Dire Straits

by Helen Harper

  Clipboard Lady appears and hands Ursus a bundle of papers. He holds it up. ‘Here are the contracts. You will sign in your own blood then, when you feel ready, collect a vial and exit through this door.’ He points to the one behind him. ‘The Montserrat blood will be injected directly into your system, after which it will take up to three days for the turning process to complete. You may experience some discomfort during this time.’

  I push breath out through the gap in my teeth. Whenever a doctor tells you there will be some ‘discomfort’, it usually means there will be considerable pain. With seventy-two hours to turn, I dread to think what it will really be like.

  ‘You may still change your mind. We simply ask that you remain in this room and sign a binding non-disclosure agreement about what you have experienced thus far.’

  I force myself not to look at the roped door. The distrustful human part of me finds it hard to believe that we can simply leave after all of this.

  Ursus turns to go but there’s one more person with a question. It’s the blonde.

  ‘So when do we meet Michael?’ she asks.

  The vampire doesn’t bother to turn around. ‘You will address him as my Lord.’ He disappears out the door along with Clipboard Lady without answering the question.

  Once he’s gone we sit in silence for several moments. Then someone stands up and walks over to where Ursus left the contracts. It’s one of the muscle-bound recruits. He twists his neck round and flashes us all a confident smile. I dislike him already. Everyone watches him, holding their breath. He picks up a small silver knife, polished so skilfully that I could probably do my make-up in its reflection, and pricks his index finger. A bead of blood appears. He flips through to the contract’s final page without bothering to read the words and presses the tip of his finger down. Nothing happens – no thunderclap or applause. He scoops up a vial, takes the contract and follows the vampires.

  As soon as he disappears, it’s like a spell is broken. People move to the table, forming an orderly queue. Even in a situation like this, the British sense of propriety is in place and there’s no jostling or shoving for position. I watch as, one by one, they follow the protocol then disappear out the door. A few people grimace in pain when they prick their fingers and the blonde lets out a small squeal. I notice that everyone else has the sense to take the time to read the pages first. Despite this, it’s not long until the only people left are Peter and I and the girl in the wheelchair.

  ‘I’m scared,’ she whispers.

  I give her a quick smile. ‘Me too,’ I admit.

  Peter just wrings his hands.

  ‘What’s your name?’ I ask.

  ‘Nicky.’ She takes a deep breath then wheels herself up to the table. I’m tempted to ask if she needs any help but she may find that insulting, so I wait instead. She has no problems reaching the contract and the blade.

  ‘I hope don’t catch any nasty disease off this,’ she jokes half-heartedly. Her hand shakes visibly as she cuts. She, like Mr Muscles, doesn’t read the contract before adding her blood to the final page. I put his lack of care down to machismo; I wonder what her reason is.

  She struggles with the door, so I jump up and open it. She gives me a grateful smile, then she’s gone.

  I look at Peter. ‘Are you okay?’

  He licks his lips nervously. His gaze flicks between me and the remaining two vials, then back to the door through which we entered.

  ‘I’m not sure.’

  ‘You can change your mind. It’s not too late.’

  ‘Do you think the non-disclosure agreement really works?’

  I know what he’s asking. ‘I’m pretty sure that they won’t kill you if you change your mind.’ I hope I’m right.

  He stands up. ‘No,’ he says finally. ‘I’m going to do this.’ He signs and then I’m left alone.

  The silence in the room is oppressive. I look at the table and away again. I’m not usually an indecisive person but signing my life away is a whole different kettle of fish to the sort of decisions I normally make. Deep down, I know what I’m going to do; my fate was sealed the second I walked out of that police station with Montserrat. But I want to feel as if I really am in charge of my own fate. I realise that reading the contract isn’t going to make any difference so, like Nicky and the gym fiend, I flip to the last page. There’s a dotted line and nothing more.

