by S. E. Lund
When he finally lifts his head, his face has changed. His eyes have become red rimmed, bloodshot, his pupils huge, his teeth sharp and long, his lips stained with my blood.
"Oh, Eve, now look what you've made me do…"
Chapter 3
"Is it better to out-monster the monster or be quietly devoured?"
Nietzsche
"Come."
He takes my arm, pulling me away from the bus stop. When I try to fight back, he stops, his perfectly-square jaw tensing.
"What are you doing?" I say, standing my ground.
"I'm not letting you go home on the bus with injured hands." Then he takes my wrist and for some reason my ability to resist flags and he leads me towards a darkened parking lot, my body compliant even if my mind still rebels.
Oh, hell. Is he taking me there so he can finish what he started? Fear surges through me, choking me.
"Don't be afraid," he says and stops again. "I don't kill humans anymore. I kill vampires."
He seems calmer, his eyes no longer red, his teeth have receded in length and even in the low light, I can see that his pupils are now almost normal.
"Then how do you survive?"
"We don't have to kill humans to survive. Merely drink human blood. There are always donors and pets, and when I kill a vampire and drink his or her blood, it is like feeding off ten humans."
"You drink vampire blood? You have human pets?"
"No, I don't have pets. I detest the very idea. I subsist off donor blood. But some people like being our pets, Eve."
"I don’t believe that," I say, but the thought of being his pet appeals to me in some way I can’t explain.
He turns and smiles at me. "Even you might enjoy it…"
My cheeks burn. How did he do that? "So you can read my mind on top of everything else?"
He doesn't answer as we walk towards a lone car parked near the rear door to the linguistics building. It's a Mercedes hybrid, sleek and jet-black. He opens the door.
"In you go."
I sit inside and he has the nerve to fasten my seatbelt, apparently enjoying the opportunity to get all cozy with me, then he takes my hands again and examines them as if checking to see how they are.
I can't help but notice how attractive he is.
Then he makes a funny noise in his throat, like exasperation or a grunt of enjoyment, I can't tell which. He leans close to me, smirking, his face just a few inches from mine, and adjusts the strap across my chest.
"Eve, I'm flattered you're attracted to me, but really, I fastened your seatbelt because your hands aren't very useful right now."
Of course.
I feel another blush rising. How does he do that? I glance at my hands and he's touching my wrist. It must be skin on skin contact so I quickly pull my hand away. He remains there, leaning over my seat, his gaze moving over my face.
"You have to learn to build up mental walls."
He stands back up and closes the door. When he gets in on the driver's side, I turn to him.
"How do I do that? Build up mental walls?"
"Oh, no," he says and shakes his head. "If you think I'm going to tell you, you're extremely naïve."
So he wants to be able to invade my mind? "It's not fair. No one should be able to do that."
"Life's not fair, Eve. I'm proof of that. Besides drinking blood, it's our ability to affect your minds and read your memories that vampires crave. It keeps us from losing our humanity."
I look at him closely. "You really resent being made a vampire."
"Duh," he says and starts the car. For a moment, I'm at a loss. Duh? Is that some archaic French curse?
"Did you just say 'duh'?"
He smiles and looks at me with that grin on his face.
"I may be eight hundred years old but I do try to keep up with the times."
"Well, let me enlighten you, Michel," I say, pronouncing his name in an exaggerated manner – Mee shell. "Duh is so nineties."
"Oh, Eve, Eve, Eve." He smiles as he shifts into gear. "I can see we're going to have a lot of fun, you and I. But let me get one thing perfectly straight. If I'm going to do this – if I'm going to let you in – you have to learn obedience."
Obedience? As in obey him? "What do you mean, let me in?"
"If I'm going to train you as my…" he pauses. "As my Adept, you have to learn to obey."
I'm a modern woman. I'm a daughter of several generations of feminists. I must be my own woman but with vampires, it's impossible to avoid. Unless you're like me and immune to compulsion.
"Train me? What do you mean, obey?"
He makes a funny throat noise again.
We drive on for a moment in silence. "Obey as in you take orders from me." He looks over at me once we're on the road and up to speed. "You're a hunter, you know, despite the pretty face. I just need to bring out those gifts that are hidden away."
"What gifts?"
He shifts down as we come to a light.
"You never noticed how fast you can run? How well you can see at night? Those are all traits of hunters. But you," he says and shakes his head. "You're special. You're what we call Adept. This ability to connect minds? That's unique."
"I never knew about the mind thing," I say, frowning. "How come I never felt it before?"
"This connection is unique between vampires and Adepts. It's touch telepathy. All vampires have it, but it's one way. We use it to read our prey's minds, to control your brain chemicals, make you struggle less when we feed. We use it to make you obey and forget things – or at least, most of you. For some reason, you're immune to compulsion and having your memory erased."
"My mother never told me about any psychic abilities."
"She didn't want this life for you," he says as we drive off once the light changes. "She and your father wanted you in the arts. Dance or music."
"You knew my mother?"
