Thrall (A Vampire Romance)
Page 2
Oh God.
He carries me back to the van and throws me over his shoulder, fireman style. I can’t move, just stare at my arms dangling towards the ground as he yanks the van doors open and gingerly lowers me to the floor, cradling my head with his hand. He tucks me inside the bag, pulling it up around me before he grasps the zipper and drags the world away.
I’m in a body bag.
Chapter Two
During the trip, the sun rises. I can’t see it but I can feel it. There’s a moment of awareness and in my mind’s eye I see the cleansing light sweeping over everything, pushing the dark back into tiny corners and low places, and then my consciousness gutters out and I’m gone.
No time at all passes between the coming of sleep and waking up. My eyes pop open and I lay there disoriented, trying to adjust to my surroundings. I feel something I rarely experience anymore, fatigue. My muscles are actually sore, and I feel like I could actually willingly go to sleep if I close my eyes. Normally I’d have no trouble moving but it feels like there’s bags of sand piled on my chest as I try to sit up.
When I do and I get a look at my surroundings, I want to laugh. At least I’m not being dissected. I half expected a lab, either clean and modern and made of stainless steel and latex or some creepy old mansion’s basement, all stone and bubbling beakers and a hunchback.
What I get is a library, the personal study of someone with money. The books climb the walls on all four sides, broken only by a huge hearth and a set of gigantic, shuttered windows behind the ornate desk. There’s a pair of chairs facing the dead fire and someone is sitting in one, reading a book.
A book claps closed and the occupant stands up. It’s the guy from last night, in the same clothes. He looks tired. There’s bags under his eyes and red marks on his cheeks that might be the tracks of tears, but I’m sure I’m just making that up.
Standing up is even harder than sitting. I’m wobbly on my feet, and my head swims when I move. When I take a step I feel like I’m going to fall down. I move towards him, not sure what I mean to do when I get there. He watches, and sighs softly as I run head first into an invisible wall. I feel it with a brush of my hand, then reach out and touch it. I can see my skin flatten against the gentle curve, liked pressing against glass, and look down.
The floor is carpeted but where I’m standing there’s a circle of bare stone. Deep channels cut across the surface in a pattern I don’t recognize. The lines form many symbols, most prominently a five pointed star, the kind I used to fill my notebooks with when I was a bored little girl in… I blink a few times. The memory is gone before I realize it’s coming back. I choke it down. Nothing is worse than those random flashes, reminders that I used to be a human. Almost nothing.
Something is going to go bad here. I can feel it coming.
“What is this?”
“It’s a magic circle. A Greater Circle of Binding, to be exact.”
I snort. “There’s no such thing as magic.”
“Said the vampire,” he sighs.
“That’s different.”
He moves closer to the circle’s edge and I step back, backing my way across until I hit the other side, another invisible barrier. Or the same, I suppose, running around.
“How is it different?”
“I have a disease.” I don’t sound very confident.
“You don’t know anything about yourself, do you?”
I keep still, fighting the impulse to shake my head. I’m not giving him anything.
“Where are we? What do you want with me?”
“We’re in my home and it’s complicated.”
“Complicated how?”
He sighs and looks down at his hands. “You wouldn’t understand half of what I had to say.”
“I’m not stupid.”
“No, you’re not. You’re as smart as you are…” he trails off.
I swallow. “Last night, you… what are you?”
“My name is Michael. Yours is Christine.”
“How do you know that?”
He reaches in his pocket and pulls out a creased square of paper. Then it hits me. He has my picture.
In a blind, shrieking fury, I throw myself at him. I hit the wall and push against it, clawing the air.
“That’s mine. Give it back!”
He unfolds it and shows it to me.
“Who are they?”
“I don’t know. That’s me.”
“The other one?”
“I told you, I don’t know.”
“What’s your last name?”
“I don’t know.”
“Where were you born?”
“I don’t know!” I shriek, stamping my foot. “Give me my picture back.”
