by Mara Leigh
“As I lay there, I watched the time change in the puddle,” I tell them. “Every minute I felt physically weaker, but more determined to live.”
“A half hour passed, and I still couldn’t move.”
I lay there, my right arm extended on the pavement, watching the puddle as the clock turned to twelve seventeen. The skin on my arm was so white, almost translucent, and while I could see my arm, I couldn’t feel it. Not in a normal way. But I hadn’t survived my stepfather’s abuse to die that night. Not like that. I was starting my dream job the next day. Lark and I planned to get a real apartment together. I had an entire life ahead of me, and I refused to die at twenty-two.
“I concentrated on my arm,” I tell them, “and it started to tingle. Time passed and soon my entire body was tingling.”
Tingle is the only word I have to describe the sensation, because in some ways it was similar to how it feels when you rub life back into an arm that’s asleep, and yet it was different.
“The tingle was intensely painful,” I tell them, “like my body was being pierced by a million shards of glass, like my veins were filled with acid. But at least I was feeling something.”
Malcolm nods. “Transitions can be rough. Your Maker should have offered her blood to you, long before it got to that.”
“Well, she was gone, and the pain intensified. It was like I was dying, but at the same time I sensed life flowing back into my body.”
Astrid nods some encouragement. “What else?”
“I screamed, I think, but people passing by the end of the alley didn’t react or stop, so I guess my screams weren’t audible.”
I sink back into my thoughts as I remember that nightmare of a night. Concentrating on my index finger I watched it until finally it moved, lifting just a few millimeters from the damp pavement. But when it dropped again, a fresh rush of pain raced through me like fire. The pain was unbearable. But I had to bear it. I had to bear it to survive.
“Time passed,” I say aloud, “and I challenged myself to move, even though it brought pain. Every minute I moved another part of my body, working through my fingers and toes, then moving on to a hand, then a foot.”
“Finally, at one fifty-two, I slid my entire forearm along the pavement. The pain was so strong it turned my vision white. I was sure I was dying, seeing the flash of light before death. But the flash faded, or maybe I got used to the pain, along with the acid that had replaced my bloodstream.”
The truth is, the pain became part of me, joining forces with the emotional pain I’d carried most of my life, but I don’t tell them that part. It’s too personal. Too horrible.
Closing my eyes, I remember how memories of my childhood abuse flashed through my mind that night, replaying vividly as if it were happening again, as if the horrors were staking out their place in my new state of being, implanting themselves in the new version of me so that I’d never be able to escape.
I know where I am right now—in Rock’s bar. I can feel his arm around me, smell the whiskey and beer, but my mind is in two other places as well, in that alley and in my childhood bedroom. The memories are vivid, too vivid.
I squash down the memories of my childhood, but that night I used the pain from the abuse to power by body. I used my agony as fuel.
The strength I’d found to say no to my stepfather—again and again—to push him off me, to finally leave that house, gave me the strength to push through the pain of transition and get up off that alleyway asphalt.
Forcing my mind back into the bar, I open my eyes and wait to catch my breath. How do I explain this part of the memory to the others? The way I used my childhood pain to get me through that night in the alley.
There’s no way I’m telling Astrid and Malcolm the details of that part, not even Rock. I don’t want anyone to know what my stepfather did to me.
“I concentrated,” I tell them. “I used all my strength and emotions to give me the power to push off that alley pavement. I was weak, my blood and mind were on fire, but I was alive and I was moving. Then I heard a sound in the alley. A voice.”
It felt like the voice was coming from another dimension, but I don’t dare tell them the details of this part, either, because I recognized the voice. And it called out my name.
“A figure crouched beside me,” I say aloud, “a woman, and I felt an overpowering need for her blood. Her body coursed with a river of something I wanted, something I instinctively knew I needed to survive. The scent—coppery, sweet, so alive—overpowered every other thought inside me and every sense except the pain. The pain remained.”
Malcolm nods and sets down his glass. “Please, continue.”
