Blood Song

I heard him set the phone carefully back in its cradle. “You need to hang on just a few more minutes. I’m going to stay very still.”



“I’ll try. Staying still would be good.” Actually, still wasn’t good, as far as my stomach was concerned. I wanted him to run. Wanted him to scream and fall and claw at the carpeting in a futile attempt to get away. My voice was thready, but oddly, the lisp was mostly gone. And my body wasn’t moving. In fact, I could feel my fingernails digging through the fabric of my sweats, hard enough to draw blood from my quivering thighs. The pain centered me, made me feel a little more human.



“Ms. Graves, listen to me. You must eat every four hours without fail, and you will need to take particular care to eat just prior to sundown. Right now you’re feeling your sire’s hunger combined with your own. It makes controlling yourself considerably more … difficult. Do you understand?”



I didn’t say anything. I wasn’t sure I could. Coherent thought was fading in a haze of overwhelming need that throbbed in time to the sluggish beat of my abruptly undead heart.



“Ms. Graves, Celia. You need to answer me. Stay with me.”



“Hungry.” The word was an almost-hissing growl, and I could feel the heat of magic filling the room. Still, I forced my body to stay utterly still, even though I couldn’t seem to remember why it was so desperately important.



I heard the door creak open, felt the slight shift of air displaced.



“Don’t come in! Leave the tray just inside the door.”



My head snapped around and I locked the intruder in a stare. She was glowing so bright I couldn’t see the color of her hair or skin. But her eyes … they were deep blue. And they were mine. Heather responded like she’d just come upon a cougar or wolf in the wild. I could watch each individual hair on her arms rise and her muscles twitch. “Sir—” There was fear in her voice. It resonated through my body like the ringing of a bell. I shuddered; my body jerked as I fought an instinct to lunge for the very human source of the terror. Her glow was strong, too, and her fear a vibrant thing that was nearly alive on its own.



“Close your eyes, Heather. Don’t let her entrance you. Just put the tray on the ground and leave.” She paused and he finally raised his voice. “Do it!”



The blue eyes closed, and my attachment to her faded. I heard the clatter of silverware against china as she nearly lost her grip. I followed her every motion as she set the tray on the carpeting. She backed out in a sudden movement, the door closing behind her with panicked finality.



I was panting in earnest now, breathing as hard as if I’d done a ten-mile run. I heard movement, knew the doctor was easing his way out of the enveloping chair. “I want you to stare at the plant in the corner, Celia. Look at the plant. Tall, lush … alive.” I moved my eyes toward the towering ficus. It was tall and lush and alive, but it didn’t have Dr. Scott’s pulsing, glorious glow. The bright light of blood. It was starting to hurt not to move, to chase.



His voice came again, soft and soothing. “I’m going to leave the room now. The food is here. When you’ve finished, and you’re yourself again, you can call out and I’ll come back in. Do you understand?”



I made a noise that should have been assent. Instead, it was an animal moan. Still, I held on, feeling the wet blood on my pants as my nails dug even deeper so that I would not chase. I stared at the plant even as I heard him move, the scent of his fear like baking bread that I should follow to the source.



Only when I heard a door close and the sound of a dead bolt sliding home did I let go and move my eyes.



I could barely see through the blood vessels that had burst in my eyes. But I could smell. Food. There was food. I moved in a blur of speed, throwing myself across the room. I ignored the bowl and spoon and just grabbed the pitcher, pouring liquid heated exactly to body temperature down my throat so fast that some of it spilled out of my mouth and down the front of my shirt. Blood and juices from rare, nearly raw beef. No salt or seasoning. It should have made me gag.



It didn’t.



11



I had been right about the bathroom. Not only did he have one, but it was as oversized and as luxuriously appointed as the rest of the office. Shining cream-colored marble with veins of gray, caramel, and gold covered 90 percent of the surfaces. The ceiling was painted the color of California sands. The throw rugs matched towels nearly the size of bedsheets, both a deep caramel gold that exactly matched the veins in the marble. The wall behind the counter and oversized double sinks was a single sheet mirror.



The reflection that stared back at me was the stuff of nightmares.



My skin glowed white. Not pure white, but pale grayish white with a greenish sepulchral undertone. Was this what Emma had seen? My eyes cast a reddish gold light that was the only color other than the stark stains that soaked my clothing. The cotton was stuck to me like a second skin and droplets of reddish brown left a dark trail where I passed over that pale, beautiful stone. I’d pulled my hair back when I cleaned up at the office, so there was nothing to soften or distract from the primal ferocity of a face that was both my face and not.



