Bloodlines (Demons of Oblivion)

by Skyla Dawn Cameron

  I still contemplated my escape options when Nate returned to the car. Perhaps assuming I couldn’t walk, he opened the car door and lifted me into his arms to carry me the short distance to the cabin. Puddles and mud ran alongside the path to the house—suggesting it had rained hard a few hours earlier—and I was barefoot, so I didn’t protest. Instead, I leaned my aching head on his shoulder.

  The front door led straight into the main room. A fireplace was on the far wall, with several fluffy floor pillows nearby, and a couch and a loveseat facing one another a couple feet from that. Nate flipped on the floor lamp nearby, bathing the small space in light; to the far left was a hallway leading into the kitchen at the back of the house and to the right were a series of open doors, showing two bedrooms and a bathroom.

  It looked better on the inside than the outside. No thrift store furniture here, no hand-me-downs from when someone’s house was upgraded. The barebones of the cabin were old; the other additions looked and smelled new.

  The air had a mugginess to it, damp with summer heat. Nate shivered with me in his arms; no blood flow had likely left me like a block of ice, and he’d been carting me around awhile. With a few muttered words from him, a fire flared up in the hearth. He set me down there, kicked off his boots, then disappeared into the kitchen.

  I got as close to the flames as I could, but they did nothing to warm me. The fire just reminded me that I was cold, which reminded me of blood, and that made my stomach convulse with hunger.

  Please let it be quick. Please. God, I didn’t think I could take the whole night waiting. Not this cold, this hungry. With one of the pillows beneath my head, I curled up next to the fire and just prayed it would all end soon.

  Those prayers were met with a stab of pain through my back, which wound around my spine and throughout my muscles. I arched. Screamed. Flailed. This time when I heard a crack, I knew without a doubt it was my bones breaking to make room for the new ones I felt growing.

  Nate was over me in seconds, hand on my forehead, brushing my hair away from my face. “You’re okay.”

  I focused on his touch, let my mind narrow on that gentle contact warming my skin. Pain subsided, shifting to the background—ever present, but dull enough that my vision remained clear.

  “Just hold on a bit longer.”

  Right. Hold on to what? I sat up as Nate moved away. This just...just didn’t seem right. Didn’t seem real. I could kid myself and pretend I pictured my death being in a blaze of glory, fighting a Hunter or something, but the truth was that I had never actually considered dying. In so many ways I was already dead, and yet I also just assumed I would somehow always exist.

  I said goodbye to Ana. Became Zara. Zara saved me, with her strength and her confidence and her self-preservation. Zara was invincible, but I couldn’t will away the parasite changing my body, ripping me apart to create a monster.

  My vision narrowed on the hunting knife sitting on the coffee table. The blade glinted in the firelight, both ugly and beautiful. I didn’t remember seeing it when we entered the cabin and Nate set me on the floor. It was probably all he had to saw my head off with after he impaled my heart with the poker I noticed resting by the fireplace.

  Oh god, I don’t want to die.

  I drew my knees up, wrapped my arms around my legs, and curled my spine.

  Nate sat a foot away and slipped off his black sweatshirt. I glanced up, watched him cast it aside, then he moved on to unbutton the first four buttons of the white shirt he wore beneath.

  Worry stopped up my throat and soured the atmosphere around us. Something was off. He didn’t need to be partially undressed to kill me. “What are you doing?”

  He pulled back the collar of his shirt, exposing the pale flesh of his throat, and pierced my gaze with his intense stare. “Feed.”

  My eyes widened in understanding. He didn’t want to kill me...

  But what he was asking me to do would kill him.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Dinner’s On Me

  Oh no. No.

  My gaze darted around the room in search of escape. “No way. No.”

  Hunger gnawed at my gut, body screaming. I didn’t need to look at his neck to be reminded of the veins beneath his flesh, rushing with blood and warmth. His heartbeat thrummed erratically, pumping life through his body, and my gums ached as my fangs cried out to be released.

  But I wouldn’t. Wouldn’t. Because I wasn’t a monster yet and I could control myself.

  “You have to,” Nate said.

