by Kristi Cook
“Yes, but she’s just a general trainer. They’re trying to find me a precog whose visions work similar to mine. But, I don’t know . . .” I trailed off. “I guess mine are a little unusual.”
“Perhaps.” Dr. Blackwell nodded, reaching for a pad of paper and a pen. “I’ll speak to Mrs. Girard about it, see what we can do.” He scribbled something down, then laid aside the pen and removed his glasses. “Your anthropology essay was excellent, by the way. You’ll receive it back in class tomorrow, but you should know you received one of the highest marks. Very impressive. Have you a particular interest in folklore?”
I wasn’t quite sure how to answer that one. Truthfully, I’d never really thought much about it. “Maybe. Your class is interesting.”
He leaned back in his chair with a smile. “Precisely what every instructor hopes to hear. You’ll find I have a very extensive library on such topics, here in my office. Feel free to take anything that catches your fancy.” He gestured toward the bookshelves to my right, row after row of books that nearly reached the ceiling.
“Thanks,” I murmured, wondering if he had any books about vampires. Or crazy people who thought they were vampires.
“Very well, I suppose that’s all for now, then. I do hope you’ll find yourself well enough to attend your classes tomorrow, Miss McKenna. All of your classes,” he added sternly.
“I hope so too,” I answered. What I really needed was to get away for a while, to have some time to myself, away from Cece and the rest of them. Just to think, to get my head together.
Suddenly, I had an idea. “Can I ask you something?”
“Of course, Miss McKenna. Anything.”
“I’ve been feeling a little homesick lately, and I was wondering if it was possible . . . I mean, I know it’s kind of last-minute and all, but could I get a pass to go home for the weekend? After fencing practice on Friday night?”
“That’s an excellent idea. I’ll let Mrs. Girard know that I’ve given you permission, and you may go ahead and make the arrangements. You can take the seven forty-six train.”
Relief washed over me. “Thanks. I . . . I really appreciate it.”
“Now go on, before you miss dinner.”
With a nod, I rose and made my way out of his office, moving slowly thanks to the cut on my foot, which hadn’t yet had time to heal.
Just like my stupid heart.
* * *
Turns out I needn’t have worried about avoiding Aidan the rest of the week. He wasn’t in history or anthropology class, or anywhere else on campus, as far as I could tell. Even his voice in my head was silent. Which was fine by me.
On Friday afternoon, Cece and Sophie sat on the bed, watching me pack.
“I still can’t believe Dr. B. gave you permission to go,” Cece said. “He’s usually pretty strict about weekend passes. Two-week notice, and all that.”
Sophie frowned. “You look pale. Are you sure you’re feeling okay?”
I tossed a pair of jeans into my bag. “Yeah, I’m fine. Still a bit of a headache, that’s all.”
“Would you mind if I . . . you know.” Sophie shrugged. “Just let me check, okay? I’m worried that the cut on your foot might have gotten infected.” She rose and moved to stand beside me, reaching for my hand.
I let her take it, a shiver working its way down my spine. My foot was fine. If I looked pale and haggard it was because I’d barely slept in days.
Sophie’s brows drew together, her lips pursed as she held my cold hand in her warm one. “Your foot’s okay,” she said at last. “Everything seems fine, actually.”
“Told you.” I forced myself to smile. “I’m just tired, is all.”
“Does Aidan know you’re going into the city for the weekend?” Cece asked.
“No. Aidan and I—” I broke off, swallowing hard. How could I possibly explain it? “We’re not, you know . . . it’s none of his business. It’s not like he’ll even notice, besides.”
Cece’s dark brows drew together. “You’re not going to tell us what really happened, are you?”
“I . . . I did tell you,” I stuttered. I’d told them about finding him in the chem lab, everything smashed to bits. About cutting my foot. That was enough, as far as I was concerned. “I just . . . don’t think it’s going to work out between us. You know, too different and all that.”
I could tell from their expressions that they weren’t buying it, and who could blame them? Nothing had ever been that simple between Aidan and me. We’d always been too different; that was nothing new. But before now, I’d at least thought we were both mortals. I reached up and fingered the silver crucifix Lupe had given me.
