But it wasn't. No more than it had been the first time.
Miserable, she left the bathroom and found that he'd laid out a new set of clothes as well as a pajama shorts set. She checked the sizes and was mortified to see that he had them exactly right. There was no pretending that she was something she wasn't. She hated the idea that he knew she was a size eighteen—hated that he'd seen her naked when she'd been so careful all of her life not to allow it.
She dropped her towel and changed into the pajama set. Miserable, and not knowing what else to do, she climbed into bed and was asleep only a few moments later.
The nausea woke her. She broke out in a cold sweat as her gut clenched. Hoping the feeling would pass, she lay perfectly still until she knew that it wouldn't. Unable to fight it any longer, she threw herself out of bed and rushed to the bathroom before it was too late.
She barely made it to the toilet in time. The elegant dinner she'd enjoyed went straight into the toilet, scouring her throat and mouth with fire. Tears streamed down her face, making her eyes blur. Her stomach convulsed again and again until she had nothing left inside her, and even then the disgust continued to make her dry heave.
Finally, she was able to stop and flushed the toilet, crawling to the tub and running water to rinse her mouth out and wash her face.
She heard the door open and knew he'd come in.
If things weren't bad enough, they always got worse. Maggie kept her back to him, bathing her face in cold water.
He touched her shoulder gently, pulling her hair back from her face.
Maggie shrugged him off, going stiff all over. If it wasn't bad enough that he'd rejected her, to have him see her this way should have killed her dead on the spot from mortification. Someone up above liked to torture her for fun too much. “Stay the fuck away from me, you bastard!"
He dropped his hand, but she could still feel him right behind her, watching.
Maggie tried to ignore him. The pain helped. Her head felt like it was going to split open. Even her teeth hurt, ached as though someone had tried to pry them apart. Pain gnawed at her belly now that it was empty, but she'd be damned if she'd experience that again for something to fill it and take the ache away.
"You have to feed. I thought having some food in your stomach would slow the process, but I see it hasn't."
Pain lanced her gums. She tasted blood and knew they'd split. She gulped a mouthful of water and spit it out, seeing small threads of blood run down the drain.
"Your fangs have come fully in. It's the overabundance of venom that sickens you and drives the hunger,” he said softly, as if he knew what she was experiencing.
She half wondered hysterically if a dentist could pull them and fix her little problem. She cried into the tub, pressing her palm into it to keep from falling inside as she spat more blood out. Bile rose in her throat. She'd always had a problem looking at blood, much less tasting it. The coppery taste repulsed her. How could she ever stand drinking it willingly?
"What's wrong with me?” she whispered, sobbing against her arm.
"You need blood. If you don't hunt tonight, you'll die."
Chapter Five
He helped her stand, steadying her as she wavered against him. He closed his arms around her, comforting her in a way she hadn't been since before her mom died. He rubbed his hands on her back in soothing circles.
"Do I have to kill someone?” she asked, horrified by the implication of feeding off of another human being. She was in so much pain though, she thought that maybe she could off a bad guy if this went on long enough. Prolonged torture could make a person do anything to make it stop. She had a horrible aversion to pain and suffering.
"We're forbidden to kill humans. But that's not what we will hunt tonight. I dare not take you into the city, regardless. There is wildlife nearby, and it will be easier for you for your first time."
So far, there was nothing remotely romantic about being a vampire. Someone, somewhere had screwed up on the glamorous parts.
Not speaking further, he led her into the room and she saw he'd brought her another outfit. She appreciated him shopping for her—even if she didn't know when he could have done it—but his taste just didn't fit her body style. Spread on the bed was a fire engine red, leather bustier; black lambskin pants, boot cut; twenty eye, Doc Marten boots with red flames stitched on the sides; and a leather duster. If she was about forty pounds lighter, she'd love his taste in clothing. As it was, she didn't need any help looking bigger.
