by Paul Kane
So Samantha went inside, closing the door and locking it—she didn’t know why, reflex perhaps. Or was there just something a little bit ... no, not with him. She was safe, she felt sure. In fact, thoughts had begun to flood her mind, about whether maybe she could make something work with this guy. Maybe she would be able to stay faithful to this one, maybe she wouldn’t get hurt—and wouldn’t hurt him, either. Perhaps he was her best shot at some kind of normal life? She shook her head; dangerous thoughts. Better to just get on with the task in hand, at least for now. Not fight her baser impulses. There was an itch that really needed scratching.
Samantha splashed water on her face, looked up into the mirror. She barely recognised herself anymore. The years of doing this had certainly taken their toll. And what had she become? What had she turned into, feeding this addiction of hers? Samantha looked down again, eyes brushing the floor of the bathroom, before drying her face.
Then she slipped out of her dress, undoing the zip at the side and letting it fall away to the floor with a swish. Underneath, she wore an ivory camisole and shorts, both with lace trim. Pretty and expensive lingerie; nothing tacky. After folding her dress, she placed it on the side of the bath. Then she unlocked the door.
When Samantha walked out, she found him sitting on the chair, legs spread wide, hands on his knees. He smirked when he saw she’d disrobed; not an admiring smile this time, but sly. Like the cat that had got the cream—or was about to.
“Well?” she asked, knowing exactly how she looked in this outfit. The effect it had on the opposite sex.
He nodded. “Very nice.”
Samantha walked towards him, kicking off her heels as she went. She expected him to get up, meet her halfway, for them to be in each other’s arms seconds later, hands in each other’s hair, mouth on mouth, tongues exploring. Instead, he waved his hand again, towards the bed. “Make yourself comfortable,” he told her.
She nodded, hesitantly. Taking things slowly, that’s all. Nothing wrong with that. Nothing wrong with making it last. So Samantha did as he wanted, climbing onto the mattress, aware of the squeaks that it made in protest and that it would be making a lot more before too long. Crawling along the length of the bed, she looked over her shoulder and saw him gazing at her—returning the favour from the stairs. In fact he couldn’t take his eyes off her. She crawled more slowly, working her hips, moving seductively. Feeling a little more in control again ...
When she got to the top of the bed, she turned and sat up—propped against the pillows and the old fashioned headboard. He was still seated, hadn’t moved actually. What was he waiting for?
“Why don’t you ... y’know, take off your clothes and join me?” she said, patting the bed beside her.
“I ... I hope you don’t mind, but I have a little something for you ... Samantha,” he replied, ignoring what she’d said completely.
She frowned. That was unusual to say the least, downright weird to say the most. How did he know she’d be here tonight? Unless he’d gone out with the same intention, unless he was like her? No, couldn’t be. “What ... I’m not sure what you ...”
He reached into the outer pocket of his jacket—and produced a set of handcuffs. Tossing them over onto the bed near her feet, he said: “Put them on one wrist, then cuff yourself to the headboard.”
She shook her head in confusion. Something in his expression had changed, it was more than just slyness now. He looked ... dangerous.
Anything other than the pleasure of the moment was always dangerous, would leave her really vulnerable.
Dangerous thoughts ...
Samantha shook her head again, this time defiantly; she wasn’t into all that Fifty Shades crap, never had been even before it was so popular. That would be a total loss of control and she didn’t want that.
“What’s the matter, don’t you trust me?” he asked.
“It’s not that, I—”
“Put them on,” he growled.
“Look,” said Samantha, holding her hands up, “I really like you, I think we could have something amazing going here, but I think we’ve both misread the situation.” Even then she was hoping they could start again, start from scratch.
An itch that really needed ...
“I haven’t misread anything,” he told her. “I know exactly what the situation is.”
Samantha stared at him blankly, then shook her head again. He’d obviously got the wrong end of the stick, assumed this was more of a business transaction; thought she’d do anything for the right price? Or maybe she’d misunderstood the meaning of the cuffs—was he a cop, perhaps? “I’m not ... I don’t expect any payment,” she informed him. “That’s not what this is about.”
“I know,” he said flatly, his words, his voice sounding strange now—inhuman even. “It’s not money that I want from you.” Samantha frowned once more, but he was rising. And he’d taken something else out of the inside of his jacket. He held it before her, so that it caught the light in the room. “Put on the handcuffs. I won’t ask again.”
Swallowing, she reached for the cuffs. Samantha placed one around her left wrist, then paused. “Please! Y-You’re making a mistake,” she told him.
“The headboard,” he said nodding, raising his knife.
She did as she was told, it seemed unwise not to. “Why are you doing this?”
“Don’t you know by now?” he answered. “Don’t you know what I am?”
“You’re insane!”
He laughed out loud at that one, shaking his head this time. “No. I wish to God I was.” And was it her, or had the sadness returned to his eyes, his voice? The deep loss almost palpable. “You’re not her,” he said softly, shaking his head. “Nobody could ever be her.”
