Shades of Red

by T L Christianson

  Startled, I gasped and ran to Owen. He sank to his knees, grabbing his chest.

  I knelt beside him, ripping open his shirt, the buttons flying as I did so.

  He laughed, and blood trickled from the side of his mouth. "I was hoping you were going to do that." Another cough brought up more blood.

  Leaning over, I licked his wound to try to get it to heal.

  His skin was so pale, and I could hear his heart beating rapidly. It was a sign that he was losing too much blood.

  I pulled out my cell phone but couldn't get a signal.

  Reaching up toward me, Owen gasped, "Find the children! Go!"

  I shook my head and sliced my wrist deeply before placing it over his mouth.

  "I will, I will," I gasped. We'd left the children here with Flor.

  I would find them, but I had to make sure Owen would live first.

  "I love you," he breathed before losing consciousness.

  A cry escaped my mouth.

  "Oh, god! No!" His heart slowed to a stop, so I straddled him and began doing chest compressions. "Don't you die on me! Don't you do it! I need you!"

  Isa's death flashed in my mind as I once again did compressions on the person I loved.

  I realized what had happened too late.

  A large exit wound on Owen's back had been bleeding out, and the CPR just finished the job.

  I knelt in his blood, sobbing. The crimson liquid seemed to cover the floor, spreading out, and filling the lines of grout around each tile. I was gasping and exhausted.

  Owen was dead.

  I fought back flashbacks from Isabel's death and finding Elizabeth's body.

  I shook my head.

  Owen couldn't be dead.

  I refused to give up and did compressions in spurts until the blood had dried on my hands and my legs were sticky.

  "Oh, my god!" I whispered, not knowing what else I could do.

  His body was cold to the touch.

  I needed to find the kids.

  I pulled a blanket from the hall chest and wrapped it around me before searching out Becca and Jack.

  The intruders hadn't been upstairs; they'd been in Owen's lab.

  "Becca?" I called out shakily. "Jack?"

  When I found them, they were huddled in Becca's bed and pulled the blanket around me to hide the blood.

  "Where's Flor?"

  "Where's Daddy?" Jack answered me with a question.

  I forced a smile to try to reassure them, but I knew it was probably wrong, "He's downstairs, baby. Now, just stay here. Put a show on your computer, and I'll be back. Everything will be all right."

  "We heard you screaming at daddy. Are you in a fight?" Becca's blue eyes were wary.

  I shook my head. "No, no, honey." My voice hitched. "Everything is all right. Stay here," I told them, pressing my words with compulsion.

  In the hallway, I used the blanket to scrub at my bloody footprints but gave up when I got to the stairs. Reaching for a stack of old towels from the linen closet, I began cleaning up his blood in the kitchen.

  Owen’s eyes were closed, and his body was now cold. I moved him to the couch and laid him on a blanket. Stripping the clothing from his body, I cleaned him the best I could with soapy water and a sponge. I bandaged the wound in his back before pulling one of his favorite t-shirts over his head and into place.

  Standing in the living room, I realized I was still covered in blood. I stepped out of my dress and put it in the laundry room along with Owen’s discarded garments.

  I was running on autopilot.

  I showered and pulled my robe around me. After I finished mopping, I realized I'd been working in the dark and flicked on all the main floor lights.

  When I searched, I found Flor, sitting in the corner of the living room, eyes closed.

  "Flor," I whispered, snapping her out of her previous compulsion. "Go upstairs, get the kids. Take them out the front door and keep them at your house until someone comes for them. Nothing eventful happened tonight, you just want to give us some alone time." I felt terrible using compulsion on her, but I wouldn't be able to answer questions. I couldn't.

  Back in the family room, Owen was lying peacefully on the couch.

  I sat down and pulled him to me.

  I kissed his hair and soothed his skin.

  This couldn't be happening.

  He couldn't be dead.

  My arm itched, and I scratched it, my fingernails coming back black. I looked at the inside of my elbow.