“The woman’s blood overtook my thoughts… “ All I had left in my mind was her blood and my pain. And the pain turned into a force that shouted for me to claim what I needed, to consume what this woman’s body had on offer so I could survive.
“I pounced on her,” I say aloud, shuddering at the vivid memory. “One second I was belly down on the asphalt, and the next I was on top of the woman, pinning her down. My teeth plunged into her throat, and I drank.”
I drank and drank and drank. The hot elixir stored in her body soothed my pain and built inside me a new sense of power, of life. A new sense of existence.
“My vision turned bright red as I fed,” I tell them. But I did more than feed. I pulled forth every drop I could find.
When her body had no more to give, I lifted my head and sucked in a long sharp breath.
“After,” I continue aloud, “I could taste the molecules of air, sense everything. It was like I could differentiate every little thing that the passing air had contacted before it reached me.”
“I know exactly what you mean,” Astrid says softly. “I had that same feeling the first time I fed.”
Closing my eyes, I nod, glad to tell this story to someone who understands. Overcome by the world, I covered my ears, closed my eyes and tried not to breathe all the strong smells. But eventually, I let the sounds and smells and sights of my environment sink in.
I could see individual grains of clay in the brick walls, smell individual bacterium swimming in the murky puddles, and the lights… My night vision kicked in for the first time, and it was hard to keep my eyes fully open.
Opening my eyes now, I see that the three of them are waiting for me to continue.
“A couple passed by the end of the alley,” I say, “and my vision was so clear that I saw a tiny cross tattoo on the woman’s inner wrist. I could smell a shit stain on the man’s underwear and hear their individual heartbeats.” I shake my head. The details are vivid, but they don’t matter.
“I didn’t fully understand what was happening. I knew vampires existed but had very little knowledge beyond a few stories I’d read online. I knew I’d just drank blood, but none of it made sense to me.”
“How did you figure it out?” Rock asks.
Looking down at my hands, I shake my head. “I don’t know. It just fell into place, I guess.”
I can’t share the next part. Not ever. That night, feeling powerful but scared, I looked down and saw the truth—the awful truth. The woman I’d fed from was dead.
I staggered back from the murder scene, the murder I’d committed. Another kind of pain invaded my mind that night, one even worse than the physical pain.
I’d killed her. I’d killed my one and only friend.
My friend Lark was dead, her face in a puddle, her neck pierced by my fangs, but the wound barely bled. She had no more blood to lose.
I’d killed Lark to survive, but if I could have reversed what I’d done, if I could have taken all her blood from inside me and put it back where it belonged, I would have done it, even if it meant my own death.
That night, turning away from my friend’s lifeless body, I ran. I ran like a coward. A murderer. A monster.
Chapter 11
Rock
I hug Selina’s shaking body against my side. Pain is etched into every part of her.
Her retelling was so vivid I feel sure her mind was transported back to that night as she told the story, that her body re-experienced the trauma as we sat here in the booth.
Even before hearing her story I knew that she’d suffered, but to hear details of her agonizing transformation, her guilt at killing her first source of blood…
She’d never admitted that last part, not directly, but the truth was clear in her expression.
That kind of guilt I know well, and my hearts ache knowing she went through so much, knowing she’ll be suffering the trauma of killing that human for the rest of her life, the rest of eternity. Time hasn’t dented my pain.
I want to take Selina downstairs where I can hold her and kiss her, help her forget, but the two vampires sitting at our booth are right. She needs to feed.
Mostly quiet as Selina told her story, Astrid frowns now.
“Spontaneous transformation.” Malcolm shakes his head. “I thought it was a myth.”
“It is a myth.” Astrid shakes her head. “There’s no way. Unless…” She leans toward Selina. “Who are your parents?”
Selina swipes her hand across her cheekbone like she thought there were tears there. “My mom…she was…” Selina fights to form words.
“Was?” Astrid asks bluntly. “Your mother is dead?”