Despite her pain, there were some things she couldn't let rest without saying something. “Haven't you heard leather makes fat people look fatter?"
He sighed and ran a hand through his long hair in irritation. “It's easier to clean the blood off of leather and vinyl. I'll wait for you downstairs."
She was just delaying and she knew it. Killing something and drinking its blood was inevitable.
Swallowing hard, she changed from her soaked pajamas into the leather clothing. Unfortunately, the lining clung to her damp skin and made getting into it extremely difficult. She felt like a fatty piece of meat shimmying into a sausage skin. When she was dressed, panting from exertion, she took a quick trip into the bathroom to check herself out. The mirror wasn't full length, but it gave her a good idea of what she looked like.
She actually didn't look that bad, considering. The leather, tight as it was, held her stomach in, shaped and lifted her butt, and the bustier made her breasts look huge. The man was seriously kinky with this whole leather fetish.
A wave of dizziness made her close her eyes, and Maggie knew she'd delayed long enough. The sleep she'd gotten only seemed to have made her groggy rather than rested, and she wasn't sure how many of the symptoms she was feeling could be attributed to this ‘thirst for blood'.
She dragged herself downstairs where he waited in the foyer, lounging against the banister, dressed in unrelieved black like it was some vampire uniform. The glass and blood streaking the floor from earlier had been cleaned up.
Maggie felt her breath catch as he looked up at her. He really was beautiful, in a completely male sort of way. She couldn't remember ever seeing another man that affected her the way he did. Her desire for other men seemed pathetic now, as weak as dishwater compared to the blinding force of his sexual attraction.
Potently masculine, he oozed carnality. Just looking at his face sent her thoughts whirling away from her own hurts to imagine sensual aches that would hurt so good in all the right places. She craved it with a hunger equal to that to ease her pain. If she could think about sex while feeling like she'd expire at any moment, she felt her chances were pretty good that she'd live.
She wasn't sure how long she could stand to be around him, knowing that he'd found something repulsive about her. She preferred not knowing exactly what it was and just picking at it with her brain rather than know that it was something she'd never be able to change about herself.
He held his arm out expectantly, and she wrapped her hand around it, surprised when he led her away from the front door down the hall that went beneath the stairs. In the back, past the kitchen and other rooms sealed off from her view, there stood the back door. It was boarded up from the inside, but as he unlocked the knob, she found it was only an illusion. That, or he'd come in here while she was upstairs and pried all the nails loose.
She was surprised to see the moon high in the sky. It was later than she'd thought it was.
Here at the back of the house, parked under an oak tree sat a car covered with a tarp. She couldn't make out the model, but whatever it was, by the curves, she could see it was sporty.
Instead of leading her to it, he took her into the woods. Close to the house, the land seemed to have only recently been taken over by nature. Scrub cluttered the ground chest high, and fresh saplings grew with trunks no thicker than her forearm, but the ground was perfectly flat, which led her to believe it had only grown over perhaps five years or so ago. Surprisingly, despite the dappled light m
aking it darker than it should have been, she could see well enough not to fall on her face.
Her night vision seemed stronger than it had been before, but she couldn't know if that was an overactive imagination or not. She hadn't displayed any other ‘super’ powers.
They didn't talk as they worked through the woods.
She breathed shallowly, creeping behind him as he moved silently to the leaner wood, thicker and dark, with a covering of leaves thick enough to stifle the growth of underbrush. She sensed he was tense, watchful. He looked up suddenly, as if he'd heard something, startling her with his abrupt reaction.
Without warning, he took off at a run.
Maggie trailed after him, but dressed all in black, he blended into the dark so completely she lost him within seconds. She stopped, holding her breath as she listened for him. In the distance, snapping sounded, echoing through the trees like a rifle shot.