  I pick up the knife. It’s surprisingly heavy for such a small thing. It’s also remarkably clean considering it has already sliced the fingers of twelve people. I take a deep breath. I’m glad I waited to the end so that I’m doing this without an audience. I touch the knife tip to my finger and watch the bright red blood well up. Then I press down and sign, sealing my fate. I take the one remaining vial and am about to open the door when my gaze falls on Peter’s crucifix. It’s lying forlornly on his empty chair. I scoop it up then shove it in my pocket, just in case.

  It’s time to go.

  ***

  I find myself in a small ante-room with several doors. Clipboard Lady raises her eyebrows at me and points to the right. I follow her directions and walk through. There, waiting, is Michael Montserrat. Unfortunately he’s fully dressed this time, although the well-tailored suit does nothing to hide his toned physique.

  ‘I wasn’t sure if you were going to go through with it,’ he says, his dark eyes boring into me.

  I shrug. ‘I wasn’t in a rush, my Lord. I thought I’d take my time.’

  He scowls. ‘You don’t have to call me that.’

  ‘I’m going to be a good girl and do as I’m told.’

  He laughs. ‘Really?’

  I grin. If you make people think you’re toeing the line and following the rules, it’s amazing what you can get away with. ‘Of course,’ I tell him.

  He obviously doubts me but lets it go for now. I hand him the vial and roll up my sleeve. ‘Let’s get this over with.’

  He takes it but, rather than pulling out a syringe as I’d expected, he places the blood to the side. ‘We’re going to do this the old-fashioned way, Bo. You’ll have a better chance of beating the bloodlust and becoming Sanguine that way.’

  My mouth dries. ‘Uh, the old-fashioned way?’

  ‘I’m sure you’ve seen Nosferatu.’

  ‘You’re going to bite me?’ My voice is high-pitched and squeaky.

  He looks amused. ‘Yes. And then you’re going to drink a pint of my finest.’ He unbuttons the cuff of his left sleeve and rolls it up, exposing his tanned forearm.

  I back away, my fingers scrabbling for the doorknob. ‘No! I can’t drink. If I drink I won’t become Sanguine,’ I protest.

  He smiles at me genially although I can’t help likening him to a cat gazing at the mouse it’s about to pounce on. ‘Human blood, Bo,’ he says softly. ‘You can’t drink human blood. Mine is vampire through and through. It won’t provide you with sustenance after you’ve turned but you will need it to complete the process. It’s the same as injecting.’

  ‘Why doesn’t everyone turn this way then?’

  Montserrat looks momentarily pained. ‘This isn’t always the easiest process. It’s very intimate. It can create feelings of possession in the vampire doing the turning.’

  I don’t like the sound of this at all. ‘And the turnee?’

  ‘Sometimes they feel obligated towards their sire and can become overly attached to them.’ He takes a step towards me and holds out his hand. ‘But as I’m the Family Head, you’re going to do what I say regardless. Remember you just said that you’re going to do as you’re told.’

  I stare at his outstretched hand. ‘If it’s all the same to you, I think I’ll pass.’

  He shrugs. ‘It’s up to you. But if you really mean to avoid drinking blood so you can become Sanguine, this is your best shot. The injection, which is made up of mixed blood from all the senior Family members, hits your bloodstream so directly and quickly that it can be almost impossible to fight the feelings that come afterwards.’
r />   ‘That’s even if I survive this,’ I grunt.

  ‘Somehow I think you’re too stubborn to allow yourself not to make it through the turn. But,’ his face remains impassive, ‘ultimately it is your choice. If you’d rather have the jab, I can have someone come in here to administer it properly.’

  My legs feel like jelly. Neither option is particularly desirable. The last thing I want is to feel ‘overly attached’ to him. But if I can sweat through the lunar month and become Sanguine…

  ‘Fine,’ I say. ‘Lets it do it your way.’

  Montserrat inclines his head towards me. ‘As you wish.’ He extends his hand a little further. When I don’t move, exasperation fills his voice. ‘Bo, you’re going to need to come a bit closer.’

  Shakily, I step forward. He smiles down at me. ‘You really are very short,’ he comments.

  I scowl. ‘So?’

  ‘So nothing.’ His tone is mild. ‘If I can stoop down to kiss you, then I can certainly make it to your throat.’

