Thrall (A Vampire Romance)(8)

“Yes.”

“Tell me.”

No. No, I don’t want to remember that.

“I can’t.”

“You can. What happened in the bar? Where was it?”

“I don’t remember.”

He shifts in the seat and I catch a hint of frustration in his voice. I clap my hands over my ears to drown it out.

“Yes, you do.”

The notebook claps closed and he rests it on the side table and places the pencil on top, so it settles in the little channel that runs along the spine. I watch it wobble, and the familiarity of it makes me aware of the dull stillness in my chest where my beating heart is supposed to be. That’s the funny thing about souls. You don’t know what it feels like to have one until you don’t have it anymore. He looms over me and I shrink back on the bed.

“Tell me.”

“What if I don’t?”

He sighs.

“You’ll understand why I’m doing this. I swear.”

His voice is so heavy with genuine apology I almost believe he doesn’t mean to hurt me. If he’s acting he’s good. He sells the look of compassion he gives me.

He doesn’t speak, but his eye twitches, and the collar closes around my throat. I claw at it and writhe on the bed, kicking my feet out as he seizes my arms and forces me down, a blank expression on his face. When he cups my head in his hand my instinct is to sink my teeth into his palm but the collar only tightens more and I go rigid, the agony of it crushing me to stillness.

His thumb brushes between my eyes, rubbing the bridge of my nose, a little higher. His touch is strangely tender, but all I feel is pressure, not even the warmth of his hand. He rubs at that spot between my eyes and murmurs, “memoriae”.

Then he pulls back. The collar loosens, but that doesn’t matter anymore. Something cold and liquid is moving around in my head. I can feel it, like a sinus headache with a mind of its own.

“Please,” I whimper, “don’t make me tell.”

In spite of everything he’s just done his touch as he brushes the hair out of my eyes and holds me still is firm but gentle. Some dull unremembered part of me wants to curl up and put my head on his lap, wants to feel his fingers on my skin. I can smell him.

I know that scent.

“Shhh. Close your eyes.”

I press them shut.

“Lie back and don’t fight it. Tell me what you remember.”

My voice catches as I struggle for a breath that never comes. I hate this, hate this, hate this. I hate my body, I hate the world, I hate him.

“Tell me, Christine. Tell me how it happened.”

I swallow, by my throat is still dry. My voice is thin and reedy and I feel a boiling mass of shame and revulsion when I give voice to the words that haunt me when I close my eyes to flee the sun.

“A man sat down next to me at the bar. He said ‘this is what’s going to happen…’”