  I had the vampire plague. I think I'd known it in the back of my mind but hadn't wanted to accept what this meant.

  That trashy vamp in lockup had given me the illness.

  I'd been sick for over a week.

  Vampires don't get sick, and I should've known that.

  They don't get physiological stress like humans either.

  Owen was dead, and now I was dying.

  When Isabel died, she'd wanted me to live on. But without Owen… I didn't want to keep going. I couldn't keep watching everyone around me die.

  I laid down beside my fiancé, knowing I might never wake up.

  My first thought when I awoke was that I’d died and gone to hell.

  Had Isabel been right?

  I was in more pain than I’d ever felt.

  My joints hurt, my muscles ached, and when the realization of what had happened to Owen struck me, I felt despair close in.

  I wanted to close my eyes and disappear into nothing.

  But… the children.

  What would happen to them?

  I didn’t want someone else to take them away. In my heart, Becca and Jack had become mine.

  And…they were all I had left of… him.

  How could I send them away to someone who didn’t know what voices to use for which stuffed animal or didn’t know what foods Jack liked? How could I allow them to be sent away from the only home they’d ever known?

  I couldn’t, but I knew I didn’t have any legal right to them. They weren’t mine, and even if they were… I was dying.

  It hurt to move, and my head throbbed. My mouth was dry, my throat sore. I tried to talk, and only a croak came out.

  From what I could see, I was in my attic bedroom. Someone must have carried me here.

  A beeping sound came from my left, and as I shakily moved my hand, I felt a pulse monitor taped to my finger.

  Three IV bags hung on a rack next to me, one was dark red, and I figured it was blood.

  No light shone into the room through my lace curtains, and the dark stillness of the house indicated it was nighttime.

  A hot tear trailed down my cheek and fell into my ear.

  I was alone, and I was dying.

  I knew I needed to make peace with this.

  But…

  There was so much more I wanted to do.

  So much more I wanted to accomplish, and I had wasted so much.

  I’d wasted time.

  I’d wasted love.

  I’d wasted the gifts I had...

  If only I hadn’t been afraid to live.

  I turned to my side and saw my leather-bound Pride and Prejudice on the nightstand. Reaching out, sweat beaded my forehead. I panted as I pinched the edge and lifted what felt too heavy, bringing it to me.

  I continued to lay on my side, as I breathed in Owen’s scent on the book.

  I wasn’t able to stop my tears, so I wiped my face on the pillowcase. Even that took a great deal of effort, and I wondered how long it would be until the end.

  Several more days had come and gone, and I’d been in and out of consciousness. I dreamed that Owen kissed my forehead and spoke to me, his rumbling voice soothing my suffering.

  When I opened my eyes, I remembered that he was dead.

  Five Moroi were treating me here in the house. I’d heard their voices and picked up their scents.

  I guessed that two were doctors, and the other three were nurses. Every day, the same Moroi took blood from my non-IV arm. Then I wa
s attended by one of the other two that I thought were nurses. They sponge-washed my body and replaced the bandages on the black sores I’d accumulated.

  The pain made me see white stars when I was touched, but I usually tried to keep from crying out when they did this. They had to take care of me, my body temperature was high, and my sweat soaked the sheets.

  I’d been given drugs for the pain, but I wasn’t sure if they were working.

  Becca and Jack had been in my room. I could pick up their scents lingering in the air.

  I must have been asleep.

  Was it safe for them to be near me?

  The doctors and nurses were tending me, so did that mean I was getting better? Had anyone ever gotten better from the disease?

  I awoke early in the morning to find myself alert.

  My cell phone was on the nightstand, and I touched it. It lit up showing me the time and date.

  It had been almost three weeks since that last horrible night.

  That beautiful, fantastic, horrible night.

  My heart clenched.

  I didn’t fall back asleep.

  Pushing myself up a little, I was able to sit against the headboard for the first time.