"Only through Julien." We drive on in silence for a moment, and he's frowning as if in thought. Finally, he turns to me.
"Eve, Adepts were meant to be trained from an early age. Your parents wanted to train you as a musician or dancer instead, which I'm sure violated the terms of their contract."
"Contract?"
He turns and glances at me, frowning.
"One thing at a time. Let's get you home and get your hands fixed. Now, please, no more questions. I have to think things through."
I want to ask what he means about my parent's contract and what things he has to think through but I keep quiet, watching the scenery pass by. I do see well at night and when I glance at him in the darkened car interior, I can see him as if it was the middle of a cloudy day, his skin gray like in a black and white image. I was always a fast runner but my parents said no to track because I had to dance and practice piano instead. They finally took me out of regular school in fourth grade and homeschooled me, giving me dance and music lessons and hiring private tutors.
We drive up to my apartment building. "How did you know where I live?"
He looks at me and taps his temple.
"Think of using telepathy as a short-cut. We don't always have to use words. Neurons and neurochemicals are so much faster. And, of course, if you were my blood slave, we could even communicate at a distance."
Blood slave? Oh, that doesn't sound good.
"What's a blood slave? Do you mean telepathy at a distance?"
"Yes," he says. "There'd be no need to touch. Blood slaves are addicted to vampire blood. Vampire blood causes high levels of neurotransmitters to circulate in your brain and gives a heroin-like high. People try to steal it, sell it on the black market because of its drug-like effects and temporary healing properties. If you drink too much, you get addicted, like any other drug. Whatever you do, don't ever let a vampire feed you his blood in large quantity." Then he turns to me and smiles that lopsided smile. "Unless the idea of being a slave appeals to you, that is… And, if I read you correctly, it does."
I make a face at him and turn
away. He can touch me and find out things? Personal things, private things? And until I figure out how to block him, he can do it at will. All he has to do is touch me skin on skin.
He opens my door after we park on the street and stands too close to me, like he enjoys making me feel uncomfortable. I sidle by him and start up the stairs to my building, opening the door. He follows me in and I stop and frown.
"How can you come in? I haven't invited you."
"I've been in Boston for a long time, Eve. I've been invited in this building before."
He follows me up the stairs to the third floor where my apartment is but I stop at the door, my key in hand.
"Here," he says and reaches for my keys. "Let me."
"I don't think so," I say. "This is where you leave."
"I don't think so," he says.
"You're not coming into my apartment."
"I am. Let's go, Eve. I need to fix your palms and we need to talk."
I stand my ground. He's not coming in. "I can fix my own palms, thanks. You can send me an email and tell me whatever it is you think I need to know. I'm not letting you into my apartment because then you'll be able to enter any time you want."
"Eve, we need to talk. Open the door. I'm coming in."
"You have no right to order me around."
"I'm coming in."
"Why are you so domineering?"
"Why are you so emotional?" he says and steps closer to me, touching my cheek. Instantly, I calm down from whatever brain chemicals he's making me release. "Don't get me wrong," he says softly. "I love that in you. It makes it so easy for me to read you without even having to touch you. Of course, I do so like to touch you." He smiles.
"If I'm emotional, it's because this matters."
"I know," he says all full of sympathy, tilting his head in that characteristic way. "I don't trust people who control their emotions too well. You can't lie and I value that. You might as well just stop lying to me and then this will all be so much easier. Now, open the door. Invite me in."
"I don't want you to come in."
"I know you don't, Eve," he says softly. "All of this must be very upsetting to you. I didn't want this either. I tried to erase your memories so you could go on and just live your life without becoming involved in our world. But now that you are involved, you have to trust me."
"I can't just trust you," I say, frustrated. "Trust is built and based on evidence of trustworthiness."
"You really have no choice. Either you let yourself trust me, surrender to it, or you fight me every step of the way. And believe me, this is a fight you will not win."
"Surrender to it?" I say, barely able to keep my voice under control. "You mean surrender to you. I've never been one to just give over to anything."
"I can sense that," he says and sighs. "It will just make things more difficult and painful. So much easier for us both if you just comply."
We stand there at an impasse.
"I'm not letting you in willingly."
"So be it," he says and grabs my wrist. "I'm committed to my cause, Eve. Nothing – no paltry resistance on the part of a pretty Adept is going to sway me from it. I'll do whatever I have to – whatever it takes – even if I hate myself for it. Even if you hate me for it. Now open the door and let me in. I can't compel you but I can hurt you."
I close my eyes as pain burns through me like a knife searing in my gut. I gasp at its intensity and bend over at the waist. It's so sharp it brings tears to my eyes. Then it's gone as quickly as it starts.
"You…monster…"
"Yes, I am a monster," he says and shakes me, his expression dark. "Don't forget it." After a moment, his face softens. "Eve, I don't want to hurt you," he says, his voice quiet. "Quite the opposite. But you must know with complete certainty that I will do anything and everything to succeed, including hurting you if it's the only way to get compliance."
I turn away from him, my face all hot from the pain, my eyes all teared-up for the umpteenth time this evening. I open the door and step inside but I don't invite him in.
