It is. I’d been terrified that I wouldn’t be able to handle it. I had so many other pressing issues that I didn’t have the time to ponder it until now. “I wish that she didn’t seem even more traumatized than I was.”
“She had to kill someone. From what you said about her reaction to those bodies in the chapel—which I’m really glad he died for, by the way; I was married in there, so it’s a bit personal for me—it sounds like she doesn’t handle violence that well. She’s a doctor, and she had to take a life. You’re a soldier with hundreds of years of experience.”
“Only a couple decades of actual experience.”
“Nevertheless, it’s a subject you’re a lot more comfortable with. Think about it. What was your first kill like?”
I try to recall it. It has been well over five hundred years. “I can’t say I remember. It was in battle, and it didn’t leave that much of an impression on me. Or if it did, I’ve managed to forget it.”
“Well, try to put yourself in her shoes. Think about how she must be feeling.”
I try but find myself struggling. It came easy to me, and being a vampire only made it all the easier. Wait, my first kill as a vampire. Now, that traumatized me. It’s not the same at all, but Desdemona was someone I thought I would never kill, and Mia thought that she would never kill at all. Okay, when I look at it like that, maybe I was being a little self-important thinking I was the reason she was upset. “She only had to kill him because I froze.”
“She wouldn’t want you to blame yourself.”
“It doesn’t change that I’m the one responsible. If I’d had the strength to do it myself, she wouldn’t have had to. Oh, I’m such an idiot. I even told her that I’d teach her to hunt if she wanted. I’m supposed to be her partner. I should know her better than this.”
“Everyone misses things like that sometimes.”
I lean back on the couch, resting my free hand behind my head as I try to process this. No wonder she wouldn’t want to be a vampire. She’s a killing machine now, when all she wanted to do was heal. A car honks outside, and Harvey honks back at it. “She said she wanted some space.”
“That’s probably for the best right now.”
“Do you think I should apologize for offering to teach her to kill or wait until she’s ready?” I am woefully inexperienced at relationships, and I’m pretty sure that sixteenth-century behavior isn’t acceptable anymore. Not like I can send her a carrier pigeon. I roll my eyes at my own joke.
“I normally try to help my clients figure out their own answers, but on this one, I have to. She wants some space. Let her have it. Most likely, you’ll be talking to her again before you know it.”
“You’re right. Thank you.” I hold my hand up, and Harvey flutters onto it. I scratch his head, and he trills.
“Right, you have a parrot,” she says after a moment. “Did you want to talk more about her, or are you ready to talk about him? I mean Iago, not the parrot.”
“I thought I’d want to talk about how it feels weird to be with someone else after all these years refusing to love a new person, but I’m not sure I really need to.”
“Oh?”
“It still feels weird, but I think Mia has gotten me to the point where I don’t feel like I’m betraying Desdemona. I hate what I did to her, but I can accept that it was Iago’s fault, and now she’s been avenged. It wasn’t by my hand, but it’s something.”
“I’m proud of you.”
I snort. It’s always weird hearing that sort of thing from a human. “So I guess I should talk about him.”
“You’d mentioned the other cause of your PTSD, but you’ve gone into so little detail on this one. It sounds like he did a lot of harm to you.”
“He did. He tortured me for years before I finally gave in and worked for him. He made me do so many horrible things.”
“That doesn’t make you—”
“I know. I can accept that I’m not a monster. It will take some getting used to, but I understand.”
“Okay.”
Harvey coos, rubbing his head against my finger. “It’s going to take a lot of time to move past everything he did. I’ve been looking over my shoulder for the last five centuries, always on the lookout for him. Now he’s gone. He’d been my best friend, my worst enemy, my abuser, and my nightmare.”
“If you’re thinking you miss him, I assure you, that’s perfectly normal. People often feel nostalgia for even horrible things. You were used to the idea of him, and it’s a strange change.”
Miss him? I hate how that sounds, but it may be right. “I guess.”
