Chapter 56
Every single capillary contracts simultaneously, my mouth goes dry and I’m dizzy and tired.
It’s bright. So bright. Like standing under multiple suns.
I crumple to the floor and look up at the ceiling.
It’s covered in blinding strip lights—but strip lights don’t usually do this to me. It’s daylight that’s dangerous.
Then it hits me: they’re not strip lights, THEY’RE GROW LIGHTS.
Panic rises in my stomach and I start to crawl for the door but I’m slow, and Jonathan moves in front of me, blocking the way. He’s not saying anything, he’s just staring down at me. I turn my head desperately, looking for the window. An escape.
And that’s when I see the cage.
It’s right there by the window, where Jonathan’s bed usually is.
His bed has been moved in front of the wardrobe.
My gaze moves back to the window . . . if I could just get there, maybe I could jump out.
But the curtains are drawn, and in the crack between them, I can see the swirl of wood. It’s boarded up.
Now I smell rust but don’t cry, don’t cry, DON’T FUCKING CRY! Because he clearly suspects what I am—why else would he have grow lights on the ceiling and a cage in his room?—and if I cry he’ll know for sure, and then he’ll really freak out. Like Freddie did.
I look up at him, needing him to see that I’m not dangerous, I’m still me.
Because that must be why he’s doing this: he’s scared of me.
But he won’t be scared if I tell him everything, if I confide in him about our history.
‘Jonathan,’ I say, my head throbbing.
But his face is cold. And now I’m shaking. I reach for my phone, get it out of my bag, but I’m slow, too slow to call Oscar. I’m getting weaker by the moment.
Jonathan says nothing. He just reaches down and takes my phone, puts it in his pocket, then grabs my handbag and throws it behind him. Then he reaches under my arms, drags me to the cage and pushes me inside. He closes the door and I hear the heavy lock click.
‘Jonathan, what are you doing?’ I try again as he walks to the door, but he doesn’t even turn to look at me.
He just leaves the room, closing the door behind him.
My breath is quick as I squint against the grow lights, examining the steel bars, the welded corners, the cold, metal base.
It’s about two by two metres wide, and only a metre and a half high—I won’t even be able to stand up in here.
Where the fuck did he get a cage? IKEA? ?
And then I think of those cardboard boxes that were piled up in the kitchen when I broke in.
Is that what those boxes were? This cage?
This is why I hate the modern world. It should be hard to get a cage!
I’m straining to hear what’s happening on the other side of the far wall.
I’m doing my best to tune in, but I haven’t eaten from the vein since Red Flannel Jeff and that was five nights ago—all I’ve had since then is one bag of blood—and the grow lights are dampening all my senses.
I clench my eyes shut and as my head throbs, I really, really focus, and I think I hear Jonathan say, ‘Here’s her phone .
. .’ The voices are muffled, I struggle to hear.
‘Code is zero five one eight seven six . . .’
When did he figure out my passcode? I guess I never tried to hide it when we were together. But that means he was already suspicious back then. He suspected I was a vampire even then.
That’s why he broke up with me.
And then, from somewhere out there, I hear a chorus of voices yelling, ‘Ten . . . nine . . . eight . . .’
It must be almost midnight. I can hear a party going on nearby, music playing—I imagine people getting ready to kiss, resolutions being made.
‘Seven . . . six . . . five . . .’
My breath catches as I look around and clench my jaw.
‘Four . . . three . . . two . . . one . . . Happy New Year!’ Then comes a swell of cheering.
I imagine fireworks outside and I swear I can hear a distant boom-boom-boom as they go off.
They’re so vivid in my mind’s eye, it’s almost like I’m watching them, the way I should be.
It feels as if my life has split off in two: there’s the version of me that’s out there and happy and watching the fireworks, about to head off into my future with Jonathan.
And then there’s this one. The one sitting in a cage in his bedroom under grow lights.
How am I going to get him to understand, to not be scared of me?
Because that’s what it’s going to take. Maybe this is my fault. If I’d been honest up front, if I’d just told him everything instead of letting him discover it for himself, he wouldn’t be so terrified. None of this would be happening.
As I look around, my eyes land on his desk. I can see my earring, sitting there, on top of it, catching the light. Right beside it is a champagne glass.
But it’s not just any champagne glass, there’s pink lipstick on the rim.
And . . . that’s not right.