“No.” Selina draws a ragged breath. “At least I’m not sure. I haven’t tried to see her since my transition.”
“When did you last see her?” asks Astrid.
“I ran away from home when I was fourteen,” Selina says softly.
“How come?” Malcolm asks and I want to kick him. The way Selina’s body reacts to the question, almost caving in on itself, gives a strong hint at the answer.
“My stepfather was a jerk,” Selina says. “I couldn’t stay in that house.” She shakes her head. “I never talked to my mom after I left, but I checked in on her. I’d watch her come and go. Make sure that my stepfather hadn’t killed her.”
“He hit her?” Malcolm asks. “Why didn’t you or your mom report your stepfather to the cops?”
Astrid slaps his arm and shoots him a look to tell him his question was insensitive.
“I didn’t want the cops to know I was living on the streets,” Selina answers. “I didn’t trust adults, and I figured I was better off on my own.”
“What about your real father?” Malcolm asks. “Who was he?”
Selina shakes her head. “I never met him. He was a one-night stand. Mom never told him she was pregnant. To be honest, I’m not positive she knew who my father was.”
“So, after you turned,” Astrid says. “How did you survive alone?”
Selina’s hand trembles and she cups her glass. She takes a sip of her whiskey, and I signal Chelle to bring us another round.
“For the first month or so,” Selina says, “I hid in the boiler room of the scuzzy rooming house where I’d been living. I only went out when I was desperate to feed. But the owner found me and threatened to call the cops because of unpaid rent. Luckily, he didn’t recognize what I was, but it was clear I could never go back there.”
I rub her arm, wishing I could pulverize her pain.
“Then what?” Malcolm asks.
“I went from place to place looking for shelter from the sun. I think the longest I spent in one location was five days. It was hard.”
“Why didn’t you join a syndicate?” Astrid prods. “And how the hell did you end up with a scumbag like Xavier?”
“Give her time.” Malcolm kisses her cheek.
Selina draws a long breath before speaking again. “Every time I found shelter, a syndicate recruiter would find me within a couple of nights. And, no offense,” she glances across the table, “but the syndicate recruiters creeped me out—all threats wrapped in promises of safety.”
Malcolm snorts.
Selina lifts her chin in defiance. “All I knew about vampire syndicates was what I’d heard in the news. I thought they were crime gangs that bribed police and politicians and…” She sucks in a breath. “Captured humans to use as blood slaves.”
“All bullshit,” Malcolm says.
“Some of it’s not bullshit.” Astrid frowns at her mate, then turns to Selina. “Not every syndicate is like that, though. Yes, syndicates do strike deals with the police in exchange for protection, but it’s not all crime and corruption.”
Astrid looks around the room. “I’m starting to worry we might be overheard.”
“You’re safe in my bar,” I assure them.
“Rock, with all due respect,” Astrid says, “you don’t know that. I love that you’ve made a safe place for us here, but you can’t control who comes in.”
“Let’s go downstairs.” I should have taken us down as soon as Malcolm and Astrid got here. Selina’s the only person who’s ever been in my apartment, but right now I’ll do anything to keep her safe.
“No.” Astrid shakes her head. “Selina needs to come with us, so she can feed.”
I want Selina to get everything she needs and I trust my friends, but the idea of leaving her side, for even a minute, hurts deep in my heart.
Chapter 12
Selina
I’ve only been with Rock for twenty-four hours, but sitting here, sheltered by his huge, warm body and our thighs pressed together, the idea of leaving his side seems wrong. So does leaving the bar—going out in the open where Pike might find me.
But with every passing moment, I’m even more hungry.
A woman in red jeans passes our table and the scent of her blood pulls me up a few inches from my seat. Without Rock’s arm around me, I might have followed her to take what I need.
No way can I put Rock at risk by feeding on one of his customers. Plus, Astrid and Malcolm claim what I need is vampire blood.
