Thrall (A Vampire Romance)(5)

“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 edge 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.