After what felt like a small eternity, he released me. I rolled over, curling up into a ball, thankful not to have to swallow any more of the burning liquid—his blood. I lay there trembling, my insides on fire.
The stranger clutched his wounded arm; a pained expression crossed his face. He took slow, measured breaths and stood up.
The world began to spin around me. My arms and legs twitched involuntarily. My stomach lurched. I was going to be sick. Instinctively I rolled onto my knees, heaving and convulsing; each movement sending shocks of pain down my spine. My body wanted none of this blood inside of it. But nothing came up. It was trapped inside of me.
My chest suddenly felt heavy and full. I gasped for air; feeling is if my lungs were filling with fluid. My heart pounded hard, threatening to explode from the pressure.
Just as I thought I could take no more, the burning stopped. My muscles gave in and I collapsed on the ground.
I stared blankly at the sky above as my body went cold.
Tiny pin pricks danced across my skin, like the waking of a sleeping limb. Every hair stood on its end and I flushed with goose bumps.
The ground suddenly felt hot.
My vision blanked again and darkness surrounded me. I hoped this time it would really be over. I was ready to cross into the next life. I did not want to suffer any longer.
“Relax, Alyssa, this will all be over soon,” the stranger said.
I prayed for death, but it would not come.
I learned a new pain as pressure mounted in my head. My jaw tightened, forcing my mouth to open wide. My ears felt like they would burst. I felt my teeth moving, shifting around in my mouth. I let out a hoarse, pain-filled moan as I struggled to pop my jaw and close my mouth. My head throbbed, aching from the pressure.
Suddenly, my vision returned, clear and sharp. I was able to focus on the stranger. He’d turned his attention to my attacker.
I tried to scream for help, but no sound escaped.
“Have you seen enough?” the stranger snickered, his voice full of mocking arrogance.
Mark remained frozen in his spot, just as the stranger commanded. Fear marked his puffy face and his eyes were still wide with fright.
“You will now pay for what you made me do here tonight.”
A wicked smile crossed the stranger’s face. In one smooth motion, he grabbed Mark by the neck, and bit down hard.
Mark let out a faint moan as the stranger drained him. Color faded from his bloated face. His arms flailed wildly in a futile attempt to fight.
I felt no sorrow for this man as I watched his struggle. The pain of my wounds was a result of the torment he had inflicted on me. He deserved this. He deserved to die.
Mark’s eyes darkened and his arms fell limp.
The stranger unceremoniously dropped the lifeless body in a heap on the ground and turned back to me. I caught the intensity of his eyes. He was a frightening sight at that moment. I trembled, watching a small line of fresh blood drip down his chin. He exhaled a long, pleasurable sigh before wiping the blood from his face. He had saved me from those men, but I wasn’t convinced yet that he was no danger to me.
He bent down to me again, and wiped the hair out of my face. His touch no longer felt cold. I recoiled in fear, but my body was still too weak to let me move far.
“Who…what … are you?” I asked.
“I am Lysander,” he said matter-of-factly. The tips of his fangs poked out from behind blood-stained lips. “We are not done yet. You need more blood.”
He stood up and walked over to the skinny man, still unconscious on the ground where he had been thrown earlier. Lysander grabbed him by the back of his shirt, and the man let out a faint moan as his body was dragged over to me.
“You need to drink if you want to make it through the night,” Lysander said. He picked up the knife that had been left on the ground and cut into the man’s wrist.
I shuddered, seeing blood pool to the surface of the fresh wound.
Lysander sat me up and pushed the bleeding wrist to my mouth.
“No,” I whimpered and tried, unsuccessfully, to turn away—I still did not have much control over my body.
I didn’t want to drink any more blood. I was repulsed at the thought of it. Lysander held the man’s wrist firm and offered it to me again.
“You must drink this, or you will die.” He stared at me with hard, cold eyes. His voice echoed in my head, telling me I had no other option. Lysander pushed the wounded arm to my lips.
My tongue grazed the wound, tasting the sticky wetness. This wasn’t the liquid fire I had just experienced from Lysander. It was almost sweet. I swallowed quickly, surprised that it soothed my pain as it ran down into my stomach.
