could think about was making it down here. I’m glad you’re okay.”
He stands and walks toward me. “Thanks, but I think you are the one that has a lot of healing to do. Maybe you’ll consider letting down your guard at some point… Just a bit.”
I shake my head. “What’s that supposed to mean?” I ask, knowing he’s right. For years, I've kept up a wall to avoid getting beat up, to stay dominant around the other girls. “It’s called survival.”
“Well, you’re among friends. No one expects anything from you, other than to be happy.” He reaches for me and gently touches my hair.
“Can I stay here, with you? Will you help me get better?”
“Yeah, but you’re going to have to show us some patience. Cassie, the brunette you’ve met before, she and I know how to take care of your kind, but it’s not easy at first. And you’ve got to promise me you’ll give up the drugs.”
“I promise.”
He offers a hand to shake. “We have a deal. Welcome home.”
I take his hand and he jerks me toward him, wrapping his good arm around me. I haven’t been truly hugged in so long. I close my eyes and let my hand explore the rigid muscles in his arm, stopping on his good shoulder. Although injured, he’s strong and fit, and he has this scent, like sage and fresh turned earth, that makes my heart race. The more I take it in, the more I love it.
“What are you doing?” he asks, wincing, and I catch myself nuzzling one of the few uninjured spots on his chest.
I look up at him and shake my head.
“What is going on in here? Why do I smell dirty feet?” I hear from another part of the house. The vampire I remember, Cassie, pass
es through the kitchen and stops at the entrance to the living room.
“Don’t get bent out of shape. I think we’re good,” Trent says.
“What should I expect? I rise to find you embracing an alpha female,” she says, and glides farther into the living room, as if she hovers inches off the floor. “The last female of her kind.” Her voice is true and powerful. She stops inches away from me. “Your face… You look as if you made someone angry.”
“You look like beef jerky,” I say, and instantly regret it.
Cassie laughs and pushes her hair behind her. “She’s still got her sense of humor.” She takes my hand. “Come along. I’m sure my girlfriend has some clothes for you to wear, and you desperately need a bath.
Chapter 21
Leila
Showered and wrapped in a towel, I call for Cassie, and she leads me to an opulent room with wood floors stained almost black, and a bedroom set of walnut furniture. A tall narrow window overlooks the woods behind the house. Cassie slips back into the room with bedsheets and pillows, then disappears seconds later. Everything smells fresh and new, like furniture polish and subtle notes of rich leather. I feel out of place here, I don’t want to touch anything for fear of breaking it.
Cassie’s girlfriend, Andrea, left some clothes for me, until we can get some of my own, or so I was told. It only took seconds to realize the Andrea has excellent (and expensive) taste.
Before me must be hundreds of dollars in clothes. I can identify at least five different brands just from the tags: Buckle, Lucky, Hollister, Express… Victoria’s Secret. That’s only a few of those I immediately noticed, and not just a shirt here, pants there—full outfits, a mound of them, sitting on the queen-sized bed in my new room.
I sift through the clothes, and toss some aside, namely high-waisted shorts. I am so small, they always look awkward on me, and, I guess I never caught onto them. One of the few good attributes that I have is my stomach, so why hide it? Either way, I’ve never had the luxury of keeping with the latest fashion craze.