“I’m sorry.”
Shrugging, I say, “It’s okay. He’s dead. I’m free.”
“You are.”
Grinding my teeth, I stare into Harvey’s yellow-brown eyes. “Why don’t I feel like it? I’m still ruled by my PTSD. It’s why I couldn’t save Mia, no matter how badly I wanted to. It’s why I can’t go out in public. Hell, I’m still ruled by this damn curse too. I can’t even go to church.”
I hear her take in a breath. “No one’s free from everything, Olivia, but you still managed something. Like you said, you don’t have to look over your shoulder anymore.”
“Except for humans. They’re almost always around.”
“Unless you want to kill all of us, I think we’ll have to keep working on that. You did manage to go to the mall not that long ago. If we keep making that kind of progress, who knows what you could manage.”
Still won’t get me in a church. “I suppose.”
“Let yourself enjoy this victory. It’s a more concrete one than most people ever get in therapy. One of the biggest triggers for your PTSD is now gone. Forever.”
“Yeah.” I let it sink in. She’s right. Iago’s gone. The source of so many of my nightmares, so many of my waking fears, is gone, and he’s never coming back. I kicked his head like a football, and he couldn’t do a thing about it. “If only he hadn’t sold my mother’s crucifix.”
“When did he do that? You hadn’t mentioned that part.”
“Sounds like it was about a year ago. At the Community Center. He expected me to find it. Sold it to a butcher for some reason.”
There’s silence on the other end of the line for a long moment. I start to worry that she may have hung up. “It’s not a little silver cross on a chain, is it?”
I blink. “Yes.”
“Oh. I might be able to help with that if you’re looking for it.”
“What?”
“That butcher, Boris, my wife was his main supplier. We haven’t seen him in a while. I assume Iago had something to do with that?”
“He killed him.”
She sighs, and her chair creaks. After a long moment, she takes a deep breath, and says, “Well, he gave us a bunch of silver jewelry, including a cross that Abby used to wear, and I think a few of the other necklaces are crosses. I could bring them all into work so you can drop by and see if it’s the right one. Though I’m not sure I can find all of them.” She blows out a breath, the chair squeaking beneath her. “Tell you what, it’s not like I can keep things really professional when I’m the only therapist in this community. Why don’t you two come over for dinner? That way Mia can touch it, assuming she’s capable, and you can check to see if it’s the right one.”
Huh. “That actually sounds amazing.” Assuming Mia will still want to be with me. Watch her have no issue touching it. No one else seems to. It’s only me that’s damned. “Thank you, Elizabeth. That means a lot.”
“Don’t mention it.”
We talk for a while longer, discussing Iago before moving back onto my normal issues and our exposure therapies. For the first time since I’ve started, I feel like it’s worth fighting through. Things have changed so much. Maybe this can too.
Chapter Eighteen
Amelia: So, I’m a Monster Now
The warm water takes away a little of the sting. My hand is red, raw, bloody, and still a bit singed. Christ, she’d ma
de it sound like going out in the sun would be nothing. I’m glad the running water doesn’t hurt. I wrap a cloth around my yet again unusable hand and head over to the fridge. O-positive is the perfect chaser for a handful of oxy.
Even the skin regrowing hurts. I never thought being dead could be this painful. I wonder if it’s anywhere near this bad when the death is permanent?
Collapsing onto the couch, I drape a foot over the armrest, recline against a throw pillow, and sip from the bag. I can already tell that my hand mended under the washcloth, but I keep it on for a few more minutes. It just takes some getting used to. Being immortal is weird.
It’s a little past eleven, and I’m definitely not trying to go outside again. Being on fire may be the least pleasant thing I’ve ever experienced, and yesterday I had a concussion, my hand chopped off, and I died. I wonder what tomorrow will bring.
Some mindless show pops on the television as I finish the bottle of pills and let the bag of blood slip to the floor. It probably needs to be refrigerated, but I’ll get to it later. It can’t be that important, right? If my body can handle necrotic tissue, it can handle improperly stored blood.