“Good girl,” Lysander said in a whisper. “Keep drinking.”
With each swallow, the trembling of my limbs lessened.
Strength slowly returned to my body. I drank deeply, ignoring the thought that it was blood—it was my remedy and nothing else. I needed it to end my pain and suffering.
Soon, I was able to control and lift my arms; the trembling had stopped. A blissful fuzziness, as if I were drunk, filled my head. My mind swam with euphoric pleasure. I found myself lapping at the wound like an animal. I wanted to draw out every last bit of this healing elixir.
Lysander must have noticed. He pulled the wounded arm away from me.
“That’s enough for now,” he warned.
As soon as I stopped drinking, the pins and needles returned, tingling and pricking at my skin.
“No, I need it,” I rasped. “Please, I need more.”
An understanding smile crept across Lysander’s face. He chuckled.
“You have had enough for now, young one. There will be plenty more, when the time comes.”
Pain was already increasing as each second passed. Tingles became sharp pin pricks. My insides were no longer on fire, but every muscle in my body ached. I needed more. I did not want to feel pain again. I tried to get up, but lost balance. My stomach churned. I fell. White light flashed before my eyes as my head hit the ground.
CHAPTER 3
* * * * *
Darkness surrounded me. A voice spoke softly in my head.
Do not die, young one. Be strong. Do not die
.
I became painfully aware of liquid pouring down on me, each drop like an icy hammer hitting my sore skin. Movement echoed in my ears, telling me that I wasn’t alone. Slowly, I opened my eyes. Harsh light blinded me. My mind was fuzzy. I struggled to recall any small detail that might clue me in to what had happened and where I was.
I reached up to wipe the splattering water from my face. I chanced opening my eyes again. As I looked up, I spotted the source of the water, a showerhead on the opposite wall. Confused by this odd location, I struggled to penetrate the blackness of my memory and figure out how I had ended up in a bathtub.
Where the hell am I?
I tried to focus on the bright, unfamiliar surroundings.
My vision, it seemed, had become remarkably sharp while I was unconscious. I couldn’t remember ever noting so many details in such simple surroundings as these before.
Cream-colored tiles covered the walls, each rippled with tiny imperfections. Each held an individual pattern, making them unique and special. Yellowing, porous grout, framing the tiles, appeared to be littered with dots from small air bubbles that had come to the surface, creating different patterns and shapes.
Even the plain white curtain that separated me from the rest of the room seemed unusually de-tailed and perfectly woven. I saw each tiny strand that had been tightly bound together to form this heavy, durable cloth.
Small specks of mold building up in the corners of the porcelain basin weren’t able to escape my new sight either.
The amazing level of detail I experienced didn’t hold my attention for long. Freezing water still poured down on me. I needed to reach the handle and end the cold assault, but it seemed so far out of my reach. I eased myself up to a sitting position, my muscles aching with each small movement. Looking down, I saw my beaten body. The water had washed away some of the grime, but what was left of my shredded clothes was stained and clinging to my skin.
“Uggh!” I moaned.
“Oh, good, you’re alive,” said a male voice from behind the white curtain.
The voice seemed strange and yet somehow familiar. I searched my fuzzy memories to place the voice with a face. A wave of fear came over me as I remembered the attack.
Had I been kidnapped? Was I a hostage of some kind?
I struggled to recall the events of the evening.
“You’ve been out for a few hours. I was worried I might have lost you,” continued the voice.
“What?” I called, still not sure who I was talking to.
“It doesn’t always work. Some people can’t be turned,” the voice said matter-of-factly.
“Turned?”
What the hell is that supposed to mean?
I again tried to run through my memories of what had happened. I remembered blood, and the feeling of my body burning from the inside.
“I’ll explain it when you’re done in there. I’ve left some clothes on the toilet. I hope they fit.” The voice trailed out of the bathroom.
I tried to stand. My muscles ached. Gripping the edge of the tub, I moaned as I pushed myself up. My legs didn’t want to cooperate; they shook as they tried to support my weight. It was as if I was learning to stand for the first time.
