He was six feet tall, with wavy blond hair and a clean-shaven, handsome face, still boyish but filling out nicely. He had a shy smile and laughing eyes.
“Where’ve you been? I haven’t seen you in weeks. The registrar’s office said you took a leave of absence.”
She had her story all figured out. It wasn’t even a lie, really.
“I’ve been sick,” she said.
“You couldn’t even call?”
“Really sick.” She pressed her lips in a thin smile, hoping she sounded sad.
“Yeah, I guess.” He took the cue not to press the question further. He brightened. “But you look great now. Really great.”
There it was, a spark in his eye, a flush in his cheek. She’d always wondered if he liked her. She’d never been sure. Now, she had tools. She had senses. And she looked great. It wasn’t her, a bitter voice sounded inside her. It was this thing riding her, this creature inside her. It was a lure, a trap.
Looking great made men like Chris blush. Now, she could use it. She knew how to respond. She’d always been uncertain before.
She lowered her gaze, smiled, then looked at him warmly, searching. “Thanks.”
“I—I guess you already have a drink.”
The others had moved off to claim one of the pool tables. Chris remained, leaning on the bar beside her, nervously tapping his foot.
Compared to him, Emma had no trouble radiating calm. She was in control here.
“Let me get you something,” she said.
* * *
For a moment—for a long, lingering, blissful moment—it felt like old times. They only talked, but the conversation was long and heartfelt. He really listened to her. So she kept talking—so much so that she almost got to the truth.
“I’ve had to reassess everything. What am I going to do with my life, what’s the point of it all.” She shrugged, letting the implications settle.
“You must have been really sick,” he said, his gaze intent.
“I thought I was going to die,” she said, and it wasn’t a lie. She didn’t remember much of it—the man, the monster’s hand on her face, on her arms, pinning her to the bed. She wanted to scream, but the sound caught in her throat. However frightened she’d been, her body responded to his touch, flushed, and this made her ashamed. She hoped that he would kill her rather than turn her. But she awoke again and the world was different.
“You make it sound like you’re not coming back.”
“Hm?” she murmured, startled out of her memory.
“To school. You aren’t coming back, are you?”
“I don’t know,” she said, wanting to be honest, knowing she couldn’t tell him everything. “It’d be hard, after what’s happened. I just don’t know.” This felt so casual, so normal, that she almost forgot she had a purpose here. That she was supposed to be guiding this conversation. She surprised herself by knowing what to say next. “This is going to sound really cliché, but when you think you aren’t going to make it like that, it really does change how you look at things. You really do try to live for the moment. You don’t have time to screw around anymore.”
Which was ironic, because really, she had all the time in the world.
Chris hung on her words. “No, it doesn’t sound cliché at all. It sounds real.”
“I just don’t think I have time anymore for school. I’d rather, you know—live.”
This sounded awful—so false and ironic. Don’t listen to me, I’m immortal, part of her almost yelled. But she didn’t, because another part of her was hungry.
When he spoke, he sounded uncertain. “Do—do you want to get out of here? Go to my place maybe?”
Her shy smile widened. She’d wanted him to say that. She wanted him to think this was his idea. She rounded her shoulders, aware of her posture, her body language, wanting to send a message that she was open, willing, and ready.
“Yeah,” she said, touching his hand as she stood.
His skin felt like fire.
* * *
Chris took her back to his place. He lived within walking distance, in a garden-level unit in a block of apartments. A nice place, small but functional, and very student. It felt like a foreign country.
Emma watched Chris unlock the door and felt some trepidation. Nerves, that was all. Anticipation. Unknown territory—to be expected, going home with a new guy for the first time.
Chris fumbled with the key.
There was more to this than the unknown, or the thrill of anticipation. She stood on the threshold, literally, and felt something: a force outside of herself. Nothing solid, rather a feeling that made her want to turn away. Like a voice whispering, Go, you are not welcome, this is not your place, your blood does not dwell here.
