Rachel went to bed at midnight. I stayed up, staring at
infomercials on the TV.
I couldn’t
focus on TV shows. I couldn’t go onto the internet because Rachel had locked
the office door, and I was still too weak to think about trying to tear through
it. In the kitchen I stared at the refrigerator, and ultimately guzzled down
most of the tomato juice. I threw it up in the sink and hurled the bottle at
the garbage can, spilling most of the rest on the floor.
On the
couch I wrapped myself in blankets, alternately sweating and trembling like a
malaria victim. How long was this going to go on? Would it get worse? Would it
ever get better? I could barely imagine living like this until morning—and then
it would get even worse.
I’ve never
been suicidal. I take meds for depression and anxiety, mostly because of all
the supernatural horrors I’ve seen. But right then I would have taken a good
long look at a bottle of poison without ruling it out.
At 3:30
a.m. my phone buzzed on the table.
Unknown
number. I would have welcomed an all-night telemarketer at that point. “H-hello?
Tom Jurgen, uh, speaking.”
“Tom.” It
was Arrikin’s voice, low and raspy. “How are you feeling?”
I wanted to
throw the phone into the TV screen. Instead I managed one deep breath. “I will
. . . kill you.”
Arrikin sighed.
“It’s hard, isn’t it? Those first few days, aching for blood. Is there anyone
in there with you? Or have you already sucked it out of that lovely girlfriend
of yours? She has a nice smooth throat. Of course, there are veins in those
lovely legs of hers that are almost as—”
“Shut up!”
I hissed. “You’re not getting anywhere near her.”
“You’ll do
it. We all do.” He sounded almost regretful. “In the meantime, I left you a
present. It’s outside your door.”
Arrikin
hung up.
Outside? I
lurched up. Another human sacrifice? Angelica? I made my way to the door, hobbled
by Rachel’s chains, and flipped the lock.
Too late I
realized it might be a trap. Maybe Arrikin was right outside, eager to just
finish me off. I wasn’t thinking straight. But I pulled the door open without
thinking—
And found a
bottle of blood at my feet.
Just like
the one Sharpe had brought. Was Arrikin in the system? I’d have to ask.
But right
now . . .
I closed
and locked the door as softly as I could. Rachel was still asleep. I hoped.
I knelt on
the floor and unscrewed the bottle. Smelled the blood. Already I felt better.
Stronger. I leaned down—
And the
bedroom door banged. “What is it?”
Rachel wore
a short T-shirt and the face of an ancient Greek fury. She had her stun gun in
a fist.
I looked
up, like an alcoholic caught with a bottle. “Arrikin. He left this.”
Rachel crossed
her arms. “So what are you going to do?”
I licked my
lips and tried not to look at the veins in her slim legs. “You have no idea
what this feels like.”
Rachel
shook her head in disgust. “Is this really what you want to do, Tom?”
I looked
down at the bottle. Yes. Yes. I closed my eyes. I couldn’t take this anymore. One
sip, just one or two, and I’d feel better, and then I could start over again,
and then . . .
I clenched
my fists and stared at the bottle. “Get away from me.”
“What?
So I can watch you turn into—”
“Get it away!”
I slammed my fist into the hardwood floor. It hurt. “Get this out of here! Now!
Shock me or something! Anything’s better than . . .”
I made a
grab for the bottle, but it fell over. Rachel swore. I leaned down to lick up
the blood spreading fast and wide over the floor, but then Rachel slammed her
stun gun at my neck.
Yes. Yes! The
electricity surged through my body. I sobbed and fell to the floor. Anything
was better.
Rachel
stood over me, and nudged her foot at my shoulder. “You’re cleaning this up.”
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