The gunfight on the screen makes my mind go places I’d rather it not. I change the channel and sit through a few episodes of people shopping for absurdly expensive houses—probably the kind of things Ollie would buy—nodding off during the commercial breaks and probably a few other bits.
Several hours later, I wake up to find that the couples are no longer arguing over what house they want but over whether or not that is in fact their child. What would we do without daytime television?
A pill doesn’t hit my tongue. I shake the bottle again, peering into it, hoping against hope that maybe it melted and stuck to the side. It wouldn’t be the first time. Alas, I have no such luck. The sun is still high in the sky, so I’m not going anywhere. I may be out of painkillers.
I wake up again, the horror of my situation hitting me harder this time. Well, I can’t have that. I’m in no mood to deal with the fact that I’m now a murderous monster. Drugs it is. I search every place I normally store them. There has to be some somewhere. I buy them all the time. I keep backups and backups for those. How are there not any in this drawer? Damn my new metabolism!
Of course I only have uppers. Normally, I need them more. I’m depressed more often than I’m manic, and they balance me out, but right now, if I try one, I’ll end up staking myself or something. I need to be numb. I need to not feel a thing. There. That’s it. I pry the little baggie from the bottom of my drawer where it stuck. Ollie helped me get this. It seems almost wrong to use it, but hey, beggars can’t be choosers.
Injection is probably out, vampiric circulation being what it is, so I use the tin foil trick and am out like a light as soon as I’ve inhaled the entire thing. If I’d been human, it would’ve killed me. I kind of wish it had. Instead, I’m left dreamy, floating in my skin, the world outside barely even worthy of my notice.
So what? I killed someone. I betrayed every oath I’ve ever sworn, broke every principle I believed in, all because I like this girl. It hardly matters. It happened, and that’s that.
I must’ve nodded off again as the sun is down. With some trepidation, I take a step outside and find that I don’t burst into flames. That’s a nice change of pace.
The Community Center is only a couple kilometers from here, so I grab some cash and head out for a walk. I need to not feel. I need to keep this high going. I can’t take the alternative. I just can’t. If I have to be blasted out of my mind forever, I guess I’ll deal with that. My patients will be fine on their own.
The cool air feels nice on my skin, and the road seems surprisingly empty. I didn’t think to check the time or grab my phone. It could be anywhere between eight and four, but it’s dark and quiet, and I love it.
Was that… I turn, halting my momentum in an instant and crouching in a defensive stance on instinct. I swear I saw him. I shake my head. No. I killed him. He’s not hunting me. He’s not hunting anyone anymore, and it’s all because of me. I took Ollie’s sword, and I…I blink away tears. Right, drugs. I need drugs.
I try to focus on the walk, on the city, the smells, the sounds, anything that can block out the voices in my head. Anything that can make those empty eyes stop burrowing into me. I can hear cars a few streets away, shoes pounding on pavement as someone jogs. No, they’re not jogging. I can smell their adrenaline. They’re scared. They’re running for their life.
Every fiber of my being wants to give chase. I can satisfy my hunger. I won’t have to deal with that prepackaged crap. I can have fresh, delicious…human. I’m talking about hunting and eating a human. Pinning them to the wall and feeling the life leaving them as I swallow every last drop of blood in their veins. I’m a monster. I’m a murderer. I’m not even hungry, and I want to do it. What the fuck is wrong with me?
I run, putting every ounce of strength I can manage into my legs, feeling my body burn, my muscles fight back against me as they’re pushed to their limits, and I find myself at the entrance to the Honeydale Mall in a matter of seconds. Claire is in today, so I can get my usual rates. Though, of course, that means I can’t convince her replacement that my rates should be better.
“You look different,” she says, looking me up and down.
“New haircut.”
She sniffs the air, her snout twitching in my direction. “You’re dead.”
“Am I? Hadn’t noticed.”