Vampire. I forced myself to think the word, to at least consider the possibility, as whacked out as it seemed. No, I just couldn’t buy it. It was too out there, too crazy to believe. Vampires were just make-believe; horror-movie stuff like demons and zombies. Aidan was either seriously deluded or seriously messing with my head. There had to be a more rational explanation, something psychic-related.
“Hey, earth to Violet.”
I realized Sophie and Cece were staring at me, and I snapped my attention back to packing.
“God, you just mention his name and she’s off in la-la land,” Sophie said, shaking her head. “I don’t care what you say, you’ve got it bad.”
Cece nodded. “Yeah. Or maybe there’s an Aidan effect by proxy. You know, where you don’t have to see him, just think about him.”
“Ha-ha, very funny.” I tried to smile, but I don’t think it worked. None of this was funny, not one bit. I zipped up my overnight bag and hefted it onto my shoulder. “I better go or I’ll miss my train. Tell Kate and Marissa I said bye, will you?”
“Sure,” Sophie answered.
For a moment I hesitated at the door. Then I hurried back, wrapping my arms around both Cece and Sophie at once.
“Hey, we’ll miss you too,” Cece said, her voice thick.
I knew I was being silly—it was only a weekend. Still, I had this feeling . . . I don’t know. I couldn’t put my finger on it, but something about this impromptu trip spelled “change” to me. Not that I’d had a vision or anything. Actually, now that I thought about it, I hadn’t had a vision in a while. That’s a good thing, I told myself. Before I’d come to Winterhaven, they’d been few and far between, and I liked it much better that way.
Only now . . . now I somehow felt blind. I glanced down at my watch and frowned. I was supposed to meet Mrs. Girard at the admin building in five minutes—she was calling a cab to drive me to the station.
A half hour later I was settled into a scabbed blue vinyl seat on the Metro-North train, headed south. Only then did I realize that I’d never even called Patsy to tell her I was coming. I had no idea if she was busy or, for that matter, even in town.
I pulled my cell phone out of my bag and started to dial, but something stopped me—a gut feeling. Deciding to trust it, I flipped the phone shut and shoved it back into my bag. I’d call her once I got into the city. If she was out, I had a key, and the doorman knew me.
With a sigh, I leaned back in the seat, closing my eyes. I was tired. Exhausted, really. All I needed was some rest and some time alone to figure everything out.
I must have dozed off, because the next thing I knew, the train was arriving at Grand Central station. I rubbed my eyes, my mouth all dry and cottony. Why hadn’t I thought to bring along a bottle of water?
Beside me, a couple dressed up for a night on the town stood and joined the loud, raucous crowd of teenagers milling in the aisle as the train came to a stop. Outside the train’s windows, the station had a dull amber-yellow glow.
Something inside me felt weird, slightly off. Please, oh please, don’t let me have a vision. Not now. Not in front of all these people. My legs felt wobbly as I zipped up my coat and stepped out onto the platform, following the herd of people toward the exit.
For fifteen minutes I tried to catch a cab, with no luck. So I started walking
instead. It was that gut instinct again, pulling me somewhere, toward . . . something. My heart began to race in anticipation while a nervous buzz in my ears reduced the city’s noises to a faint hum. Ten minutes passed, then twenty. I realized I had walked south instead of north, and too far east. And yet I kept walking, on and on, as if I were in a trance. A light fog had rolled in, giving the night an almost surreal feel to it, and still I walked on, entirely in the wrong direction.
On purpose.
A quarter hour or so later, I blinked hard, as if waking up from a dream, and looked around. This was an unfamiliar part of the city—an area I’d never been to before. The Lower East Side, maybe? Or somewhere near Battery Park? I wasn’t sure. Wherever I was, there wasn’t much besides some run-down-looking storefronts, everything-for-a-dollar stores and stuff like that, mostly barred up for the night. Probably not safe, I told myself.
And then my vision began to tunnel, as if I were about to have one of my episodes. I swallowed hard, fully expecting the onslaught of the strange feelings that accompanied my visions. But they never came. Instead I simply began to walk, focused on a spot in the distance, maybe four or five blocks over.
