Pretty When She Dies (Pretty When She Dies #1)(7)

Buttoning up the coat, she brushed past him. She ignored the ache between her thighs. It was hard to forget how insanely good he had felt inside of her. Being around him made her feel weak and wanting.

She had to get out of here. Away from him and this room of--

She stopped in her tracks.

“They're dead,” she whispered in shock. “I killed them.”

“It was when your younger sister, half sister really, got the terrible cancer, just like your poor mother, that you gave up your scholarship and went home. Now, years later, you are at a second rate college in East Texas, hoping to God it isn't too late to claw your way out of your bayou existence.”

Whirling around, Amaliya screamed, “Shut the f*ck up!”

“You see, fate had other plans for you. I have never made a child with your background. I honestly have no idea how you will fare, though I’m absolutely excited to see what you will do.”

“Leave me alone!”

“Oh, I intend to. And that is the reality of it now, you see. You are on your own.” His fiendish smile made his attractive face much crueler.

How could bagging a hot professor end up this badly?

“I don't need you,” Amaliya snapped, pushing past him.

“We'll see,” he said in a mocking tone.

Not looking back, Amaliya whipped open the door and ran out.



The professor smiled with satisfaction, tucked his hands behind his back, and followed.

***

Amaliya struggled across the vast lawn that led to her dorm. She stumbled every few steps as her heels sunk into the moist, dew drenched soil. When she reached the nearly-empty employee parking lot, her foot got caught in a small pothole and she tripped. She hit the asphalt on all fours. Grimacing at the pain, she pushed herself up on her battered hands. She managed to get her feet under her with a little difficulty. Brushing the grit off her bloodied knees, she began to run again.



The stinging in her hands and knees faded. Glancing down, she realized she had already healed. Only gravel and smears of blood remained on the smooth heels of her hands. The sight of her restored flesh horrified her. A quivering moan of despair fell from her lips.

Her mind felt incapable of understanding what was happening to her.

Behind her, she heard a car door open.

“Amaliya,” Professor Sumner's voice rang out.

Despite herself, she turned toward him. Her black hair flowed around her pale face. She stood trembling, hands held up before her. She dropped the bloodied clothes she had tucked under her arm. Her murderer was perfectly framed between her healed hands, and she clenched them into hard fists.

“Good luck,” he said with a rakish smile.

“Fuck off!” She gave him the finger to emphasize her words, then turned away.

His laughter tormented her as she snatched up her clothes. She darted behind a building and tried to put as much space between them as possible.

The dorm windows were completely dark when she skirted around the building to the side entrance. Fishing her keys out of her blood-encrusted jeans, she bit her bottom lip. She rubbed the back of her hand over her eyes to wipe away her tears, fighting back a desperate sob of despair.

“Stay calm,” she whispered.

Her fingers shook as she tried to fit the key into the lock. She failed to line it up with the keyhole. Exasperated, she leaned her forehead against the door.

“Stay calm,” she uttered again, her hands steadying. She pushed the key toward the tiny slot again.

The key slid into the lock. The knob turned.

She entered the dorm through the entrance under the stairs. It was empty and dark, with no sign of any of the other girls who inhabited the long, squat building. Quickly, she sprinted up the cement steps, her heels making a dreadful clunking noise the whole way up.

Reaching the second floor, she turned and ran down the hall, hoping to God no one would open their door to see what the noise was about.

It's Easter weekend, she thought. No one is here.

Shit!

She was supposed to have gone home Saturday night to attend services with her family on Sunday morning.

After unlocking her door and slipping into her room, she steadied herself with one hand against the wall. The room was still a mess, but now she saw the mud and gunk she had left behind the night before.

“Oh, God,” she whispered, moving down the narrow hallway into her bedroom.

Dirt littered the floor and bits of foliage skittered in front of her. It had really happened. She had crawled out of her own forest grave.

Slowly, her gaze descended to her body. She unfastened the jacket with quivering fingers. Beneath the black fabric, her pale skin was caked with blood.

Closing her eyes, she pressed her fingertips to her eyelids. She had killed tonight. Hunted down and killed people for blood. She had done that.

Sinking to the floor, she whimpered as the tears that she had tried so hard to hold back began to fall.

The phone rang near the bed. She ignored it as she fell over onto her side and curled up into a tight little ball. The harsh sound of the ringing phone made her head hurt. She covered her ears with her hands.

Finally, the archaic answering machine clicked on.

“You've reached Amaliya Vezorak. I can't come to the phone right now. So leave a message and if I feel like it, I'll call you back. And if this is you, Jimmy, you owe me 20 bucks.” Her voice sounded rough and a little slurred. She had recorded it drunk and just left it as it was.