  ‘Kiss?’ I half shriek.

  ‘I just meant that I can still do this, Bo. Nothing else.’ His eyes gleam. ‘Although I will bite even if you don’t.’

  My entire spine is rigid with wariness, despite his amused reference to my faux-pas in his bedroom. So much for thinking that he’d not registered what I’d said.

  He sighs. ‘It’ll go easier if you turn around.’ When I don’t immediately respond, he reaches out and brushes his thumb across my cheek. I flinch. ‘You can trust me.’

  ‘Said the spider to the fly,’ I mutter. However, I turn around so my back is to him.

  I feel him step towards me until his entire body is warm against mine. He bends down until his breath is hot against the flushed skin of my neck. I feel his fingers gently pull away my hair and I stiffen involuntarily.

  ‘Relax,’ he whispers softly in my ear. Then his teeth graze my throat.

  His tongue darts out and licks and I stop breathing. I can sense him shifting his weight behind me, one hand remaining at my head, fingers entwined in my hair to keep it back, and his other resting lightly on my hip. I feel more nervous than I’ve ever felt in my life.

  ‘Last chance to change your mind,’ he says.

  ‘I can’t,’ I begin, ‘I’ve already signed…’

  I gasp as there’s a sharp nip of pain. His teeth sink into my flesh and I’m dimly aware of a rippling shudder running through his body behind me before a warm glow starts in my throat and begins to spread down my veins as he sucks. I lean against him, closing my eyes, while his fingers tighten their grip. My heart is thudding so loudly in my ears that I’m amazed Montserrat’s not deafened by it. There’s pain, but it’s not unpleasant and I can feel my toes tightening in an almost enjoyable response. I moan lightly.

  His hand leaves my hip and moves upwards across my ribcage until it rests just under my breasts and pulls me tighter against him. Sparking pinpricks of light dance across my shuttered lids and I involuntarily reach behind and grab his body, my hands now gripping his hips. He makes an odd sound, almost like a purr and I can feel his fangs pushing deeper into my throat. My breath quickens.

  Abruptly, and without warning, his mouth leaves my skin although his hard body remains in place. He removes his hand from my hair, letting it drop back into place, then shifts his arm upwards. He’s breathing as hard as I am.

  ‘Open your eyes, Bo.’

  I do as he instructs. His exposed arm is now in front of my face and there’s a single trickle of blood travelling down his nut-brown skin from a small wound in his wrist.

  ‘You need to drink,’ he says, moving his wrist towards my hungry mouth.

  Weakness attacks my legs and I’m sure I’d fall if he weren’t holding me. I clutch his arm and pull it closer, then begin to suck. Salty blood fills my mouth and my gag reflex automatically kicks in. I choke but he murmurs something in my ear and I relax and swallow the hot sticky liquid, mouthful after mouthful.

  Just when I think I can’t take any more, he pulls his arm away and twists my body round. I look up into his dark, glittering eyes. His face is flushed red and he is staring at me. Then I’m overcome by a wave of dizziness and everything fades to black.

  Chapter Sixteen: Truth and Lies

  When I finally come to, I’m lying on a single bed in a tiny room. I try to sit up but the effort is too much. Nausea fills my stomach and I’m covered in sweat. At least I’m alone. I twist onto my side, panting with effort. There’s a small wooden table next to me with a jug and an empty glass.

  My mouth is painfully dry and my lips are cracked and sore. Just how long have I been here? I reach for the jug but it’s just out of my grasp. Bugger – I’m going to have sit up after all. I curl my fingers round the mattress and pull my feet up, take a deep breath and push myself up onto my elbows. The room spins.

  Gritting my teeth, I force myself upwards until I’m almost sitting. I turn my head too sharply and my stomach lurches in response. I breathe in through my mouth, until I manage to regain a little equilibrium. I’m still wearing the clothes I arrived in, although my leather jacket is missing. My arms are bare and covered in goosebumps. I rub them up and down and try to reach the jug again.

  I misjudge the distance and fall onto the cold tiled floor. I grimace in pain, cursing my stupidity. The effort to get back up seems too great so I lie there, cold, shaking and very much in need of a drink.