I look at the two vampires across from us. “If I need to feed from a vampire…” I clear my throat. “Can’t I just feed from one of you?”
Malcolm looks ill. Shock flashes on Astrid’s face but quickly disappears. “Honey. We’re a committed couple. We never give our vein to another vampire.”
“Oh. Sorry.” I have so much to learn about vampire science and culture.
“You still didn’t tell us how you ended up with Xavier,” Astrid says. “I’m sorry, but before we invite you to the club, I need to know more.”
“That’s okay,” I say. “I can understand why you’re skeptical. I wish I’d been more skeptical.”
“How’s that?” Astrid asks.
“Well, I told you how I was approached, practically stalked, by syndicate recruiters?”
She nods. “It’s possible you even met someone from FJS. We have an outreach program targeting strays.”
“Strays?”
She looks apologetic, but she’s right. I was a stray and I supposed I’ve always been a stray—first as a human, then a vampire. But if being a stray was tough for a human, it was worse as a vampire. Literally every human on Earth was out to kill me.
“One night,” I tell them, “I met a vampire, Santos, who seemed different from the others—well-dressed, sophisticated, a Spanish accent. He chased away another recruiter who was threatening to turn me in to the cops if I didn’t join his syndicate.”
“Asshole,” Malcolm says. “No one from FJS would ever do that.”
I shiver, remembering the bullying nature of the recruiter Santos sent away, how the vampire claimed I was violating codes I didn’t know existed: feeding in public without authorization, sleeping in unsanctioned locations, risking the reputation of all vampire-kind.
I was scared and guilty and so alone.
“Santos told me he lived under the protection of a great king.” I swallow a lump in my throat. “I didn’t know vampires had royalty and was fascinated by the idea. Plus a royal court seemed way more legit than a syndicate.”
“Not at all legit.” Malcolm says the last word with scorn. “There is one true king.
“At least there was a true king,” Astrid interjects.
“He’s been missing for twenty years.”
“What happened to him?” I ask.
“No one knows.” Malcolm’s eyes fill with sadness. “And in his absence, the syndicates and these bogus royal courts gained power. It’s the same all over the world. Chaos.”
I soak in this knowledge about my species, thirsting for more, but that’s not all I’m thirsting for.
“FJS is different, though,” Astrid adds. “Our corporation has been around for centuries. Plus, we were sanctioned by the monarchy.”
“That’s why we get offended when you compare us to a syndicate.” Malcolm points at Rock.
“Fair enough,” Rock says.
“What does FJS stand for?” I ask.
“Fides, Juris, Sanctorum,” Malcolm answers. “Latin words loosely meaning loyalty, justice and the sacred. But no one uses the full name.”
“So.” Astrid taps the table. “Santos? You didn’t finish your story.”
“Yeah.” I draw a breath. “Santos painted this picture of a safe and loving community where I’d never again have to hunt for my meals or a place to hide from the sunlight. It sounded too good to be true, even better than what the syndicates were promising.” I shake my head. “I was so tired. So alone.”
“Baby girl.” Astrid squeezes my hand. “I get it. In the same situation I might have followed him, too.”
I smile at her, starting to truly like Rock’s friends.
“But how long were you with Xavier?” Astrid leans forward. “How can I be sure you’re not still with him?”
“She’s not,” Rock interjects. “Bastard raped her. Tortured her.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry.” Astrid stands and reaches across the table toward me. I rise, too, and she hugs me, rubbing my back.
I sit down and take a sip of my whiskey. “Santos presented me to Xavier like some kind of bounty, and the king took a liking to me.”
“Again,” Malcolm interjects, “not a king.”
“I know that now.” I tip my head to the side. “I guess I was a little flattered by the king’s attention at first. Everyone made such a big deal about it. And life at his court was safe and easier than my life on the streets, and… and… it was sexy.” I twist my lips to the side, embarrassed at how easily I was seduced. “But then everything changed, or at least I started to see things more clearly.” I shake my head.