I felt weak and a little dizzy. I leaned against the wall, using it as a crutch to help me to balance while I removed what remained of my shredded and blood-stained clothes. I shuddered, seeing more of the wounds that covered my body.
I remembered the two men. Flashes of memory showed me images of the struggle: the man on my stomach laughing, the knife waving in front of my face, teeth biting me, a stranger drinking my blood.
Each bruise I saw invoked a terrible memory. I turned the shower handle to hot and let the water run down my back. The warmth soothed my sore skin. I rested my head against the wall and tried to rationalize what had happened. I blamed myself for walking alone. I knew better. I should have asked someone to walk with me or drive me. I cursed myself for relying on a stupid keychain of pepper spray as my protection.
Some of the events that flashed in my memory were so bizarre I could hardly believe they had happened. I saw myself lying on the ground, drinking blood from a strange man’s arm.
What was his name? Was I really drinking blood? Why was I even alive? Did that man save me?
The thought of blood caused an ache in the pit of my stomach.
I pinched myself a few times.
Maybe this was all just a really bad dream and I just needed to wake up.
None of it made sense
Maybe someone had slipped something into my coffee at the café. I hadn’t really been drinking blood, had I?
My mind wouldn’t stop focusing on the blood I had drunk. A sweet, sticky taste crept up from the back of my throat. I gulped at the water pouring down from the showerhead, trying to smother the flavor. My stomach retched as I swallowed, causing me to sputter and spit the water to the ground. I tried to ignore the nagging ache in the pit of my stomach. I needed answers first. I needed to know why I was here and where here was. I needed to know what the hell had happened to me.
I finished rinsing, turned off the water, and slid open the shower curtain. The light seemed brighter in the rest of this room. I squinted, letting my eyes adjust a little. The rest of the bathroom was small and narrow. Nothing more than a simple toilet, shower, mirror, and vanity sink. The only real color in the room came from the red towels hanging on the towel bar and the bath mat on the floor.
I grabbed one towel and wrapped it around myself and then noticed the clothes left on the toilet seat. They appeared to be new and for a brief moment, I wondered where he had gotten them.
“I guess this will have to do,” I mumbled as I pulled on a simple green spaghetti-strap tank top. I slid my legs into a pair of blue jeans and pulled them up. Fastening the button, I felt a small pinch in my back. I reached around, touched a hard scab, and winced, remembering the pain of the knife that had been stabbed into my back.
How was I even alive
? I certainly shouldn’t have been after the ordeal I’d been through.
I checked myself out in the mirror. Most of my wounds were already healing. Bruises that weren’t covered by clothing had started turning yellow. The cuts on my back and face had scabbed over too. I noticed something on my neck. Brushing away the wet strands of my red hair, I saw a half-ring of small bruises and two very deep-looking holes.
Lysander
, I thought, suddenly remembering the stranger’s name.
My memory flashed again. I remembered the pinch as his teeth sunk into my neck. I shuddered again as a chill danced down my spine.
What…who was this Lysander? He couldn’t be a…No. That’s silly; they aren’t real.
I gave the rest of my body a quick once-over in the mirror and suddenly I stopped in shock.
“My eyes,” I gasped. “Oh, my God!”
I couldn’t believe it.
How is this possible? Those are not my eyes.
All the color had disappeared. Large gray eyes stared back at me from the mirror. They were pale and cloudy with hints of blue, no longer the emerald green they used to be. These were the same eyes I looked into when I got my first glimpse of Lysander.
Wondering what else had changed, I surveyed the rest of my face: ears, hair, lips, all seemed the same. Thinking of the bite on my neck, I opened my mouth. Gone was the five-thousand dollar, perfectly straight, smile —that had taken me four years to pay off. My eyeteeth appeared to have grown larger, crowding the surrounding ones. The new, slightly larger, canine-like teeth poked down below the others, reminding me of fangs— the kind vampires from Hollywood movies were famous for. I playfully licked at them, noting how much sharper they felt as they scraped across the surface of my tongue.
“This can’t be possible.”
It was time to find this Lysander guy and get some answers.