Chapter 3 #2
“Is there a how-to manual? This feels like being thrown into the ocean and told to swim.” I mean… how the fuck would I even begin influencing his emotions? Other than by staining his shirt, of course.
I narrow my eyes. There’s an idea.
“Whatever you’re thinking, no.” He points a finger at me sternly, like I’m a misbehaving pet.
“As to how, you need to clear your mind the same as you would with meditation, focus on an emotion, and project it. I know that doesn’t seem clear, but it will make sense.
Feel something and then push it toward me. ”
Yeah.
The doubt I’m feeling must show on my face, because he laughs.
“Think of it this way. Ever heard the expression ‘Fake it ’til you make it’?”
I nod. “Sure. Oh.” Huh.
“See? If you’re going to a job interview and you’re nervous, you don’t want the interviewer to know. You fake—or project—being confident. Some people suck at it, but if you’re successful, the interviewer reacts to that. What I’m asking you to do is an extension of that.”
I’ve never been for a job interview in my life—my parents insisted my focus should be on school, which is really ironic, since they knew all along I was never going to make it to college—but I get the basic premise.
“Okay, sure, let’s give this a shot.” I plant myself back in my chair so I can devote all my focus to what I’m doing. “What do we want? What emotion, I mean.”
He settles in the other chair and smirks at me. “Something that comes naturally to you. Let’s not make this any harder than it has to be. I wonder if it’s possible to project snarkiness?”
The look I give him summarizes my feelings about that pretty clearly, but the bastard just laughs again. He’s got a point, though. It’ll be easier to try to project what I’m actually feeling rather than first trying to feel something different.
I close my eyes and take a deep breath, but that’s the only similarity to meditation preparation.
Instead of trying to clear my mind, I concentrate on the persistent, vague annoyance Andrew fosters in me—on all the frustrating things he says and his stupid face—and when it’s a nagging wound in my brain, I visualize pushing it toward him.
In my mind’s eye, the ugly gray of annoyance flows across the room toward him.
Interestingly, focusing on my own emotions has the same effect as the beginning stages of meditation—an awareness of my breath and the blood rushing through my body. I guess they’re kind of the same thing—although no guided meditation I listened to ever suggested focusing on negative emotions.
As it always does when my emotions are strong, the magic tightens around me, caressing against my skin. I wish I understood why.
“Are you doing anything?” Andrew asks, and my annoyance ramps up, stabbing away any self-awareness the deep breathing engendered and causing the magic to whirl faster against me. I push harder, willing all my annoyance to rush at him and swamp him.
“Hey!” His surprise cuts through my concentration, and I open my eyes to see him studying me.
“That’s pretty good, Noah. I definitely felt pissed off for a second.
” He chuckles, and I don’t know why, but for once it doesn’t make me want to smack him.
“I guess I shouldn’t be surprised that irritation was your go-to feeling. ”
What he’s saying sinks in. “Wait… so it worked?” Holy shit. I have vampire powers!
“It worked,” he confirms. “Only briefly, but I didn’t expect more than that. Let’s try it again.”
This time, it seems easier—or maybe that’s just because I’m buoyed up by success. I’m not annoyed anymore, and I don’t bother trying to build it up again. Instead, I just close my eyes and push all my elation at finally having something go right toward him.
I don’t think it’s working, though, because he says nothing. So I take a few more deep breaths, feeling the magic brushing against me with each one, and really focus.
Andrews laughs, a triumphant, almost giddy sound. “Yes! Excellent, Noah. Wow, that’s some head rush.”
I open my eyes again, grinning so widely it hurts my face.
“This is great work. How does it feel from your end?”
I make myself consider it rather than just tossing off an answer. “I’m not sure how easy it would be to do under pressure. Like, if I was stressed or afraid, I don’t know that I’d be able to project any other emotion.”
He nods slowly. “That’s not unusual. Most vampires can’t project emotions they’re not feeling unless they’ve been specifically trained to do so.
In your case, since we’re looking at this as a defense tool, sending a burst of fear into an attacker would probably be effective as a distraction.
” He frowns. “What concerns me more is how long it takes you. I know you’ve just started, but you really seem to need time to concentrate before there’s a result. ”
“Won’t that get better with practice?”
He shrugs. “Hopefully. Can we try something different? I want to see if you’re able to replicate the outcome without closing your eyes and having quiet.”