I stared at my reflection in horrified fascination, unable to look away.



I heard the creak of the door outside with unusual clarity, but it didn’t make me react the way I had before. I could smell Dr. Scott on the other side, but now it was just his cologne and the lingering hint of Irish Spring soap, instead of the scent of his blood flowing under thin skin. “Ms. Graves, I’m leaving a stack of clothing and toiletries outside the door. When you’re done cleaning up, we need to talk.”



The sound of his voice brought me to my senses. I turned toward the door to answer him. “Thank you.”



I was pretty sure there was a sigh of relief in his next words. “It’s no trouble.”



He sounded so … calm. It was uncanny. Of course, the danger was over. My belly was full, the bloodlust sated, if only for the moment.



What is happening to me?



Stupid, stupid question. I knew what was happening. I just didn’t know what to do about it.



I stripped off my fouled clothes and let them fall in a pile on the floor, then padded, naked, to the door. Keeping my body hidden by the bulk of the door, I opened it and grabbed the promised stack. Setting the clothes onto the counter, I took the soap, shampoo, and conditioner with me and stepped into the shower.



A long, hot shower could scour my body clean of the gore, but it couldn’t cleanse my mind of the image in the mirror. I wasn’t human anymore. I might not be a vampire, but I wasn’t human, either. Still, it felt good to be clean, and hiding in the shower wasn’t going to accomplish anything. So I stepped out of the stall and began toweling myself dry.



The clothes he provided were sweats. High-quality plain gray sweats with a sports bra and underwear with the tags still on. He’d guessed fairly accurately on the size. The bra fit well. The panties were a little loose, but I wasn’t about to argue.



I pulled on the sweatpants, over legs that had already healed the bloody punctures I’d inflicted on them. Using a drawstring, I tightened the waistband to fit.



I remembered Vicki talking about how, the first two weeks of their stay here, everyone was required to wear the same plain sweats. No jewelry. No sign of status or prestige. She said it was a great leveler, kept people from being distracted by trivialities and competitive attractiveness while they were supposed to be concentrating on getting well.



I felt another stab of loss at the memory. Dammit anyway.



“Ms. Graves?” The doctor’s voice came through the door. “Are you almost ready? We need to talk.”



Shit. “I’ll be right there.”



My shoes were splattered but not soaked, so I put them back on and returned to the main office.



He sat behind the desk, the lamp providing dramatic lighting that cast the fine bones of his face in harsh planes of light and shadow. He gestured wordlessly toward the seat across from him. I took it.



“I took the liberty of checking with Security. Our video from your visit yesterday shows you driving up with the convertible top on your car down and no sign of your current … condition. Were you actually attacked less than twenty-four hours ago?”



“Yes, last night sometime. We don’t know exactly when.”



His dark eyes grew very wide. For a long moment he didn’t seem capable of speech. Still, he managed to collect himself, and when he spoke his voice was admiring. “I have to admit, you surprise me. I assumed that you’d had your condition for some time and were merely using illusion to cover the more obvious effects. Otherwise I would never have been so careless, particularly at sunset. I apologize.”



“You couldn’t have known. But why would you have thought that?”



“Because of the way you present yourself.” He leaned back in the chair, steepling his long fingers in front of his face as he spoke. “In the course of my career I have met exactly one person with your condition and read of two others. Even after weeks or months of treatment, none of them were as … calm about it, or had a fraction of the control you’ve exhibited from the outset. Although …” He let the sentence drag off unfinished, his expression thoughtful. “Are you currently in therapy with anyone?”



“I saw Dr. Talbert for several years when I was a teenager. But she retired recently for health reasons. Since then, no.”



He gave me a long stare over his steepled fingertips. “Dr. Gwendolyn Talbert? She specialized in childhood trauma, I believe?”



“Yes.” My voice sounded flat, inflectionless. If Dr. Scott wanted more information, he’d have to work for it. And frankly, we didn’t have time to go into my “childhood trauma”—not if I was going to hunt my sire or get to sanctuary.



A hint of a smile tugged at the corner of Dr. Scott’s mouth. “Don’t give away much, do you?”



“Not generally, no.”



“Good. That kind of self-control may well be what pulls you through this.” He set his arms on the table in front of him and reached for a notepad and pen. “I think you should consider checking yourself into a facility.” He continued hurriedly, in response to the look I gave him, “It doesn’t have to be this one. Although you are, of course, welcome here. You’ve gone through serious trauma before, so you know how difficult it can be to adjust. Combining that with the physiological changes—”

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