  After sitting alone for an hour, a small dark-haired Moroi entered. She smiled at me and spoke to me in accented English. “You’re awake. Good. I’m going to take your blood.”

  I watched as she deftly inserted the needle. “What happened?” My voice was barely a cracked whisper.

  She finished taking two vials of blood and handed me a cup of water.

  “Owen…” I whispered.

  The corner of her mouth curved up. “I’ll tell the doctor to come up. He’s in the lab.”

  “What?” I tried to keep hope from my mind. How could he be here? She must not have understood me. I licked my lips and took another drink of water. “I want to see him.”

  She nodded and scurried away with the vials of blood.

  I pulled myself upright to get out of bed and realized I had a tube coming from my nether regions.

  I cleared my throat and looked at my hands. They were steadier, and the swelling had gone down.

  I had a bandage on my arm. I carefully lifted the corner, peeling it up gradually. Beneath the white gauze was a fading purple blister, the size of a golf ball. Gross! I sucked in a breath and remembered why I had never gone into medicine. I had these bandages all over my body, my armpits, my neck.

  I needed to talk to someone. I needed to figure out what was happening.

  I was getting better!

  Was I going to live?

  I bit my lip, and ravenous hunger filled me, burning my throat down to my core.

  I needed blood.

  I looked up at the blood bag hanging beside me and sniffed. It wasn’t human blood.

  Was I being given vampire hemoglobin?

  From who?

  Just when I was about to start pulling out tubes and wires, the most beautiful thing walked in the door.

  It was Owen.

  Alive.

  A vampire.

  Rushing to my side, he pulled me into his arms and whispered into my hair. “Thank god you’re awake.”

  I squeezed him tightly, my lips brushing the stubble on his jaw. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

  Owen’s face was wet with tears as he kissed me over and over again. “It doesn’t matter. You’re here, you’re safe. We’ll be okay.”

  SCARLET

  Taming The Thirst

  “Vincit qui se vincit”

  He Conquers Who Conquers Himself

  Chapter One

  Turning the brass locket over and over in my hand, I frowned and opened the clasp to look at the pictures inside. My daughter Rebecca stared up at me, her cheeks red and blond hair bleached out by the sun. She’d turned eight, and I’d missed it. My son’s face filled the other oval; today was his sixth birthday, and here I sat over two-thousand miles away. Neither looked like me, with their white-blond hair-except for their eyes.

  This was a familiar ache in my chest. That thudding guilt mixed with anger, frustration and wretchedness.

  Taking a shaky breath, I snapped the locket closed.

  The kids were growing up, and I would miss it.

  My fingers traced the familiar filigree pattern before I slipped it back under the blue of my scrubs top.

  Grabbing my keys I hesitated, glancing over to where my cell phone vibrated, rattling the change in the shallow dish where it rested.

  I picked up the phone, Forest, the P.I. I’d hired was calling.

  Smiling, I answered the phone, “Hey, are you just checking in or what’s up? You in town?”

  His whisper came over the line, “Yo, I found him. Meet me in Time’s Square tomorrow at three p.m.”

  “That’s great, but why are you whispering.”

  “Tomorrow, 3 p.m. I’ll be the one in pink!”

  “Forest?” He’d hung up.

  Pursing my lips, I set my keys down.

  Looking in the mirror, I spoke to myself. “Tonight, I’m going to drink live.” I straightened my part and finger combed my hair.

  “I’m going to stop in time. Everything will be fine, I’ll have a breakthrough. Tonight, will be my breakthrough.”

  My reflection narrowed her eyes.

  Damnit! Could I do it?

  I’d been drinking bottled blood from my work, Chronos Corp, because of my problem.

  My gaze lingered on my eyes, they were steady.

  “I can do this,” I told my reflection again. “I’m not going to hurt anyone. I can drink live, like every other regular Moroi.”

  Disgusted with my lying image in the mirror, I smoothed my dark hair into a low ponytail and headed out into the night.