  “No.” I started to rise.

  His fingers locked on my wrist—my bloodless, bony wrist—and drew me back down. “Zara, you’ll die.”

  “I won’t.” I wrenched from his grasp and scrambled backward until I pressed right up against the side of the couch. Heart hammering, fingers twitching, I made myself as small as I could, begging the hunger to go away—praying he’d get the fuck away from me now.

  “Peter says—”

  I met his eyes, leveled him with my coldest stare. “I know what Peter told you.”

  He stared at me, breathing deeply, crouched. Poised, like a wild animal about to pounce, yet watched me as if I was the cornered beast. If we collided in this moment, there would be blood. “If what Peter said is true...you don’t have time. You feed or you become something else. And they’ll kill you.”

  They’ll kill me. Not Nate. He dragged me all the way out into the woods not to murder me, but force me to feed—if I refused, if I became a monster, I’d kill him anyway, and the others would have to put me down.

  Something broke in me. Shattered. My eyes burned, my heart hurt, because he wasn’t going to kill me. He just wanted to save me. Save me—why would he do that? Why would anyone do that? Like he said, I was self-absorbed, arrogant, and childish. What had I ever done that made me worth saving?

  I eyed his neck, then looked away. Shook my head. God, I was so hungry...perhaps if I only had a little...

  An image of myself slashing open his throat and consuming his very last drop of blood entered my mind unbidden, and as horrific as it was...god, it would be glorious.

  And someone with those kinds of thoughts about a friend clearly wasn’t worth saving.

  Tears streaked down my cheeks. “It’ll kill you. I can’t.”

  “Then don’t take it all,” he said, as if I really had a choice in the matter when I was starving.

  “You fucking moron—I won’t be able to stop and I’ll drain you!”

  “Zar—”

  “No—” Agony burned, shooting through me, spiraling and twisting over every muscle. Bones cracked, thundering in my ears. I arched back, grabbing the arm of the couch to steady myself.

  Nate caught me around the waist. Pulled me close—too close. I shut my eyes and focused on the pain this time, on anything but his beating heart—

  The coppery scent of blood filled the air.

  My eyes opened to see a spot of blood on the hunting knife resting on the table, and a crimson well forming on the tip of Nate’s finger.

  No no no no NONONO—not good. Fuck, not good. I twisted, fought him with weakening limbs, tried to tear from his hold, but in seconds he had pressed his finger to my lips. A growl sounded from my throat; the taste of blood intensified my hunger, which was likely his intent. My head whirled. Couldn’t think. Couldn’t remember why I’d been fighting him. Just a few drops of blood had sent me spinning into oblivion and all I knew was that I needed more.

  He pulled his hand away. My face was inches from his throat. Gums pinched, fangs elongated to touch my bottom lip—longer than they’d been before, needle sharp at the bottom. And I couldn’t do it. Refused. I wasn’t some hopeless monster without free will—starving or not, I wouldn’t kill this man. I was better than that.

  “I’ll kill you,” I mumbled around my stupid, useless fangs, shaking my head as if it could somehow strengthen my resolve.

  His fingers smoothed my hair, breath touched my temple as he spoke. “I tru
st you.”

  Then you’re an idiot. I concentrated on my fangs, forced them back. “You don’t understand—”

  “You have to.”

  Struggling again did me no good, strength drained. “No, you heard what Peter said! It probably doesn’t matter whether or not I feed—it’s probably too late!”

  “We’re going to try—”

  I punched. Hard. Hit him square in the chest; the force sent tremors up my arm and I lost my balance, fell back on my elbows. “No!”

  He snatched the hunting knife from the table and held it to his throat. “Don’t think I won’t. Either you feed and try not to drain me, or I do this for you.”

  “I can’t—”

  Blade bit into flesh—not enough to draw blood, but denting skin. “A quick slash’ll do it.”

  My gut knotted, eyes closed. “You’d be trading your life for mine. I’m not worth it.”

  “Zara, look at me.” His warm voice drew my eyes open again. Determination waited for me, gaze quietly fierce. Stubborn. He got something in his head and that was that with Nate. He’d win or die trying. “You are to me. You refuse, either we’ll sit here ’til you go mad and kill me yourself, or I cut my throat. If you try feeding, I have a chance.”

