15. Emily
15
EMILY
I t was a dream. It had to be a dream.
I stood in a room that I didn’t recognize, flanked by marble pillars threaded through with gold. A raised dais dominated the space, two thrones atop it made of gold and upholstered in deep red velvet.
Where am I? What is this?
My feet were bare and cold on the marble floor, my flesh prickling with goosebumps beneath an opaque cotton shift dress, but there wasn’t a hint of wind or noise. It was as if time itself was frozen, and I was the only thing moving or alive in the world.
But where was I? What was this place?
There were pictures in gilt frames on the walls, visible between the pillars, and there were statues of marble or stone, beautiful tableaus of men and women locked in loving embraces. Except every statue, every picture depicted one of the other, man or woman, biting into their partner’s flesh.
Blood dripped down throats and limbs. And the pictures seemed to come alive, bodies contorting, limbs twisting at odd angles, and I cried out, pressing a hand over my mouth .
The sound of a door opening and shutting sent me into a panic, and I rushed toward the pillars and hid behind one of them, breathing through my nose rapidly.
“—a trial,” a man said, his voice accented lightly.
“I am not entirely sure that’s a wise idea, Jacques, my love,” a woman replied.
I peered around the column, just as they came into sight. The woman wore her hair in gorgeous white-blonde updo and wore a brocaded gown that spoke of French royalty. The man wore his hair in a white ponytail—a wig.
They were French nobles. They had to be. How was that possible? A dream shouldn’t have felt this real.
The man walked over to a table I hadn’t noticed before and poured thick red liquid into a glass.
Blood.
I was losing it after all. The journal I’d been reading had to have invaded my subconscious.
“Come,” Jacques said. “Drink, Sofia. Your mind is clearly addled by a lack of sustenance.”
“Such sharp words from a man who can’t make up his mind.” Sofia took the glass from Jacques and waited for him to finish pouring his own. They tipped the rims of their glasses together in a toast and drank deeply.
Jacques smacked his lips. “I think it’s the only viable option,” he said. “There has to be some method of control, or they will run rampant, and that is the last thing we need.”
“But others should be allowed to share in this gift,” Sofia said.
“Gift? This is a weakness.”
“Jacques?”
He set the glass down, his movements restrained. “What else would you call it?” he asked. “If I die, you suffer. If you die?—”
Sofia flew into his arms. Literally. One second she was a few feet from him, the next, she was on him, her hands clasping either side of his face, pressing her palms into it. “Do not speak in this fashion. I refuse to hear it.”
“But you must hear it. A gift and a curse,” he said, taking her hands gently and kissing the fingers on either of them. His lips parted, and he grazed her skin with fangs.
Vampires.
It had to be a fever dream. I’d been spending too much time with the book.
“A gift and a curse,” she murmured. “But we can’t restrict the choices of others.”
“We can do with it what we please, and there must be rules,” Jacques said. “You are far weaker than me, dear wife.” He spun her around and held her to his body.
I held back a gasp. Apart from the white-blonde hair, Sofia looked like a much more made-up version of me.
She swayed in his arms, reaching back, her silk pink gown sleeves falling past her wrists. “And you are made weak by me,” she murmured.
He brushed her hair away from her throat and then opened his mouth, revealing gleaming white fangs. He bit down on her throat. Instead of crying out or fighting him off, she sighed and leaned into his touch. “Then we’ll make a ruling.”
Jacques groaned, blood snaking down her chest and disappearing beneath her silk corset.
“They can only bond one, and there can only be a certain number of bonded at any one time.”
Jacques broke away, his lips crimson, chin dripping. “They will have to fight to prove themselves.”
“That’s a wonderful idea.”
He wrapped his arms around her and drew his nose across her cheek, smearing blood across the perfect makeup there.
I shifted behind the column, my pulse racing, and the movement drew their attention .
Both of them stiffened. Jacques’ gaze flickered toward my hiding spot. “We’re not alone.”
“It seems so.”
“Come out,” Jacques replied. “It will only be worse for you if you don’t.” He disappeared from view, and I gasped.
“Found you.” His hand closed on my arm, his fingers biting into my flesh.
A scream caught in my throat, and I tried spinning away from him, out of his grip, but it was too late. The woman who had my face laughed and appeared on my right, grabbing for me and?—
Three viciously loud bangs woke me from the dream.
I jolted upright in my bed, my chest heaving, and my sheets wet with sweat. The book was beside me, half-tucked underneath my pillow, which was beyond weird. I remembered Alex tucking me into bed, and the book hadn’t been in my room with me. It had been out in the living room, right?
The banging came again, and I slipped out of bed, blinking at the clock. It was past midnight. Had I locked Morgan out? She’d been so damn busy lately, I felt like I never got to see her.
Nausea and heat flowed through me, but I ignored it and hurried toward the front door.
The banging came again, shaking the loose chain. I hadn’t locked Morgan out.
“Who’s there?” I called.