He folds it and puts it in his pocket.
“I might if you can behave.”
“Behave? Fuck you,” I snarl.
“I need you to listen to me.”
There’s a sadness in his voice, and it matches his eyes. He really does have striking eyes, big puppy dog baby blues, the kind that swallow you up when you stare at them. Except when I lock my gaze on his I just get static and an eerie sense of familiarity. Like deja-vu.
I step back from the edge of the circle, warily. I’m so tired. From what happened last night, I don’t think I could defend myself if he came after me. It feels like I’m swimming in lead.
“Is this is about revenge?”
“No. It’s about justice.”
He walks behind the desk. I eye him as he moves to the windows and opens the shutters. For a moment I don’t understand what I’m seeing. It’s as alien as a rose in a field of snow. By the time I comprehend, the beam of sunlight has already swept across the room and engulfed me.
I throw myself back in a screaming mass, but the sounds come out choked, agony flaring through me as I cough out a cloud of ash. Thin trails of smoke waft up from my fingers and I can feel the heat building up behind my eyes as I burn from the inside. My bones are glowing red hot, the heat charring through the flesh around them.
“Stop it,” I choke, “Stop it, please, stop…”
He swings the shutters closed but it’s too late. I’m burning. He rushes to the edge of the circle, maybe a little too fast, stops.
“You need to feed.”
“What do you want from me?”
He draws something from his pocket. It’s a band of links made out of dark metal. He tosses it into the circle.
“Put it on.”
I pick it up. I’m burning. I can taste the ash in my mouth. When I hold it in my hands I realize what it is. A collar. The metal is greasy, and I could swear it moves under my fingers, like it’s breathing. Like it’s alive.
If this doesn’t stop I’m going to die, die the true death that spirals down into oblivion. Those words float from the back of my head, but they’re not mine. I lift the collar to my throat and it moves on its own with a sudden viper quickness, slipping around my neck. It clasps with a solid latching sound and tightens, squeezing my throat, the pointed corners of the links digging into my skin.
The burning doesn’t stop. I cough and a puff of ash falls out of my mouth. My skin has tightened around my bones. I can feel them starting to cut through. I’m dying.
“Here.”
The blood pack lands in front of me with a solid thump. It’s from a hospital, a plastic bag used for transfusions. I grab it and bite into it, ripping the cap off the stem. When I gulp it down I want to throw it back up, but it doesn’t reach my stomach. It’s cold, and blood is even worse cold than it is when it’s warm.
Whatever dependence I have on the lifeblood of human beings, it doesn’t spare me from one of the most noticeable effects of swallowing blood. It’s an emetic. It induces vomiting.
So once I’ve drained the pack dry, I start trying to throw up. It goes on for minutes, but at least I’m not coughing up my own ash from being cremated alive from the inside out. I flop down on my side, exhausted.
He kneels at the edg
e of the circle and presses his thumb to it, and whispers a word. There’s an audible little snap and I can feel the wall going away, but I’m in no position to do anything about it. I try to shake loose as he touches my arm and pulls me first to sit, then to stand, my head propped on his shoulder. His jugular is pulsing inches away from my teeth. Instinctively I move, and the collar clamps down on my throat.
Choking, I pull at it, but it’s so tight I can’t even get my fingers under it. It’s crushing my neck.
“Stop,” he says, “Clear your head. Christine, calm. Listen to my voice.”
I do as he says. The collar loosens, then loosens more. It still digs into my skin.
He’s already picked me up. He’s carrying me. Out of the library, down a hall.
“How am I awake in the day?” I manage to choke out.
“Magic.”
“I don’t believe in magic.”
“I don’t believe in faeries. Yet here we are.”
“You made Tinkerbell sad.”
There’s a tiny stumble in his gait, and his throat tightens.
“Yeah. I guess so.”