  “Nate—”

  “I’m not letting you die.”

  No, he wouldn’t. So I stopped reasoning with myself right then. Gave in to the pull that drew me forward. Pushed his hand away from his neck and he returned the blade to the table. Crawled onto his lap, planting a knee on either side of his hips, my eyes fixed on his throat.

  His heart beat harder. Throat swallowed. But fear just gave him a candy coating I couldn’t wait to bite into.

  My hands moved without thought; one pushed back the collar of his shirt, the other ran through his hair and procured a firm grip on the back of his skull. I breathed in—a very human gesture, but it filled me with the scent of his skin, of blood lingering in the air. My nose touched his throat, then my tongue darted out, taking in the taste of his flesh; he shuddered, heart thundered against his ribcage. But he didn’t back out.

  I bit down.

  The blood rushed into my mouth, past my lips. Teeth longer, sharper than before, I bit deeper, harder. More skin tore, veins broke. Welcome fire rushed through me, my body warming.

  He didn’t pull away. Didn’t struggle. He stiffened as I bit, then his arms wrapped around me, holding on. Hand caught a fistful of my hair and clutched the back of my head. He went through the motions I was so familiar with: violently tensing when I bit deeper, his heart thumping wildly, his breathing growing more and more uneven as I sucked the life from his body. But he didn’t let go.

  Nate lost his balance; I didn’t care. We fell back against the pillows.

  Somewhere in my mind I was faintly conscious of his hand slipping from my back and slumping to the floor. His breathing slowed, but I just needed a little more. Just a little.

  Pain shot through my scalp as his other hand fell, still tangled in my hair.

  My eyes shot open. Oh, fuck...

  I tore away from his throat. Blood leaked from the ugly gashes on his neck, soaking the pillow beneath him. I snatched the hunting knife and put a slice in my hand, then pressed it over the bite in his neck—

  Too late. His eyes were closed, his chest didn’t rise and fall with the intake of breath, and I couldn’t hear his heart beating.

  Oh god...I killed him.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Don’t Say “I Told You So”

  Don’t be dead, don’t be dead...

  “Nate!” I grabbed his wrist and felt for a pulse, my fingers trembling. Christ, he was pure ashen. This couldn’t be happening...don’t be dead, don’t be dead, please...

  What the hell should I do? Phone an ambulance? Call Heaven and Peter for help? I didn’t even know if the cabin had a telephone. And even if I got a hold of someone, they couldn’t get there in time.

  I dropped his wrist again. He was so fucking stupid. My hands clenched into fists and I wanted to hit him, hard—wanted to scream at him, to remind him I told him I wouldn’t be able to stop, that I would end up draining him...

  His fingers smoothed my hair, breath touched my temple as he spoke. “I trust you.”

  You stupid, stupid human. You idiot. I was the last fucking person he ever should have trusted. Ever. I was weak and selfish and I killed him.

  My eyes fell to my own hand, which was once again smooth and glowing with health. No more cracking bones or seizures. No more cold. I was alive, saved from becoming what Dragomir was.

  But alone.

  I crumpled. Doubled over. My head hit his chest and I let out a sudden, wrenching sob. Emotion swelled in me and it terrified me because I’d never felt this before—this stupid, useless hurting and rage that I couldn’t take out on anyone. “Please don’t be dead.”

  A hand touched the back of my head.

  I leapt back with an unflattering yelp.

  Nate’s eyes opened gradually and he blinked a few times as if just waking up.

  Oh shit. SHIT. I stared at him, lips parted and trembling. “Fuck, are you a zombie?”

  He started to sit up, then slumped back down again and sighed. “Feel like one, but nope.”

  I blinked. He was still there, still awake. “You’re not dead?”

  “No.” He fought his way up again until he sat propped up on one hand. “Neither are you.” He checked his neck with his free hand, flattening his palm over the wound, then withdrew it again and glanced at the blood. “It’s healing.”