  The door to the room opens. From the angle I’m lying at, all I can see is a pair of shoes so shiny that I can see my reflection in them. There’s a loud tut, then arms reach down and pull me back onto the bed. I hear the sound of liquid being poured and a glass is placed in my hands. I raise it gingerly to my lips, sniffing first. Fortunately it is just water. I sip it carefully then look up. My benefactor is Ursus. He’s standing there, watching me with his arms crossed.

  ‘So,’ he says, ‘you made it then.’

  ‘I’m a vampire?’ I croak, with equal measures of dismay and relief.

  He laughs humourlessly. ‘Not yet. For that you need to drink.’ He gestures down at the cup in my hand. ‘And I don’t mean water.’

  ‘Blood.’

  He nods. ‘Would you like some now?’

  Hell no. I shake my head then wish I hadn’t as the room starts to spin again. Ursus raises his eyebrows but doesn’t say anything.

  ‘Did everyone make it?’ I ask.

  He shakes his head. ‘We lost three.’ For a second, his impassive mask wavers. I realise he’s angry about it and he goes up in my estimation. I feel a flicker of sorrow at the deaths but I quash it. Whoever they were, they knew what they were getting themselves in to. But I can’t help hoping that nervy Peter Allen wasn’t one of them.

  Ursus points to the door. ‘When you feel ready, you’ll find a shower room two doors to the right. There is clean clothing. Let me know if you change your mind about the blood.’

  ‘Thanks, Ursus.’

  He stares at me and I kick myself mentally. I know his name from overhearing him at The Steam Team; he has never introduced himself to any of us. He must know who I am and be wondering how I went from running from the vampires to joining them. I’m too shaky to think of any good answers right now, so I’m grateful that he does nothing more than purse his lips before opening the door.

  I watch him go. Clearly, he is unaware of my real reasons for being here. I’m glad. It seems obvious that there are traitors at the heart of the Montserrat Family. It’s good that Michael doesn’t trust anyone; that will make my job easier if any of the culprits turn out to be men he thought he was close to.

  I touch my neck where Michael drank but there’s nothing there – not even a scab. It throbs under my fingers when I press down, although I can’t be sure whether that’s a real sensation or I’m imagining it. I suppose my new healing powers will prevent any awkward questions about why I have a fresh wound when I was meant to be injected. To test my theory about healing, I reach up with both hands and prod at my nose. It doesn’t hur
t. Maybe there are benefits to being a vampire after all.

  I stand up when I feel strong enough. I wobble slightly but maintain my balance. I feel grubby; a hot shower is definitely in order to make me feel more human again. So to speak. I slowly edge my way towards the door. The exertion is draining and seems to take an age but I finally reach the shower room.

  It’s a large communal area with cubicles lining either side. On one wall there are hooks, each one holding a midnight-blue jumpsuit. I count ten in total, meaning that, with three already dead and gone, none of my fellow recruits have yet emerged from their own private hell of turning.

  When I lean forward, I see names printed on small labels above each hook. Both Nicky’s and Peter’s names are there and I exhale in relief that they are among the survivors. Without knowing anyone else’s name, it’s difficult to tell who else has made it. I’m fairly certain that two of the men and one woman are the unlucky ones though. Three seems a high number considering Ursus’s statistics. I wonder if more people would have backed out had they known in advance how many would die.

  I pull off the jumpsuit under my own name and frown. It’s certainly not an outfit I’d have chosen for myself but I suppose it’ll have to do. I take it and my tired body into the nearest shower and strip off. There’s already a towel hanging on the back of the door.

  The water is hot, scalding my skin. I grab the bar of soap and scrub myself from head to toe before washing my hair. Then I simply stand immobile under the torrent of water for a long time.

  When I finally emerge from the cubicle, another shower is running. I’m curious to see who else has made it so I check the names on the hooks. The missing jumpsuit belongs to someone called Matt. If he spends as long in the shower as I did, I’ll be waiting for quite some time to see who he is, so I decide to leave him to it.