Uh-oh.
“So… keep my eyes open?”
“And I won’t wait silently,” he adds. “In an emergency situation, you’d need a split-second response with potential stressors all around you. Your enemy is unlikely to let you take deep breaths and concentrate.”
Yeah, I knew I wouldn’t like this idea. He wants me to give him permission to annoy me. I sigh. “Sure. I can try.”
The next thing I know, Andrew is doing his level best to piss me off.
And succeeding.
As he chatters inanely about the evolution of men’s handkerchief styles over the centuries, he rolls his chair back and forth, pushing off with his legs and occasionally swiveling as fast as he can like a little kid would.
There’s definitely enough annoyance in me to drown him with, but I can’t concentrate for long enough to shove it at him.
I think it’s the visual aspect that’s the hardest to ignore. I could maybe block out the white noise of his voice, but his constant rolling around breaks my focus every time.
I try fixing my gaze on one particular spot, well above the level of his head, and for a second, it seems to be working. My mind seems to be dropping into a groove, and I gather all my frustration and anger together—
His face pops into my field of vision. “Nope! No cheating. You need to be able to do this with visual distractions, Noah.”
I blink, my concentration shattered. How…? I mean, he’s a tall man, but not that tall.
“Do you know how dangerous it is to stand on a chair that rolls and swivels?” I ask. “If HR catch you doing that, you’re in big trouble.” Am I tempted to give the chair a shove and see if he can ride it? Sure. But I’m not going to. That would be irresponsible and unsafe.
My fingers itch.
No! I’m going to be the better man here. No matter how much I want to see him fly through the air and go sprawling over the conference table.
He snorts and steps gracefully down to solid ground.
Yes, steps , as though he’s only inches off the ground and not a foot and a half.
“I have excellent balance and reflexes, Noah. Now, let’s try again.
It’s hard, but you need to be able to do this as a reflex, without needing prep time or specific conditions. ”
I don’t bother reminding him that I’ve just started, that repetition and conditioning can make almost any action a reflex, but it takes time. Even pro sports players started somewhere.
Instead, I try to ignore his resumed chatter about… is he seriously giving me a recipe for blood-infused chocolate pudding?
My stomach lurches.
Sighing, I give up. I’m not going to master this today, but I’ll practice when he’s not around to distract me. Once I have a better grip on it, then I can introduce the distractions.
In the meantime… what the fuck is he doing?
“What are you doing?” The question falls from my lips involuntarily. He’s wheeled his chair over to the far end of the room and swiveled to brace his feet against the wall.
“I want to see if I can make it from one end to the other without stopping or touching the floor,” he declares with all the enthusiasm of a seven-year-old.
I pick my jaw up off the floor. I shouldn’t be surprised. This fits in perfectly with his usual behavior. I don’t know why I was expecting different just because he’s an ancient vampire, widely considered to be amongst the oldest and most knowledgeable of his kind.
He bends his knees and pulls the chair closer to the wall, presumably to give himself a better push-off, and then suddenly he’s whooshing across the room, wheeee-ing like a kid.
Turns out, I’m not the better man. I can’t even say I’m ashamed of myself. It’s an instinct, a reflex action.
I stick my foot out, and it tangles with the chair’s castors.
Andrew goes flying. Like, literally sails through the air. It’s epic . I wish I had a camera with me to record it, because this is something I’m going to want to relive over and over.
He crashes to the ground, and I swear, his head is only inches from the wall. If he’d had a little more momentum, he would have smashed right into it—headfirst.
“Ohhhhhh,” I groan sympathetically. “You were so close .” What a shame he didn’t achieve his goal.
Muttering, he rolls onto his back and glares at me. His nose is bleeding and crooked, I guess from when he hit the floor, and he looks macabre and dangerous, not at all like his usual self.
For a second, I wonder if I need to run.
Then he starts to laugh, and my whole body relaxes, relief almost tangible.
“Did that look as awesome as it felt?” he asks, levering himself into a sitting position and flowing to his feet. It’s really not fair how graceful he is.
“That depends on how awesome it felt. It looked like a movie stunt.” I decide to be a good person—however belatedly—and get up to bring him some tissues. If any of that blood dripping from his nose gets on his shirt, he may not be such a good sport about this after all.
Because, you know, a shirt is more important than his nose.