She jumped at the sudden noise and ran in that direction. In seconds, another wave of dizziness washed over her, leaving her weak. She stopped, leaning against a tree as she waited for it to pass. Each heartbeat accentuated the feeling, until her entire body throbbed with acute pain. She dropped to her knees as her stomach spasmed on a hard knot. Gasping, she clutched her belly, closing her eyes tightly as she tried to meditate and convince herself it didn't hurt so bad. Over and over, she repeated the mantra, a cold sweat drying on her brow, giving her chills.
Behind her, something fell to the ground. The scent of blood assaulted her nose, making her want to retch.
She swallowed with difficulty, huddling on the ground, trying to control her shivering.
"It's worse than I thought,” Danior said from behind, moving around before her. In his arms he held a young deer. It was still alive, but its eyes were glazed as if it had been tranquilized.
Just by looking at it, she knew that he held it enthralled.
He knelt before her and produced a butterfly knife, flipping it open with one hand as he lay the deer on the ground. He sliced its throat open without preamble, without struggle or pain to the animal. It lay there as it's life bled out of its throat.
Blood scented the air, sharp and pungent.
"Drink,” he whispered.
Maggie shook her head, closing her eyes against the sight. Her teeth seemed to pulse. Her gums swelled.
Saliva pooled in her mouth, making her feel like she'd drown.
Danior moved until he caught her by the back of the neck, pushing her inexorably toward the deer. Her lips touched its neck, warm liquid wetting the sensitive skin.
"Drink if you want to live,” he commanded.
Fighting nausea, she opened her mouth against it, letting her teeth sink in to the bare flesh. Her gums convulsed as her teeth connected, she felt something ejaculate from her teeth—like a stinger releasing poison ... or fangs. The pain in her head ceased immediately, as if a fluid had been built up, causing unbearable pressure that had now been released. Fresh blood welled into her mouth in that instant, making her gag. She choked on it, tried to pull back to spit it out, but he wouldn't ease the pressure on the back of her neck, forced her to drink.
She swallowed. Warmth spread into her belly, quieting its painful uproar. She felt the same as if she'd gulped a draught of wine.
"More,” he said, urging her to drink. She did, drinking more as he commanded her, until her body prickled with sensation.
Apparently satisfied she had had enough, he released her.
Maggie turned away from the dead creature, standing as she wiped blood off her mouth with the back of her hand. She bit a knuckle, choking back tears. She continued to taste it and feel the pulse beating, growing weaker beneath her tongue. Worse than drinking it's life, as her belly had filled and the warmth spread into her arms and legs—she'd enjoyed it. The pleasure was akin to orgasm, not the peak, but the afterglow. Waves of energy traveled inside her, like a sigh of endorphins radiating through her body.
He closed his arms around her, wrapping her in his heat and scent, obliterating any chance of seeing her kill as she recovered.
She was repulsed by what she'd done, the way she felt. How could she enjoy something so horrible?
Would her humanity drain away each time she fed, until she was nothing but a monster? “How often will I have to do this?” she said brokenly, sobbing against his chest. “I'd rather die than do this every night."
He rubbed her back, rocking her in his arms. “Each vampire is different. Some require constant feeding.
Others do so perhaps once a month, or a few times during a year. We won't know how often you will have to feed until the next time it happens."
"I can't stand it. I can't be here, Danior. Take me back to the house, please."
* * *
Though she'd been sleeping most of the time since her attack, Maggie was exhausted. She felt emotionally drained by everything that had happened. Her nerves were raw, easily rubbed to the point where the smallest, inconsequential detail would hurt her, memories an agony. She was so tired, so ill at the turn of her life, that all she wanted to do was sleep.
Danior seemed to sense her weariness and bade her return to her room to sleep until she felt better. She did so gladly.
In her sleep though, she was tortured by images of dead things. They were all around her, demanding her life in return for theirs, claiming she was their murderer. Maggie screamed and ran away from them, but always she was hungry, looking for a new victim, looking for blood. She had to go through them to ease the unquenchable thirst. They clawed at her legs, nails painful, poisonous. Her legs were deteriorating beneath her, leaving her prey to them, unable to run away.