“Mia, what happened?”
“Does it matter?”
“I just—”
“Drugs, please.”
Before she can protest, I throw a wad of bills on the table and grab a handful of baggies, not even bothering with my normal pills. Clearly, oxy isn’t enough for me. I need something stronger. I snatch a vial of morphine as well and bid her farewell.
That smell. It’s amazing. Like a nice stew sitting on the stove, waiting for me. I find myself moving toward the slave auction but stop. I’m not killing anyone else. I can’t. I’ll kill myself first.
The second I’m home, I kill the thoughts and pass out. Maybe I’ll feel better in the morning.
* * *
I glare at the alarm. It’s four a.m., but I need to make sure I get to work before the sun comes up. I want to stay home and keep myself dead to the world—appropriate—but the whole reason I went through this transformation that has ruined my tolerance was so I could keep my job, and I’m not likely to do that if I keep skipping.
I shower, do my best to kill the burned cocoa butter smell on me, and throw on a blouse and slacks, along with some sunglasses. I don’t think they’ll make a difference if the sun is out, and my pupils should be back to their normal size by now, but I’d rather not take the risk.
“You’re here,” David blurts when he wanders into the office and sees me already there, leaning against a wall, trying to avoid the sun filtering through the window.
“I am.”
“You’re feeling better?”
How do I even answer that question? Every second I spend with my full faculties is a second I want to end. I feel like a monster who can never make up for what I’ve done. “Much better.” That about gets the point across.
When I make no effort to continue the small talk, he heads into his office, stopping to check in with another vet before settling in to do his paperwork. I do not envy that job. My first appointment isn’t for a few more hours, so I sit in my office and wait. I can feel the narcotics burning a hole in my pocket. Hell, I can smell it. Along with every edible person and animal in this building. I could snort a little, and then maybe it wouldn’t be quite as bad. With my new constitution, it’s not like I would be out of it for long.
But doing heroin in the middle of my workplace is probably not the best plan, especially with my boss in the next room. I could always rip out his throat…fucking bloodlust. Does this ever go away? I pull out my phone, push a button, and stare at Olivia’s name. It’s a simple qu
estion. It’s not unreasonable. She’s the one who would know. But if I start talking to her, I’ll want to talk to her about everything else, and then I’ll want to see her, and I’m not ready for that. The last time I was with her, I murdered someone. I know it won’t happen again…I hope. Who knows if she has any more enemies? What if it does happen again? Or if she goes out to hunt, and I decide to join her? How can I know that I won’t do it? How can I live with myself?
A knock sounds at my door, and I shove my phone back in my pocket. “Come in.”
“Hey, there’re doughnuts in the lobby,” Lisa, the other vet in today, says.
There’s also sunlight in the lobby. We keep our windows uncovered to allow natural light in. It’s supposed to make it look friendlier, more inviting, like someplace you’d trust with your pets. “Would you grab me one? I have a bit of a headache right now.”
“Sure, no problem. You sure you’re feeling well enough to be back? You don’t look great.”
“How well were you all managing without me?”
“I came in yesterday, so we were managing. I think Eric came in the other day. He wanted the overtime anyway. He’s trying to buy a boat.”
“He’s been trying to buy a boat for the last five years.”
“He has to have some excuse for when he gambles it all away.”
Maybe I shouldn’t judge anyone else’s vices, the drug-abusing murder that I am. I clutch my head as if I’m in pain. “I’m fine. I just need some food.”
“Right, a couple chocolates?”
I nod.
The door swings shut behind her, and I breathe out a sigh of relief. I’ve never been too keen on socializing with my coworkers, even when I’m not going through my own shit. Or maybe I was just always going through my own shit, as during my manic phases, I actually talked to them a good deal. Hell, I even brought in doughnuts myself a few times.
As if summoned by that thought, Lisa returns with a chocolate doughnut and a Boston cream. “They only had the one regular chocolate left. I hope this is okay.”
Olivia Page 22