  My clogs tapped the rain-soaked sidewalk as I strode the dark streets of my neighborhood.

  The taps seemed to accelerate along with my thirst, and I reached out with my senses to find my prey.

  Ahead, I could smell someone. Metallic blood and tangy sweat filled my nose. I licked my lips in anticipation.

  I liked runners and I jogged to close the distance. From a few meters, I knew he heard me.

  The runner’s speed increased as I neared.

  His instincts were right, he should run.

  The street lamp up ahead flickered and then died. My breath hitched in excitement, yearning to find my fix.

  When the runner entered the unlit section, I called out, “Hey! Hi.”

  Turning, he hesitated.

  I knew what he saw.

  Innocence.

  My runner slowed and came to a stop, absentmindedly stretching. He took in a breath of relief, a smile beginning to curve the corners of his mouth.

  I approached, amused and biting my lip hesitantly.

  He took one step, then two. His heartbeat slowing from his lack of movement.

  I neared, his hoodie within my grasp. The smell of his blood mingling with the woodsy cologne of his flesh lured me in another step. Then, I flew at him, my arms locking tightly around his torso making it impossible for him to escape.

  The blood beneath his skin sang to me, and my fangs slid out, slipping noiselessly into the surface of his skin.

  I sighed as his scarlet magic filled my mouth.

  When my saliva hit his bloodstream like a shot of morphine, the runner embraced me like a lover. His fingers tangled in my hair adding to the excitement.

  There would be no need to use compulsion on him; his memory would be hazy.

  Would he think he had some crazy hook up?

  I didn’t know, and I didn’t care.

  Warmth flooded my senses as I devoured my fill.

  My mind calmed and soothed with the euphoric high from his blood.

  My pulse slowed, and relief began to inundate my body.

  As a real vampire, a Moroi, I wasn’t undead like the myths. I was alive, unaged and in perfect physical condition. I have a pulse and body heat too, which makes it incredibly difficult for a
human to identify us.

  Absentmindedly, I stroked his dark hair as I drank, vaguely aware of time passing, knowing I should stop, but unable to obey that little voice in the back of my mind.

  The runner’s body slumped against me. Too much of his blood had passed my lips, gulp after lovely gulp, but I didn’t stop. I couldn’t care. Drinking live was the best high I’d ever had. More and more, and more, unable to let this feeling of ecstasy stop…

  Suddenly, I was yanked off my feet.

  I gasped, and the warm liquid ran out of the corner of my mouth and down my chin.

  Blinking, I tried to free myself from my stupor.

  When my eyes focused, I yelled out, “What the hell?”

  In front of me stood a Viking god with his hands on his hips and an exasperated expression. Losing myself in his eyes, I couldn’t stop staring. He had striking heterochromia; one eye was pale blue and the other a dark reddish-brown.

  The black Chronos uniform suggested that he must’ve been assigned to “guard” me… I laughed in my inebriation. Yeah, guard me, my ass, this was more of a babysitting gig for the poor schmuck.

  My previous guard quit last week. It was a surprise to have been assigned someone so quickly.

  “You are Dr. Shepard? I can see we have a lot of work to do. You almost killed him.” When he spoke, an accent lilted his words and sent chills up my spine.

  He motioned to his mouth. “You have some on your…”

  "I know," I told him, irritation in my voice.

  I didn’t want his interference, but he had prevented me from killing again. I wasn’t sure whether to be angry or relieved.

  "I’m working on controlling it,” I told him, wiping the dribble from my chin with the sleeve of my shirt.

  Sitting on the sidewalk, I rested my head on my knees, the warm sensation draining away.

  I'd been struggling with this problem for precisely six years today.

  The Viking folded his arms and stood there watching me, feet apart, planted on the concrete.

  He reached down and pulled me up. "Get up. You'll live."

  I favored his stoic, no-nonsense approach to my problem. Any sympathy would have made me feel weak and awkward.