The door is already open. He passes a bookcase and a small sitting area, and the room’s own fireplace, and lays me on a four-poster bed. I settle into the mattress and sleep pulls at me.
“No. Stay awake.”
I look at him.
“Why are you doing this to me?”
Tenderly, he brushes the loose hair out of my eyes.
“You’ll understand in the end. Trust me.”
“No.”
He pulls away, then leans forward, looking into my eyes. Something about the jut of his jaw, the way he’s positioned, I think he might lean down and touch his lips to my forehead, but he stops.
“I’m going to put you to sleep now. There will be instructions there on the table when you wake up. Do as you’re told. Stay in this room. If you try to leave, the collar will stop you. The rest of the house is not sunproofed, so it’s not safe for you. Look over there.”
I looked past his shoulder to a door.
“You have your own bathroom. I want you to clean up. There’s some things for you to wear.”
“What? Why?”
He puts his fingertips on my forehead as he stands up.
“I can’t tell you anymore now. Hush.”
His voice is soft, gentle, at odds with the way he was before. This guy is either crazy or has a split personality, and if he really puts me to sleep I’m going to be at his mercy, but I really can’t move.
“Somnare,” he whispers, “Somnare vampiris.”
Sleep.
Wake.
My eyes snap open and I sit bolt upright, half expecting that I just woke from the first dream I’ve ever had, but I’m still in the bedroom. I can move freely, no fatigue, no feeling I’m about to pass out. The collar is still on my neck and when I tug at it, it tightens and slithers in my grasp, undulating against my skin. No reason to feel that any more than I need to. The window is shuttered from the outside, but I don’t need to look to know it’s night, and later in the night than it should be.
I laugh softly to myself. I haven’t overslept since I was in school.
Stone still, I hold onto that feeling. A memory of a memory, it dances out of reach and fades from my mind before I can get ahold of it and I choke back a sob. I can’t do this. I don’t want to remember.
There’s a sticky note on the table.
1. Take a shower.
2. Get dressed.
3. Wait for me.
I stare at the note and crumple it, but there’s a pulse from the collar, as if it knows I’m being defiant.
“Alright, alright,” I mutter.
A horrifying idea bubbles up in my head when I make my way to the bathroom. My new owner wants to play dress-up with his pet.
No.
His doll.
I have to stop to catch my breath, even though I’m not breathing. I turn on the water. Might as well turn it all the way up. Either way it just feels hot, it doesn’t hurt. I get under it and stand there, trying to remember how to bathe properly. I end up scrubbing my hands with the bar of soap and frothing shampoo in my hair before I stand there until the hot water sweeps it all out. Feeling no relief, I turn off the water and step out.
I don’t look at myself in the mirror. I hate seeing myself naked, whether it’s the black veins lined under my skin or the blue of my lips and… other places, there’s no more a stark reminder that I am not a human being anymore.
The closet holds towels. I dry off, and open the other door.
A whole wardrobe waits for me. Jeans folded up on shelves, underwear, bras, socks, shorts. Hanging from the rack is a yellow dress in a plastic bag. It looks like something a kid might wear, maybe to the prom. There’s a few other outfits, all frilly and cute. Blech. At the bottom of the closet I find pairs of shoes.
I dress in jeans and a t-shirt. The first one I pick up is an old AC/DC band shirt. When I drop it over my head and wriggled it in place around my chest, the cool touch of the cloth stills my movements and that feeling bubbles back up through me again.
The same when I put on a pair of shoes. I don’t bother with socks and put on a beaten old pair of Chuck Taylors. The canvas on my skin and the rubber cap as I wriggle my toes feel oddly familiar, and I feel the corners of my lips curling up.
Part of me wonders whose clothes these are. I’m not sure I want to know the answer.
Nothing to do now. I sit on the bed and I wait.
At least he knocks first.
“Christine? Are you decent?”
“No, but I’m dressed.”
I trail off as I say the words. I don’t know where that came from, either. A gin flashes on his face but fades as I gaze back at in him with a dull, annoyed look on my face.