There was silence for a moment or two, then his voice hardened: “But I do know what you are, Samantha.”
Her frown deepened. “I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.”
“Really?” The man moved sideways, grabbing the edge of the dresser in the corner, yanking it sideways so that the mirror was facing Samantha. “Then let me remind you.”
She stared at her reflection again, and sighed. Hated being reminded of what she really was, the monster staring back at her: all fur and teeth, snout protruding.
“There’s no need to pretend anymore,” he said. “Not now.”
No need to act out of her skin. But the pretending stopped her from being vulnerable, from being hurt.
“I’m ... You’ve got it wrong,” said Samantha. “I’m trying to change. I—”
“Your kind won’t ever change,” the man informed her, his voice holding not a trace of emotion now.
It was then that Samantha—it was what she was calling herself tonight, in this particular town—knew that he was right. That it was time to give in to her true nature, that he wouldn’t be the one to persuade her to abandon what she was. The release had been prolonged enough.
“How you could ever think I’d ... I told you, you’re not her. Not a patch on her. Besides, you lie down with dogs, you’re gonna get fleas,” he informed her with a snarl.
That was it! She was changing even as she pulled at the cuff, wrenching it from the headboard as the man dove across the room towards her. He’d been dreaming if he thought it could hold her, though, even for a moment. But she saw now that hadn’t been his intention anyway, he’d just wanted to slow her down, long enough for him to plunge the knife into her:
The silver knife.
Having a stab at her ...
She angled herself slightly so that it missed her chest, sliding instead into her shoulder. Still, the pain was intense—so powerful it almost caused her to black out right there and then. She lashed out, firstly with her claws (trying to scratch that itch again) and missing, then with the back of her hand—which sent the man sprawling. I
t didn’t matter how well-muscled, how strong he was, he would never be as strong as her. He rolled over the side of the bed, landing on the floor with a bump. Now she knew why he’d chosen this place, a lower end room in such a run-down hotel. It was a place where nobody would ask any questions:
Ask me no questions and I’ll tell you no lies ...
A place where things could easily be covered up. The creature calling herself Samantha (female now, Sam when she wasn’t) pulled out the knife from its home, howling at the same time. She looked down, saw the redness through the fur at her shoulder, saw the blood all over the bedspread. Ordinarily, that liquid would make her salivate—but not when it was her own.
He would pay for that, this man who’d deceived her. This man who’d tricked her when she’d been doing her best to fool him. How could she have ever thought she wouldn’t ...
Maybe she wouldn’t get hurt—and wouldn’t hurt him, either ...
Snarling, she leaped from the bed, ready to attack him as he lay prone on the floor. Only at the last second did she see it. Something he’d hidden under the bed, ready for this moment. Something he was swinging sideways and wedging in her side as she toppled forwards. Something with a head and a handle. Silver, like the knife, but bigger ... and sharper.
He pulled her sideways, then straddled her—and not in the way she had hoped that evening.
Felt sure that it would be a wild ride with him.
Not the coupling she’d imagined that would have led, she saw now, inevitably to her devouring him (having more taste ...). It always did, whether her victims were male or female.
And the last thing she saw, as he tugged out the axe and hefted it, holding it above his head and preparing to bring it down into her skull, was that same thick liquid dripping from the blade. Marvelling at the colour, at the hue—which was, quite appropriately ...
Blood red.
CHAPTER ONE
She was running.
So hard and so fast, the greenery whipping by her. Had to get away, had to escape. She’d been given a chance, been granted a distraction, and now she had to flee—put as much distance as she could between her and the monster behind.
Wouldn’t be easy to get away, she’d seen the thing in all its glory—knew how quick it would be if it set off in pursuit of her. But still she had to try and save herself. One foot in front of the other, down the makeshift path, legs pumping as hard as she could, cape flapping around her, slowing her down to some extent. But she didn’t want to part with it, a gift from her mother to keep her warm when she was out running errands ...
Running.
But not keep her safe, not here, not anymore. Nothing could do that, she’d realised as soon as she saw the thing. So she ran, continued to run. Didn’t know how much time she had before it caught up with her again—though she might be lucky, it might have been killed by the man who’d tried to rescue her. She shook her head even as she worked her legs harder and harder, straining to breathe, tears streaming from her eyes.
No time to think about her loss yet, she could grieve properly when she was away from here. When she was back home, or she’d found protection. Yet how could anyone ever protect her from that? The creature she’d witnessed? It was impossible! She’d never rest until she’d killed it herself, until she’d seen its eyes roll back into its own head and she knew it wasn’t still coming after her, that it wasn’t still trying to find her.
Even now she could hear noises behind, footfalls ... pawfalls? “Oh no,” she said to herself, though it came out only as a vague whisper. It was coming, it was coming. Done with its last victim, it was intent on returning its focus to her. But she had to be strong. Had to be clever with it, duck sideways even deeper into the foliage where there was no path. Cover herself, hide herself.