  “But I drained you—”

  “No, you left enough for me to get by on, and a bit of magic-induced rapid blood cell production prior to this ensured that I would probably be okay.”

  Magic-induced...what?

  Shit, that guard of Heaven’s—the one bleeding out that he’d been trying to resuscitate. The one he insisted would make it. He never did bleed out ’cause of Nate. Holy fuck.

  He sat up straighter, wincing. “I didn’t expect to pass out, though...Zara? What’s wrong?”

  I stood and stumbled away from the fireplace.

  I thought I’d killed him. Fucking killed him dead. And I should be joyous, yet I was crying even more now that I knew he was alive. I rubbed at my face but couldn’t stop the tears. And I couldn’t handle it. He shouldn’t have mattered to me. I should never have even hesitated—should never have considered letting myself die instead of him. What the fuck was wrong with me? The intense relief I felt when I saw him open his eyes was the scariest goddamn thing I’d ever felt—scarier than thinking I’d killed him.

  I had to get out.

  “Zar?” He circled the couch before I could reach the door. “What—?”

  “Get away from me.” Get away, get away. I could...lock him in the bathroom or something. While I stole his car. Shit, where’d he put the keys?

  Ordinarily, I wouldn’t care about draining a mere human, but he’d done something to me. Made me care, made me worry about him, made me into a fool sitting there sobbing when I thought he—some stupid mortal—was dead. He wasn’t just stupid: I was fucking stupid. An idiot. Zara didn’t cry over humans. Zara didn’t cry over men of any kind. Zara wasn’t...wasn’t so fucking weak.

  I bolted in the opposite direction from Nate. If he wasn’t going to let me leave, I’d just lock myself in one of the rooms so I could give myself time to think. The rooms had windows. I could get out before he realized I’d slipped away. That’s how I survived, always: I ran. This would be no different. Brilliant plan.

  Fingers clasped mine as he caught up with me in the doorway to one of the bedrooms. I twisted away; he snatched my arm, yanked me back. As I spun to face him, his mouth captured mine.

  My brain swirled. Nate was kissing me. Nate didn’t like me and he was kissing me. Uncontrolled, ravenous—even when I’d unsuccessfully tried to seduce him before, I never imagined it would feel like this. Like he actually wanted me, like I was the only thing in the
world to him in that moment. Heat snaked through my body; my lips parted against his, letting him in.

  His breathing was ragged as he pulled back. Read my eyes. I waited for him to say something about it being a mistake, about how maybe the magic made him lose his mind. For the sting of rejection to hit.

  But the words never came, so I just stared. Stared back as the seconds passed—five, ten, twenty—trying to think rationally but failing. Utterly.

  Rationality, much like perspective and that pesky modesty-thing, is highly overrated in my books.

  I reached for him then I was slammed against the wall, kissing him, arching against him. Hands molded over my thighs, lifting me. I wrapped my legs around his waist, locking my ankles at his back.

  This is wrong. My mind piped up. He’d said shitty things to me. Made it abundantly clear, repeatedly, that I wasn’t his type. That he’d never want me. But he was hard and hot and digging into me and fuck what he said before. Actions louder than words and all that.

  Hands snatched the hem of my tank top, dragged it up, and I shifted to help him. My fingers slipped through his hair, down his neck as his lips feasted on my throat. I came to his shirt; its buttons put up a struggle, so I yanked the whole garment off of him. I rolled my hips; he growled. Thoughts spun through my head, brain still processing everything. To me, only a day had passed; for him four months. His hands cupped my breasts, mouth drew in a nipple, and oh my god, it was like I’d been asleep a century and awoke in a whole new world.

  He came back for me when I was lost. It didn’t make any sense—I didn’t know anyone who would do that for me. Didn’t understand why anyone would. From the moment I awoke in my own coffin, I had to rescue myself.

  But something told me he’d never been rescued either. A kid who grew up in a place where no one protected him, he learned to take care of himself. For a fleeting, terrifying moment I thought of him bleeding on the floor of Peter’s home, bullet in his gut. I almost left him, almost abandoned him, and I would’ve been one more person in a long line of them who betrayed his trust.