Chapter 15
I stand dead still, barely breathing and taking him in. Up close he looks around thirty-five. He’s about six foot four, his dark brown curls shine under the kitchen light, and he smells like . . . leather. And moss.
He’s watching me, waiting for an answer, but my mind is a tangle. What does he want? Why does it feel like I’m stuck in here, why can’t I run? And: Hang on, I can’t smell his blood . . . and his heart is beating veeeerrrry slowly, very faintly, just like mine.
Is he . . . like me?
‘Aubrey,’ he says impatiently. ‘I asked if you had anything to drink.’
I have lactose-free milk for Cat, water or . . . blood. But I need to be careful here. I’ve been hiding the truth about myself for 150 years, I can’t just hand it over now, to someone I don’t even know, because of a hunch. Even if he is like me, what if he’s a bad vampire?
‘I have some milk,’ I say, swallowing hard as I watch his expression.
‘Milk?’ he replies, looking vaguely amused. ‘Suit yourself.’ Then he crouches down and looks towards the sofa where Cat is hiding, and in a soothing voice calls, ‘Here, kitty, kitty.’
Cat lets out a little meow, peeks her head out and starts to trot towards him. NO! A mad panic flies through me. My gums tingle and I feel my fangs emerge. I run forward and grab her, hold her tight to my chest.
He looks up at me. ‘Jesus, Aubrey, lighten up, I’m not going to eat the fucking cat. I’m not an animal. But where is it?’ His eyes glint and seem to see right through to my core.
‘In the fridge,’ I say, my voice small. ‘The tin.’
He nods, rolls his eyes and goes over to the fridge and as he does, I lurch for my knitting project.
I hold one of the thick needles—it’s wooden, so kind of like a stake—out in front of me.
I know I can’t kill him, but I also know, from experience, that getting skewered isn’t comfortable.
But he doesn’t even notice, he just pulls my bag of blood out of the tin, looks at it, frowns and says, ‘Just as I thought, you’re feeding yourself rubbish.
No wonder you’re so weak and clumsy. You need proper nutrition to have any power at all. Wh—’
Then he looks at me. At the knitting needle.
He calmly drops the bag of blood into the rubbish bin and then whoosh, my back hits the wall. A jolt of pain shoots down my spine. He’s there in front of me, leaning in, his weight heavy and his big fingers tight around my throat. I can’t move. I can’t breathe.
He’s so fast. Just like Hans was. I was never that fast, even when I was with Hans.
His eyes flame as he stares into mine. They’re green, but there are golden rings around his irises, just like mine.
Right now, they’re glowing, like there’s a fire inside him.
Like he might burn a hole right through me.
And there’s this dark electricity pulsing off him.
It’s like nothing I’ve ever felt before—it makes my marrow ache.
‘Don’t,’ he says, the ‘t’ coming out clipped.
The knitting needle drops from my hand; it hits the floor with an empty clack.
As I look into his eyes, I feel terror. It rolls through me like an icy current, reaches into my chest and grabs hold of something deep inside me. But whatever power he has over me is still there, I can feel it. Even if he let go of me right now, I couldn’t leave.
‘Who are you?’ I croak, and his thumb releases just a little.
His eyes flicker and he says, ‘I told you, I’m Oscar.’
I frown. Why does he keep saying that like it should mean something to me?
And then he adds, ‘Your sire.’
My ears pulse as I try to make sense of what he’s saying, take in every line of his face.
I’ve imagined this moment a thousand times, maybe more.
Imagined feeling understanding and warmth and protection.
I’ve yearned for it. But now that it’s here, it feels more like standing on the edge of a cliff in an electric storm. Dizzying. Unsettling. Dangerous.
But maybe that’s just what it feels like, being with your sire.
‘How did you find me?’ I ask, trying to pull away but he holds me still. I need him to say he’s been looking for me all this time. That he was kept from me.
‘Oh, please. I know where you live, Aubrey,’ he says, his expression almost bored. ‘I’m not completely inept.’
The space beneath my ribs contracts, aches. But no, there has to be more to the story; if he’d known where I was all this time, surely he would have come to find me sooner. Surely.
‘Did something happen the night you turned me? To make you leave?’
Say yes. Say you were torn from me. That you’re sorry.
But he doesn’t say anything. He just stares into my eyes and I stare into his. Then his pupils flare. My stomach contracts and I get a flash.
But it’s different from my normal flashes.
It comes in technicolour, not black and white, and there’s nothing blurry or vague about it.
It feels . . . real, like I’m there. And I can hear things too—there’s a soundtrack.
And I realise he’s doing it on purpose, like it’s a memory he’s willingly passing over to me, to show me something.
He’s standing in a bedroom.
It’s the same one I lived in with Jonathan. I look to the bed now—there’s a woman lying on it. She’s wearing a long pale blue dress and it’s covered in blood, and I know before I even focus in on her face that it’s me . . .
All I can hear is heavy breathing.
My gaze catches on the mirror and there, staring back from it is a face I recognise. It’s the same face that’s in front of me now. Oscar. But his chin, his white dinner shirt, are blackened with blood.
My blood.
It’s everywhere.
Then he rushes to the door and down the stairs, leaving me there.