“Em? Are you in there?” Mike’s muffled voice came through the door
Still, I released a breath. That dream had really freaked me out.
A dream? Or something else?
I opened the door, and Mike frowned at me out in the hall. He opened his mouth then let out a breath. “What the hell, Em? You look bad .”
“Thanks,” I said, scrubbing sweaty hair back from my face. “That’s exactly what I needed to hear right about now. Did you need something, Mike? I’m not really in the mood for an argument. ”
“No,” he said. “Shit, forget that. Forget I said any of that, okay? What’s going on with you? It’s been like a week and you’re still sick?”
“It’s been that long?” I asked. “I should call Jen.”
“I checked in at the library today. Jen said some guy came by and told them what was going on. Luckily, you have sick leave. Anyway, come on.” He took my hand and guided me out of the apartment and toward his place.
“What are you?—?”
“Helping you,” he said. “Trust me. I acted like an idiot the other day, and I’m going to make it up to you. Believe it or not, Em, I don’t want to lose your friendship. You mean a lot to me.”
He shut my door then brought me next door to his place. Inside, Reginald Tailwag made a show of greeting me. He wagged his tail so hard, his shaggy butt danced from side-to-side, and he licked my hands, knees, and every part of me he could get at.
“All right, buddy, back off. She’s not feeling great.”
Mike’s apartment was a mirror image of ours in layout, but it was much cozier. The sofa was made of leather, and he had actual throw pillows, and the kitchen was neat and glistening. The curtains were drawn back to show off a view of the evening and the street, and there was a potted fern in one corner. He had a bookcase full of books rather than a TV.
“Here.” He sat me down. “Just relax. I’m going to get you some meds and my thermometer, and then I’m going take your temperature. Be right back.” He hurried off down the hall.
But I was already feeling a little better. Cooler, less nauseated. What was going on? “Mike, I think there might be something in my apartment that’s poisoning me.”
“Huh?” Mike called that from his bedroom. He reappeared with a box of supplies and set them on the coffee table. “What do you mean?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “It’s just that I’ve noticed that whenever I leave the apartment, I start feeling better. I think we have a gas leak. ”
“If you had a gas leak,” he said, taking out a digital thermometer and pointing it at my forehead, “you’d be dead by now.”
“Then asbestos? I don’t know. Something’s not right.”
The thermometer beeped, and he checked the reading. The screen was green. “98. You’re good.”
“Yeah, but I wasn’t.”
“Do you want one of those anti-nausea pills?” Mike rifled through the medical aid box he’d brought out. “I have one in here somewhere.”
“No, I feel better. I’m telling you. It’s something in my apartment.” I gnawed on my bottom lip. “This—No. It’s too crazy. It’s dumb.”
“What is?” Mike tilted his head. “What’s dumb?”
“I think … Well, look, everything’s sort of been going wrong since I got that book.”
“Which book?” Mike asked.
“The one from the library. Remember, the journal from that French guy who believed in vampires?”
“Yeah?” Mike’s brows drew down. “You think that the book is making you sick?”
“Okay, when you put it like that, it sounds ridiculous, but hear me out here. Weird things have started happening since I got it. There was the mugging, and then the bats, and then?—”
“Wait, hold up a minute. The bats?”
I told him about my encounter with the bats and then, on a whim, the dreams I’d been having. “It’s like every single dream revolves around blood or vampires or?—”
“Okay.” Mike held up a palm. “Okay, let’s think about this rationally for a second here. There are two possible choices. Either, this book you’ve got is making you sick by some … curse? Or— what?”
“Maybe the blood on the pages made me sick? I don’t know if that’s a thing.”
“Doubtful. ”
“Is it though? Even dried blood can be infectious. Hep B can survive for a week under the right conditions.”
Mike laughed. “Do I want to know how or why you know that?”
“I’m a librarian,” I said. “It’s my job to know things.”
“Fair enough, but that’s a week, right? You’re talking about an infectious disease that would have had to survive for centuries, right? I’m not saying it’s impossible, but it’s improbable. And wouldn’t there be a line of dead people in this book’s wake?”
“I don’t know that there isn’t a line of dead people in its wake. We didn’t get any background information on it.”
“Huh.” Mike wasn’t convinced.
“Fine,” I said. “Then what’s the second option?”
“That you just have a really bad flu and you’re having vivid dreams because of your fever?”
“That’s what I thought too, but then how come I get better every time I leave my apartment?”
“Psychology,” Mike said. “Uh … Like a placebo effect. You feel better because you thought you felt better. Like confirmation bias.”
“Is it the placebo effect or confirmation bias?” I asked.
“Hey, I’m just trying to help. Don’t shoot the illiterate messenger.” He put up his hands and grinned.
But I couldn’t stop that train of thought. I was sick because of the book. It had to be the reason. Why else would I keep having dreams about it or wanting to be close to it.
“Mike, I feel like it’s cursed,” I said. “I’m not the most, uh, spiritual person around, but?—”
Two sharp knocks came at the front door.