Thrall (A Vampire Romance)(6)

“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?”