He just stands there for a moment, waiting. Then he closes his eyes and I swear I can see him fuming.
"Don't make me force you. I'm very old and very powerful and very angry right now."
I give in. "Please, come in."
I hear his sigh of relief and then he steps over the threshold.
"You live alone?" he asks, glancing around.
I want to say that I have a boyfriend living with me who plays linebacker on the football team, or a big Rottweiler, but he'll know both are a lie. He's touched me quite a bit tonight and probably already knows I'm a single cat lady in waiting.
"Yes. I have two cats, but otherwise I live by myself. I also have two real Samurai swords on the wall in my bedroom."
Damn. I didn't really say that, did I?
He smiles and then laughs out loud, his too-blue eyes filled with amusement. My face burns and so I go to my closet and remove my coat and hang it up, depositing my umbrella inside.
He comes over to me and takes my hands in his. I try to avoid him, but he's far too strong. He turns my palms face up and inspects each palm.
"They're already healing," he says. "It's that good old Adamantine magic we have in our saliva and all bodily fluids."
"Adamantine?"
"An undying eternal property. The principle that keeps us immortal. Your mother should have something about it in her files."
"So you really didn't need to come in and fix my palms."
"No," he says lightly. "I lied. People who can't lie aren't very good at detecting deception. They're two sides of the same coin. But we do need to talk."
"Make yourself at home." I wave to the apartment and exhale with frustration. "Since you can now, whenever you want, no matter what I want."
"Thank you."
He's so damn pleased with himself, like he's just won an important battle. He starts walking around my tiny flat, inspecting things like he's searching for something. At my old upright piano against the wall, he sorts through my sheet music, selecting Chopin's Ballade No. 1, tilting his head to one side. I don't play it very well because it's so damn hard.
"You were a prodigy."
"Supposedly, but you take any three-year-old and drill them like they're an army recruit and make it so that every ounce of love they get is premised on performance and you'll produce a little piano playing machine, too."
"Dieu," he says and glances at me. "God, you sound bitter. I'd think you'd be pleased that your parents invested so much time honing your talent."
I shrug. I guess I am bitter. All that practice and performance for nothing. All those years wasted taking ballet and music when I could have just been a normal kid and had normal experiences.
"I studied for eight years. Besides dance, practicing piano was my whole life. I used to envy other kids who weren't forced to play or perform. After a certain age, I was pulled out of school and tutored because my father wanted me to be a professional like him and my mother wanted me to be a dancer the way she always dreamed of being."
"Yes, parents can be such beasts at times," he says. "I hope you'll play for me one day." He looks up from the keys and smiles at me, just a quick smile. "Music is one of my great passions."
The way he says it – passions – makes me feel suddenly uncomfortable for I can't help but think of him being passionate. He looks like someone who could get all passionate – like an obsessive musician or artist – and that's dangerous ground for me.
"Is playing part of my job description?" I say, trying to be a smartass.
"No, of course not. Music is my greatest love. It makes existence bearable."
His words have a strange effect on me. Music makes his existence bearable? I'm a bit unnerved by that and I don't know what to say for a moment.
"I'm out of practice. I've been pretty busy with finals and haven't played for quite a while."
He frowns. "You shouldn't let your skills rust, Eve. When you
have a beautiful gem, you should make sure to keep it polished. Such a waste otherwise. And so sad that all you have is this old piece of junk on which to play."
"It's all that could fit in my apartment." I turn away and make a face, unsure how to respond. Is he chastising me for not playing enough? Where does he get off?
He stands in the middle of my piles of paper from my mother's files, which are spread out on the hardwood floor.
"You need a filing cabinet."
I start picking up the piles, placing them on my desk at the side of the room.
"They're my mother's files. The university just released them from the archives."
When I'm done, I sit on the couch while he wanders around my apartment, my knees weak from everything that's happened since this afternoon.
He moves to my desk eyeing the pile of books and papers, pushing them around, stooping to my wastebasket – the letter … I've been writing a letter to include in a birthday card to my best friend Cecile, who's off in Philadelphia to do her MD. I've handwritten them and crunched up one after another draft, unhappy with the results.
"Those are my private things," I say, alarmed.
"I know."
"Leave them alone." I try to sound forceful, which is ridiculous, given who and what he is, but I don't want him to read anything too personal. He rustles through the letters in my wastebasket and pulls out the one on top.
"Don't," I say, dreading the thought that he'll read my uncensored remarks. "That's private."
"Dear sweet Eve," he says with his soft almost-imperceptible French accent, "I've already been in your mind. This," he says and holds up the letter, "this is nothing in comparison."
He reads it, and I close my eyes, grimacing in embarrassment at what I've written. I go to him and snatch it out of his hands and go back to the couch, reading it over to see which version he's read.
Dear Ceci,
Happy Birthday, girl! I miss you so much and wish you were here or I was there so we could go out and dress all up and pretend we're the geek versions of Carrie and Charlotte and drink those crazy cocktails you love so much!