It would still be able to track her, though, surely? Now it had her scent in its nostrils it would be able to find her anywhere, anytime, she felt sure of that.
Nevertheless, it was all she could do. Go deeper, deeper. Run faster.
She tripped over a root and pitched forward, headfirst into some bushes. Thorns raked her face and her arms, as she collapsed onto the floor, what little air she had in her lungs exploding from her mouth. She sat up, gathering herself together, gathering her wits. And rose, looking left and right—saw nothing. Heard nothing. She looked down at the cuts on her arms, the redness pouring from those scratches.
Thick redness, the smell hitting her like something physical. Wondered what it would be like to taste, maybe not her own blood, but someone else’s. Wondered for a moment just what it might be like to be the beast. Powerful, virtually invulnerable. The hunter rather than the hunted.
Wondered also, for a second or two, what the raw flesh it ate might taste like. How that might empower her ...
Then she was aware of something behind her, that the chase was over.
Something gripping her shoulder, forcing her to turn around—
“—said are you all right, love?”
She stared into the man’s eyes, the man who’d just spun her around, searching them for something ... anything that might tell her who he was. Not the beast, just a man—who was even now releasing his grip on her shoulder, letting his arm fall away. A man in some kind of uniform; green like the woods she’d just been running through.
Except that hadn’t been her, had it? She hadn’t run through the trees, she’d run through the streets trying to escape—
“You look a little out of it,” said the man in green, his kindly eyes the same colour as his uniform. His paramedic’s uniform.
“What ...” was all she could manage.
“I tried calling out to you, but you didn’t hear me,” the man continued, scratching the top of his balding head in puzzlement, dislodging strands of his salt and pepper hair and causing it to stand on end. “You were just standing there, staring into space. Well, staring at the entrance anyway.” The entrance, as she now saw, to the General Hospital.
“I was ...”
The man cocked his head, waiting for a reply, an explanation. She wished she could give him one.
“Thought you might be from inside, that you’d got lost or something?”
He nodded at her, and she looked down. She was in casual dress, maybe a bit too casual—easily mistaken for pyjamas, in fact—and what looked like slippers, though again could be just loafers or something. The man shrugged.
“Look, is there someone ... I mean, a relative in there? Is that why you’re so upset? Are they sick or something? Or maybe ...” He let the rest of his sentence tail away, and all that it implied.
A ... No, not a relative as such. A friend. Someone she’d been responsible for. Someone in her care.
Tilly.
“She’s ... she’s not dead.” The words were blurted out quickly, like she’d forget to say them if she didn’t do so right now.
“I see,” said the paramedic. “Just very ill then?”
She nodded. Really very ill.
“And who might you be, young lady?”
“I’m ...” She thought for a moment. An image of her arms—no, not her arms, someone else’s, except they weren’t; they had been hers—the redness of them. Red. She was Red. That was her name ... only it wasn’t. It was—
“Rachael,” she stated. Rachael. Elizabeth. Daniels.
“Pretty name,” replied the man.
“Frank! Frank, are you ready to go?” They both looked over to see a sturdy woman—there was no other way to describe her—with a much sterner face, crouching in the back of a nearby ambulance. Obviously Frank’s partner, desperate to get back out there and save more lives.
Had to try and save herself.
Frank sighed. “I’ve got to go; duty calls,” he told her, placing a hand on her shoulder again. “Are you sure you’re going to be okay?”<
br />
Rachael stared at him, and nodded though she could hardly process his words.
“Okay then, you take care of yourself now—and I hope your relative is feeling better soon.” And with that, Frank was gone, heading towards the driver’s side of the ambulance, as his partner closed up the back and joined him in the passenger side. The engine gunned, reminding her of something ...
The van, an old white van. Scrambling to get away from the creature that was clawing its way inside (the creature from her daydream), that had caused them to crash. Flames. An explosion and—
She shook her head. It was all very muddled, confused. Had she banged her head or something in that crash? Or was it just her damned memory again?
You take care of yourself.
That had been at night-time anyway, hadn’t it? Or part of the daydream—the bad dream? Steph had asked her if ...
Steph. She’d been with Steph and then ... Rachael had no memory of how she’d got here, how she’d wound up at the hospital. But these clothes ... She had been asleep—had slept late, in fact and—
Jesus, it was all so foggy. Like trying to think when you had a hangover (she’d had a hangover that day as well, hadn’t she? Been out with Steph the night before ...) or when you had a really bad head cold.
List ... her mental ‘to do’ list. What had been on it last, that she could remember? That might help her? Rachael bit her lip, thinking hard.
1) Ring Mum (God, you’re going to be in so much trouble!).
2) Do some tidying (your place is a real pigsty, Rachael).
3) Ring Steph about tonight (to cancel!!)—no, that was a different list, different day! (If you start talking about fish in the sea or pebbles on a beach ... I’m going to kill you. Slowly.)
Find Steph and explain, then ... but about what?
4) Buy yourself a treat ... Eat. Need to eat. Eat what? Eat ... eat meat. Meet Tilly.