She couldn’t ignore it. The voice fogged her senses. If she turned away, even just a little—stepped back, tilted her head away—her mind cleared. She didn’t notice when Chris finally unlocked the door and pushed his way inside.
She didn’t know how long he’d been standing on the other side of the threshold, looking back at her expectantly. She simply couldn’t move forward.
“Come on in,” he said, giving a reassuring smile.
The feeling, fog, and voice disappeared. The unseen resistance fell away, the barrier was gone. She’d been invited.
Returning his smile, she went in.
Inside was what she’d expected from a male college student: The front room had a ripe, well-lived-in smell of dirty laundry and pizza boxes. Mostly, though, it smelled like him. In a moment, she took it all in, the walls and the carpet. Despite how many times the former had been repainted and the later replaced, the sense that generations of college students had passed through here lingered.
The years of life pressed against her skin, and she closed her eyes to take it all in, to feel it eddy around her.
“Do you want something to drink?” Chris was sweating, just a little.
Yes. “No, I’m okay.”
Seduction wasn’t a quick thing. Though she supposed, if she wanted, she could just take him. She could feel in her bones and muscles that she could. He wouldn’t know what hit him. It would be easy, use the currents of the room, slow down the world, move in the blink of an eye—
No. No speed, no fear, no mess. Better to do it cleanly. Nicer, for everyone. Now that they were alone, away from the crowd, her purpose became so very clear. Her need became crystalline. She planned it out: a brief touch on his arm, press her body close, and let him do the rest.
Fake. It was fake, manipulative.… She liked him. She really did. She wished she’d done this months ago, she wished she’d had the nerve to say something, to touch his hand—before she’d been attacked and turned. Then, she hadn’t had the courage, and now she wanted something else from him. It felt like deception.
This was why Alette had wanted her to find a stranger. She wouldn’t be wishing that it had all turned out different. Maybe she wouldn’t care. She wanted to like Chris—she didn’t want to need him like this. Didn’t want to hurt him. And she didn’t know if she’d have been so happy to go home with anyone else. That was why she was here. That was why she’d gone to that particular bar and waited for him.
That doesn’t matter, her instincts—new instincts, like static across her skin, like the heat of blood drawing her—told her. The emotion is a by-product of need. He is yours because you’ve won him. You’ve already won him, you have only to claim him.
She reached out—she could feel him without looking, by sensing the way the air folded around his body—and brushed her fingers across the back of his hand. He reacted instantly, curling his hand around hers, squeezing, pulling himself toward her, and kissing her—half on cheek, half on lip.
He pulled back, waiting for a reaction, his breath coming fast and brushing her cheek. She didn’t breathe at all—would he notice? Should she gasp, to fool him into thinking she breathed, so he wouldn’t notice that she didn’t? Another deception.
Rather than debating the questi
on, she lunged for him, her lips seeking his, kissing forcefully. Distract him. In a minute he wouldn’t notice anything. She devoured him, and he was off balance, lagging behind as she sucked his lips and sought his tongue. She’d never been this hungry for someone before. The taste of his skin, his sweat, his mouth, burst inside her and fired her brain. He tasted so good on the outside, she couldn’t wait to discover what the inside of him tasted like, that warm blood flushing just under the surface. Her nails dug into his arm, wanting to pull off the sleeves of his shirt, all his clothes, to be closer to his living skin. She wanted nothing more than to close her teeth, bite into him—
She pulled back, almost ripping herself away. Broke all contact and took a step back, so that she was surrounded by cool air and not flesh. She could hear the blood rushing in his neck.
This wasn’t her. This wasn’t her doing this. She couldn’t do this.
Chris gave a nervous chuckle. “Wow. That was … Emma, what’s wrong?”
She closed her eyes, took a moment to gather herself, drew breath to speak. It would look like a deep sigh to him.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I can’t do this.”
She couldn’t look at him. If he saw her eyes, saw the way she looked at him, he’d know about the thing inside her, he’d know she only wanted to rip him open. How could she explain to him, without explaining?
