✧ 54 ✧
The bathroom was cold, sharp as a blade against Billy's skin.
He knelt on the tiles, clutching Ilya's lifeless body in a desperate embrace.
Blood smeared the floor. Each slow drip from the faucet sounded like a funeral bell.
Billy held on anyway, whispering broken goodbyes, refusing to let go of the boy who'd made this monstrous world feel almost human.
Then, against the hush of the cold room, came a sudden, jagged gasp.
Billy jerked, eyes wide, as Ilya's chest suddenly lurched under his hands. Air tore back into the boy's lungs in a long, rattling drag—like life clawing its way out of the grave.
"Hhhaaaa."
He startled awake. Wide awake. Eyes blown open, gaping crazily.
Billy yelped and stumbled back, shocked by the boy's resurrection. Just seconds ago, Ilya was dead. Not breathing. Yet somehow, his heart must've still been fighting under all that ruin.
"Who's Ned?"
When Billy heard that name—coming from those lips, in that ragged voice—he teared up.
His macho pride refused to show weakness, so he wiped his eyes fast and cleared his throat.
Even though his heart was thundering, hidden behind ribs and muscle, his face shifted from raw panic to a trembling smile.
The leech treatment worked.
He helped the kid sit upright, pressing down on the wound. Carefully, he wrapped a towel around Ilya's shivering, drenched frame.
"Never mind that." There was a slight tremor in his deep, manly voice. "The important thing is—how are you feeling right now?"
A surge of energy. Ilya didn't feel tired anymore. It was like the woman had sucked every drop of sickness from his withering body. He swiped a wet strand of hair off his face. The fever was gone, along with the searing infection that had been eating at his shoulder.
"Better."
But thirsty. God, he wished he'd finished that last juice box instead of letting it go to waste.
A towel was wrapped around him as big hands propped him against the wall, steadying his battered body. Ilya stopped shivering just in time for another drink to be shoved into his hand. He sucked it down in one go, like a starving baby, even as his eyes locked on something sprawled across the floor.
The woman's headless body. Missing an arm too, but that felt almost trivial next to the absence of a head. Blood oozed from the empty places where flesh should've been, turning the white tiles into a grotesque sea of red.
Ilya tucked his knees to his chest, pulling away from the mess that used to be a vampire.
Her mouth was still stained with blood—his blood—but it wasn't red. It was purple.
"W-what's happening to me?"
Tears spilled down, catching on his thick lashes.
He knew this wasn't normal. Blood was supposed to be red—at least, human blood was.
Did this mean he wasn't human anymore? He'd already survived more torture than most people.
He'd been infected with the zombie virus.
Had he actually survived it? Or was he turning into something far worse than just a diabetic kid trying to stay alive?
His eyes wandered. The voices were still there, getting stronger.
Billy heard them this time.
"Dammit! Those damn leeches found us."
But Ilya had even worse news.
"They're here," he said without removing his gaze from the dead woman.
"Huh?"
"They're in the house."
"How do you know that?" Billy asked, confused.
"I can hear them." Ilya stared at Billy with eyes that were no longer the tender green he knew; they had a violet glow. "Don't you?"
Billy's temperature rose, especially at his temples. He could feel sweat building there. His instincts made him worry to the point of near panic. He feared the boy was changing. Whatever it was, Billy just hoped he wouldn't be a zombie. But evolving into what, then?
That cold stare made him shiver and look away.
There wasn't time to worry about that now. Those leeches were in the house, and Billy had just killed one of them. Her head lay inches from Ilya's resting hand on the tiled floor. Billy discreetly covered the severed head with a towel before the boy could see it and freak the hell out.
A racket downstairs drew both their eyes to the door, as if a leech might burst through it at any minute. Then—silence. The bad kind.
"You were right." Billy gulped. "They're here."
Billy snatched the emergency kit off the wall and tore it open, grabbing gauze pads and a bottle of something sharp. There was no time to argue or explain. He clamped a hand over Ilya's mouth and dumped the sterilizing liquid straight onto the bite.
Ilya squirmed and tried to rip Billy's hand away. His screams came out muffled, strangled, until finally he slumped back, trembling. By the time he opened his eyes again, Billy had already wrapped the wound tight.
"Sorry about that," Billy muttered, pulling his hand away. "Shh." He pressed a finger to his lips. "Don't make a sound."
Ilya was breathless, chest heaving from the jolt of pain, but he managed a nod.
Then his eyes went wide. Billy was changing right in front of him—from man to towering, snarling beast. Ilya scrambled back, pressing himself hard against the wall, as far as he could get.
"Don't remove the IVs yet," Billy said in his monstrous voice. "And don't open the door for anyone."
With that last warning, the werewolf opened the door and left Ilya locked in the bathroom, alone with his thoughts.
Ilya froze, then blinked. He reached for his bandaged wound, still tender from the bite. His eyes fell on the bathtub. It was filled with water and ice—but it had turned purple. It was full of his new blood. He couldn't explain how he was still alive.
Suddenly, commotion started downstairs.
Ilya closed his eyes and tried to cover his ears, but it was impossible with one arm stuck inside a cast. The noises he heard were loud and terrifying. The sounds of people—or what used to be people—being ripped to shreds, just like Charley had warned, made his stomach churn.
That could've easily been him. If Beast ever found out about his Russian heritage, his death would be brutal. Knowing Beast, Ilya was sure it would be slow and merciless.
"He's in here," the voices whispered.
Ilya flinched and looked around the bathroom. Where were the sounds coming from? They didn't seem to come from downstairs. They didn't even seem to come from the hallway. Were they here? With him in the same room?
"I can almost taste the sweetness of his blood."
The voices were getting dangerously close. Ilya still had no idea where they were coming from. He turned anxiously, ignoring the pain that ripped through his body. Something was changing inside him. Even the quietest whispers sounded a hundred times louder in his ears.
He wanted to scream at them, What the fuck do you want? but he knew better than to give away his hiding spot.
"Ah," a male voice breathed. "This is it."
So close. Too close.
Crash!
Glass shattered at Ilya's feet. The sound alone made him scream and duck his head between his legs. When he realized—the window!—his eyes went wide with panic.
"Hello there, little bag of blood."
This voice wasn't a whisper. Laughter followed, bright with glee and malice. Two, maybe three voices gathered around him. Their happiness was eerie. Terrifying.
Ilya peeked through shaking fingers and saw three pairs of legs. He hesitated before lifting his eyes to meet the faces of these laughing maniacs.
Until one of them yanked him up, sharp nails biting into his ribs.
Ilya winced.
"He's kinda cute," the girl holding him chirped. "Do we have to drain this one?"
"I'm afraid so," a deeper voice answered.
They talked about him as if he were a pet. Or worse... food.
With one eye half-open, Ilya took in their faces. Two fangs jutted from every mouth. Blood-red lips. Skin white as death.
Vampires.
"Elliot!" Beast's roar shook the hall.
Hope sparked in Ilya's eyes. He desperately wanted out of this girl's grip, far away from the two boys behind her. But these things weren't human. They were fast. Vicious.
The girl threw him over her shoulder. Mere seconds before Beast burst through the door, the pack of vampire teens bolted.
Ilya was gone.