My heart was pounding, keeping rhythm to the sound of my boots’ heels against the sidewalk. Faster, faster . . .
I was entirely aware of the fact that I was being drawn somewhere, against my will, and yet I made no move to stop, to shake it off. I was supposed to go wherever I was headed—I was sure of it. I began to jog, my overnight bag jostling against my hip. I heard footsteps, saw the barest hint of a figure up ahead. I was following them, the footsteps. Keeping pace.
Looking around, I noticed a flyer taped to a post beside me: HOW TO WRITE A NOVEL IN A WEEK, it promised. So familiar. Everything seemed so familiar, as if I’d been here and done this before. And yet I was sure I’d never before been on this particular street in this particular part of the city.
Except in the vision, I realized. The one I’d had when I first came to Winterhaven. Of course—I was following Aidan. I stopped midway down a deserted block. To my right was an alley of some sort. He’d turned down the alley, and I was supposed to follow him.
Cupping my hands to my mouth, I called out his name.
“All alone, pretty girl?”
Startled, I spun toward the voice. There was a man standing beside the curb, leering at me in the moonlight, his clothing shabby and torn and reeking of smoke and beer and something sharp that I couldn’t identify.
No, this is wrong. In the vision I’d been following Aidan, not some junkie.
“I got some good stuff, if you wanna share,” he said, holding up a small Baggie. I saw the glint of steel in his hand—a knife, maybe.
I was breathing way too fast to respond—short puffs through parted lips making clouds of smoke in the cool night air.
“Nah? Maybe you just want to have some fun, then?”
I swallowed convulsively, terrified. I knew I should run— scream and run, as loud and as fast as I could. But I was frozen, unable to move a single muscle.
He reached toward me, dirty fingers clutching at my coat’s sleeve. And that’s when the world turned upside down.
Something—or someone—slammed into the junkie, dragging him farther into the alley and pressing him up against the graffiti-covered bricks.
I screamed, but nothing came out. My lungs were burning, my throat so tight I could barely breathe as I tried to run, but my legs buckled beneath me and I fell to the sidewalk. I heard a grunt and looked up to see the junkie’s attacker dip his head toward the filthy man’s neck.
Still pressed against the alley’s wall, the junkie struggled, his feet dangling a foot off the ground while the attacker—my savior, I realized—held him by the throat. So help me God, the guy had his face buried in the junkie’s neck, as if he were biting him. I could only watch in horror, unable to believe what I was seeing.
Seconds later, the junkie went limp and the attacker released him, stepping back as the man slid to the ground like a rag doll. My gaze was involuntarily drawn to the crumpled form on the ground, deep red blood trickling from a pair of puncture marks on the guy’s neck.
The attacker took a step back, his hands clenched into fists by his sides. His shoulders rose and fell—once, twice. I was holding my breath, just waiting . . .
And then he turned, blond hair glinting in the dim light of the moon, familiar eyes reaching out to me through the hazy fog. Recognition washed over me like a dousing of ice-cold water, and I gasped.
Holy hell and God in heaven.
It was Aidan. Of course it was. Hadn’t I known it all along?
As I sat there gaping in shock, he reached up and wiped a smear of ruby-red blood from his mouth with his sleeve. As he did so, I saw a flash of oddly long canine teeth. Long and sharp. Looking suspiciously like . . . like fangs.
That was the last thing I saw before I passed out cold, right there on the sidewalk.
14 ~ Fear of Flying
I awoke to the sensation of speed. Panicked, I began to flail around, but strong arms held me tight.
“I’ve got you,” came Aidan’s voice beside my ear.
“Oh, God,” I moaned. “Where . . . what are you . . . how—” I swallowed hard, unable to form a coherent sentence.
“Shhh,” he murmured.
Immediately I felt a calming sensation. I wanted to protest, to tell him not to manipulate my mind that way. But I couldn’t speak, couldn’t do anything but swallow, over and over again. I kept my eyes squeezed shut, praying for my stomach to settle, for the freaky sensations to go away.