“I had a really nice time … but I’m sorry.”
Holding the collar of her jacket closed, she fled before he could say a word in argument.
* * *
Alette had had to force her to drink blood the first time. Emma hadn’t wanted to become this thing. She’d threatened to leave the house at dawn and die in the sunlight. Alette persuaded her to stay. A haunted need inside her listened to that, wanted to survive, and stayed inside, in the dark. Still, she gagged when the mistress showed her the glass tumbler full of viscous red. “It’s only your first night in this life,” she said. “You’re too new to hunt. But you still need this.” Alette had then stood behind her, embraced Emma and locked her arms tight with one hand while tipping the glass to her mouth with the other. Emma had struggled, fought to pull out of her grasp, but Alette was deceptively powerful, and Emma was still sick and weak.
Emma had recognized the scent of the blood even before it reached her lips: tangy, metallic, like a butcher’s shop. Even as she rebelled, even as her mind quailed, part of her reached toward it. Her mouth salivated. This contradiction was what had caused her to break down, screaming that she didn’t want this, that she couldn’t do this, kicking and thrashing in Alette’s grip. But Alette had been ready for it, and very calmly held her still, forced the glass between her lips, and made her drink. As much spilled out of her mouth and down her chin as slid down her throat. Then, she’d fallen still. Helpless, she’d surrendered, even as that single sip returned her strength to her.
Eventually, she could hold the glass herself and drain it. She even realized she should learn to find the blood herself. She thought she’d been ready.
* * *
Alette found her in the parlor, sitting curled up on one of the sofas. “What happened?”
Emma hugged her knees and stared into space. She’d spent hours here, almost until dawn, watching dust motes, watching time move. This was fascinating—the idea that she could see time move. Almost, if she concentrated, she could reach out and touch it. Twist it. Cross the room in a second. She would look like she was flying. She’d almost done it, earlier tonight. She’d have taken him so quickly he wouldn’t have known …
Alette waited patiently for her to answer. Like she could also spend all night watching time move.
“I don’t know.” Even after all that had happened, her voice sounded like a little girl’s. She still felt like a child. “I liked him. It was … it felt good. I thought…” She shook her head. The memory was a distant thing. She didn’t want to revisit it. “I got scared. I had him in the palm of my hand. He was mine. I was strong. And this thing rose up in me, this amazing power—I could do anything. But it wasn’t me. So I got scared and ran.”
Poised and regal, Alette sat, hands crossed in her lap, the elegant noblewoman of an old painting. Nothing shook her, nothing shattered her.
“That’s the creature. That’s what you are now. How you control it will determine what your life will look like from now on.”
It was a pronouncement, a judgment, a knell of doom.
Alette continued. “Some of our kind give free rein to it. They revel in it. It makes them strong, but often leaves them vulnerable. If you try to ignore it, it will consume you. You’ll lose that part of yourself that is yours.”
In her bones, in the tracks of her bloodless veins, Emma knew Alette was right, and this was what she feared: that she wasn’t strong, that she wouldn’t control it. That she would lose her self, her soul to the thing. Her eyes ached with tears that didn’t fall.
How did Alette control it? How did she manage to sit so calm and dignified, with the creature writhing inside of her, desperate for power? Emma felt sure she wouldn’t last long enough to develop that beautiful self-possession.
“Oh my dear, hush there.” Alette moved to her side and gathered her in her arms. She’d seen Emma’s anguish and now sought to wrap her in comfort. Emma clung to her, pressing her face against the cool silk of her jacket, holding tight to her arms. For just a moment, she let herself be a child, protected within the older woman’s embrace. “I can’t teach you everything. Some steps you must take alone. I can take care of you if you like—keep you here, watch you always, hold the creature at bay and bring you cups of blood. But I don’t think you’d be happy.”
“I don’t know that I’ll ever be happy. I don’t think I can do this.”