He walks in and hands me a plastic cooler. I open it and there’s a blood pack inside, sitting in crushed ice. He doesn’t say anything and I don’t ask, I just gulp it down and fight through the nausea, hating him for watching me go through this.
He reaches out to touch my shoulder. I pull away.
“Don’t touch me.”
Frowning, he stands, looks away, and scrubs at his eyes with his thumb and finger, before dropping into the chair next to the old hearth.
Folding my legs under myself I wait and stare at him as he rests a legal pad on his lap and pulls a pen from his pocket.
“Oh my God,” I say. “Please don’t tell me this is an interview.”
He smirks.
“Call it an interrogation.”
“I don’t want to answer any questions.”
“I didn’t ask if you want to. You’re in my home and a guest. You’re obligated to pay me back for the food I just gave you.”
The collar pulses around my throat and I gaze down at the floor. Then I look up.
He knows things. He could tell me…
“What am I?”
He shifts in the seat. “What makes you ask?”
“You know about this stuff. You kept me in that thing and made this,” I touch the collar. “You woke me up in the daytime. You must know. What am I? Why am I like this? Why did this happen to me?”
“Some of that I can tell you. Some of it we can work out if you talk to me.”
I sigh.
“We’ll make a deal. You answer my questions, and each time I’ll answer one of yours.”
I smirk, just a little. “Quid pro quo, yes or no?”
His expression brightens for a bare instant, before his face goes neutral again. “I suppose.”
“Fine,” I say. “What do you want to know?”
“The earliest thing you remember. You can lie down if you like.”
I turn on the bed and spread out, propping my head on my hands, but all I can do is shrug. “I can’t really remember. Sometimes I think I remember my first real memory, but there’s always something else.”
“I want you to reach back, as far back as you can.”
“Where?”
“I’m not sure. The desert, maybe.”
“How did you get away from there?”
I shake my head.
“Can’t remember that, either.”
He sighs and shifts in the seat and scribbles down some notes. I can hear the graphite scratching across the paper. It sounds like a bug trapped in a wall.
“You have a peculiar hunting strategy.”
I arch my eyebrow. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Why bars?”
“I have my reasons.”
“Illuminate me.”
I sigh. “Fine. I only kill people that deserve it.”
“How do you know that?”
“I don’t know how it works,” I say, with a little shrug. “I look people in the eye and things happen. I can feel things, hear things, sometimes see things. If I stare into their eyes they kind of glaze over and just do what I want. I don’t know how or why.”
“So you read your prey’s mind before you take them.”
“I don’t take them. They take me. I give them every chance. They don’t have to drug me or buy me enough booze to get black out drunk. They don’t have to take me home. They don’t have to…” I trail off.
“Do what?”
“One guy was different. He was worse than I thought. Worked in a funeral home. He was planning something. He liked to play with the corpses, but you don’t get very many pretty young corpses, do you? Not fresh, clean, intact ones.” I stifle a little laugh. “Hilarious, isn’t it? The necrophiliac and the vamp… whatever I am. Like a cheesy romance novel.”
“What happened?”
“I gave him a chance even though I caught a glimpse of what he was planning to do. He hit me on the back of the head with a tire iron. I guess he didn’t want to mess up my face.”
“You killed him.”
“Yes. Yes, I killed him. I dragged him into the bathroom,” my voice rises, “and I took the sharp end of the tire iron and I rammed it into his gut, and I did it over and over and over and over again until he stopped screaming. I didn’t even feed off of him. I didn’t want to swallow that. I left the apartment that night. I don’t know what’s worse,” I’m shouting now, “that there are people like that or that none of the neighbors heard or cared about him begging for help. I watch the news, I read newspapers when I can. I never saw any reports about a man stabbed to death with a tire iron in the bathtub. I never saw any sign that anyone even found him. Somebody just disappears from the world, and nobody cares.”