Maggie cried out in her sleep, struggling to wake herself. She knew she dreamed, but she couldn't fight the hold of her slumber, could only repeat the horrors again and again.
Cool hands touched her forehead before grasping her bare shoulders. They shook her, gently, and she came awake at last with a gasp. Danior stood above her, his face inscrutable in the dark.
Seeing him brought her a sense of relief so profound, it brought tears to her eyes. She wanted to ask him to hold her, but she wasn't brave enough to risk rejection—wasn't sure enough of how he would respond.
"You were having a nightmare,” he said softly, brushing the tears from her cheeks with a thumb.
Maggie shivered. It had been years since she'd suffered night terrors. Stress and uncertainty caused them, and she had this unwelcome feeling that they would only continue and grow worse. “I know, but it didn't feel that way to me. It felt real. Horrible."
"It happens to many of us,” he said. Without asking, but as if he knew she sought his embrace, he climbed into the bed, facing her beneath the covers. He pulled her against his bare chest, wrapping an arm around her back for support.
He was all muscle, hard and unyielding, but his gentleness with her made her feel indescribably tender, achy and needy for him.
The rhythm of his heart lulled her fears. She almost felt like she could trust him to keep the nightmares at bay, that she'd found a knight in shining armor instead of a creature of the dark ... a living nightmare.
It couldn't fight the hopelessness welling inside her, the despair—rational or irrational—that she would become a monster surrounded by other monsters more terrifying than anything she could imagine. She was a realist. This was an abandoned house, not a place where he lived. In the back of her mind, she knew they were hiding, that something bad hovered on the horizon, waiting to attack. She couldn't bring herself to ask him and confirm her suspicions, and she suspected he would lie about it anyway to spare her. Something bad was going to happen. Something worse than anything she'd experienced thus far. She felt it in her bones. “You should have let me die,” she whispered, turning her face into his chest as sleep overcame her.
* * *
Danior flinched at her words, tightening his arm at the small of her back. How often had he wished much the same thing? Eternity paled when there was no hope for a bett
er existence, no hope for the common dreams of man. Immortality seemed to suck the life out even as it granted forever.
He felt her thoughts, felt the horror and despair, her uncertainty. She sensed a malevolence approaching just as he did. Her gift of clairvoyance was fledgling but promising.
He could tell her the truth, but he was reluctant to. She was strong, her will great, but she'd been hit by too much, and she hadn't yet fully recovered from the first stages of her disease. She would not come into her powers until the virus had time to spread through her body like a cancer, mutating cells instead of devouring them.
The council had likely discovered by now that Zane had left a changing human at Danior's mercy. In the week since, he had not returned to dispel surfacing rumors. They would know what he'd done, and they would kill him for it. He wondered idly who they would send to do the deed.
The only way for the council to maintain control was to issue death to any who broke their rules. Among the long lived, death was the only thing they feared. Ostracism had never worked, for most were loners by nature. The new world orders had forgone the torture of the old world in favor of dealing swift, lethal justice. There were too many vampires to hide. If their numbers increased, they would be discovered. As advanced as this age was, they would still be destroyed for their way of life, for feeding from the living—or taken for secret experiments.
Danior had understood the rule, had agreed with it for as long as he'd lived here, since the signing of the Louisiana Purchase.
It would have been better to let her die. She wanted it, but he simply couldn't bring himself to destroy her, no matter how hard the devils of reason spurred him to.
It was too late now to make a difference one way or another.
This place of massacre would not shelter them long. Only reluctance and fear of the past had kept them away for this long. Time was not on his side. He had to get her out of the states, to the old world and their old traditions.
That meant negotiating passage to the old world, so that they were not killed on sight. He had his cell phone in his back pants pocket. He could make the arrangements tomorrow. There was bound to be a ship they could take from port.
Carnal Thirst cd-3 Page 5