There was a popping noise, followed by a rush of air, and then . . . nothing. Scared out of my wits, I opened my eyes, half-expecting to see . . . I don’t know what. But all I saw was a front door, painted a shiny black with a big, brass lion’s-head knocker in the center and a mail slot down below. On either side of the door was a column of stained glass. I had no idea where he’d taken me, but we weren’t downtown anymore, that was for sure.
I nearly jumped out of my skin when the door swung open. A well-dressed elderly man stood inside, gaping at us both. “Master Gray,” he said with a nod, moving aside as Aidan carried me in. The old man’s bushy gray brows knitted together as he peered down at me. “Is she injured?”
“Just scared, I think. Here, take her bag and draw her a bath.”
“Of course. Right away.”
I felt something slip over my head and realized it was my overnight bag. I shivered violently, and felt Aidan’s arms tighten around me.
“Is he . . . did you . . . kill him?” I finally managed to ask.
“No. Though perhaps I should have.”
“He was going to . . . to . . .”
“You’re safe now, Violet. Let’s get you upstairs and cleaned up. We can talk later.”
“I can walk,” I said, struggling against the confines of his arms.
“That’s what you think,” he answered with a chuckle. “C’mon, Trevors will have your bath ready soon.” He carried me away from the front door, across a huge foyer lit by a glittering chandelier, and up a curved staircase. There was marble everywhere—marble and gilt and crystal.
“Where . . . where are we?”
“My home,” Aidan said quietly. “Don’t worry, we’re still in Manhattan. Just off Fifth Avenue.”
A door opened on its own, then another. Fear shot through me. Still, I clung to Aidan. I squeezed my eyes shut, but the image in my mind’s eye was even worse. Aidan, fresh blood on his mouth, blood from the junkie’s throat . . .
I won’t hurt you, Violet. His voice, in my head.
I just nodded, exhaling slowly. In through my nose, out through my mouth. I had to concentrate on breathing, because if I thought about anything else, I might lose it.
“There you are, sir. Her bath is almost ready, and I’ve laid out fresh towels and a robe in the dressing room. Will you be needing anything else?”
“That’s it for now, Trevors,” Aidan
said, and my eyes flew open, darting around, taking in my surroundings.
We were in a bathroom done in deep blue and gold. An enormous tub sat in the center, fragrant steam rising from the water. Beside the tub, thick towels the same blue as the walls were piled on a chair that looked like an antique, like something that belonged in Gran’s living room. Gold velvet drapes were tied back from a large bay window with tasseled cords, fleur-de-lis-patterned shades covering the panes of glass.
Aidan gingerly lowered my feet to the plush patterned carpet, then reached across the tub to turn off the faucets. “Here, take all the time you need,” he said, and I couldn’t help but notice that his teeth were back to normal now. “There’s a new toothbrush and some toothpaste in the closet over by the sink; help yourself to whatever you can find. Soak for a while, and then we’ll talk, okay?”
I nodded mutely.
“When you’re done, the dressing room is through there.” He pointed to a curved door on the far side of the room. “Trevors left you a robe. I’ll know when you’re ready.”
Aidan left me then, shutting the door softly behind him. A click sounded, and I realized that he’d locked the door from the inside, as if to reassure me that I had complete privacy, that I was safe. Of course, if he could lock it with his mind, then he could unlock it too. But he wouldn’t. Call me crazy, but I truly believed that.
I swallowed hard, wincing at the nasty taste in my mouth. I found the toothbrush and toothpaste and turned on the faucet, glancing up at my reflection in the oval, gilt-framed mirror above it as I did so. I looked awful—pale and disheveled, with a terrified look in my eyes.
Yeah, what do you expect? You almost got yourself jumped by some junkie, then you watched your maybe-boyfriend bite the dude’s neck and suck him dry before you passed out cold. Good times.
I finished brushing as fast as I could, desperate to get into the tub and scrub away the grime, the filth, the memories. In seconds I’d stripped down to nothing and climbed the marble steps that led to the tub, sighing with relief as I stepped into the hot water and sunk down to my chin. Spying a pair of buttons below the faucet, I punched one, firing up the jets. I closed my eyes as the water frothed, the steady hum of the motor soothing my jangled nerves. The water was the perfect temperature and scented with lavender, and I inhaled deeply as I laid my head back against the marble.