“The power is a tool you use to get what you need. It should not control you.”
Not much of the night remained. Emma felt dawn tugging at her nerves—another new sensation to catalog with the rest. The promise of sunlight was a weariness that settled over her and drove her underground, to a bed in a sealed, windowless room. At least she didn’t need a coffin. Small comfort.
“Come,” Alette said, urging her to her feet. “Sleep for now. Vanquish this beast another night.”
* * *
Her mind was still her own, and she still dreamed. The fluttering, disjointed scenes took place in daylight. Already, the sunlit world of her dreaming memories had begun to look odd to her, unreal and uncertain, as if these things could never really have happened.
At dusk, she woke and told herself all kinds of platitudes: She had to get back on the horse; if at first you don’t succeed.… But it came down to wanting to see Chris again. She wanted to apologize.
She found his phone number and called him, half hoping he wouldn’t answer, so she could leave a message and not have to face him.
But he picked up. “Hi.”
“Hi, Chris?”
“Emma?” He sounded surprised. And why wouldn’t he be? “Hey. Are you okay?”
Her anxiety vanished, and she was glad that she’d called. “I’m okay. I just wanted to say I’m so sorry about last night. I got scared. I freaked. I know you’ll probably laugh in my face, but I want to see you again.”
I’d like to try again, an unspoken desire she couldn’t quite give voice to.
“I wouldn’t laugh. I was just worried about you. I thought maybe I’d done something wrong.”
“No, no, of course you didn’t. It’s just … I guess since this was my first time out since I was sick, my first time being with anyone since then … I got scared, like I said.”
“I don’t know. It seemed like you were really into it.” He chuckled nervously. “You were really hot.”
“I was into it.” She wasn’t sure this was going to sound endearingly awkward or just awkward. She tried to put that lust, that power that she’d felt last night, into her voice. Like maybe she could touch him over the phone. She held that image in her mind. “I’d like to see you again
.”
The meaning behind the words said, I need you.
Somehow, he heard that. She could tell by the catch in his breath, an added huskiness in his voice. “Okay. Why don’t you come over.”
“I’ll be right there.” She shut the phone off, not giving him a chance to change his mind, not letting herself doubt.
* * *
Emma could screw this up again. There was a gnawing in her belly, an anxious thought that kept saying, This isn’t right. I’m using him, and he doesn’t deserve that. She was starting to think of that voice as the old Emma. The Emma who could walk in daylight and never would again.
The new Emma, the voice she had to listen to now, felt like she was about to win a race. She had the power here, and she was buzzed on it. Almost drunk. The new Emma didn’t miss alcohol because she didn’t need it.
It felt good. Everything she moved toward felt so physically, fundamentally good. All she had to do was let go of doubt and revel in it.
That near ecstasy shone in her eyes when Chris opened the door. For a moment, they only looked at each other. He was tentative—expecting her to flee again. She caught his gaze, and he saw nothing but her. She could see him, see through him, everything about him. He wanted her—had watched her for a long time, dreaming of a moment like this, not thinking it would happen. Not brave enough to make it happen. Assuming she wasn’t the kind of girl who would let him in.
And yet here she was. She saw all of this play behind his eyes.
She touched his cheek and gave him a shy smile. “Thanks for letting me come over.”
Gazing at him through lowered lids, she pushed him over the edge.
He grabbed her hand and pulled her against him, bringing her lips to his, hungry, and she was ready for him, opening her mouth to him, letting him devour her with kisses and sending his passion back to him. He clutched at her, wrinkling the back of her shirt as if he were trying to rip through it to get to her skin, kneading, moving his hand low to pin her against him. These weren’t the tender, careful, assured movements he might have used if he were attempting to seduce her—if he’d had to persuade her, if she had shown some hesitation. These were the clumsy, desperate gropings of a man who couldn’t control himself. She made him lose control. If she could now pick up those reins that he had dropped—
Kitty’s Greatest Hits Page 23
