7. Adam
Adam
Iwatch in horror as the demon—or whatever took over my body—stares at the cottage. The other night’s kill apparently wasn’t enough. I could do nothing but watch as the vampire’s blood splattered all over that poor woman.
I look on with the same eyes as the psycho who took over my body and realize we’re looking at the same pink-haired woman from the other night as a new vampire holds on to her doorframe, speaking in harsh tones before splintering the wood in pieces.
People always joked in New Orleans about the paranormal; vampires, witches, ghosts, and I never really believed it. All I felt in the city was freedom, and now here I am trapped in my own mind realizing that there are so many things that go bump in the night.
I guess now I’m one of them.
He’s taken over my body, my life, my everything, and there’s nothing I can do about it.
The worst part is I can feel his emotions. He’s excited about killing this old vampire. It has my blood pumping and adrenaline flooding through our system.
No. Not our, my. It’s my fucking system that he hijacked.
He mutters to himself. “I can not be brash. I will bathe in his blood, just not now.”
He’s fucking insane.
I’m trapped with an insane entity at the helm, and it’s my family’s fault.
That’s the hardest pill of all of this for me to swallow. I stayed away for so long and my decision to come back has ruined everything.
I’ve likely lost all of my clients by now, a few weddings I definitely missed, and I’m sure they’re devastated. Now, here I am standing outside of some poor woman’s cottage as she’s terrorized by some vampire, knowing that the thing who’s taken over my body is going to kill him.
“Stop your bitching,” he says to me.
I sigh, and I wonder if I can take back control of the body. There has to be a way to push him out, or suppress him like he’s done to me. I can’t accept that this is just my life forever.
He grumbles. I’m shocked he doesn’t go on and on about his mate that he’s been promised. The guy is a murderous, delusional asshole and I need to figure out how to get him out of my body.
“Good luck,” he says out loud, hearing my thoughts, and I’m still confused about how our connection works.
“What are you?” I question, wondering if he’ll answer me or not.
“Your new boss,” he says, still watching the vampire at the cottage.
“Well, if you want to be known as anything other than psycho, asshole, fuckface—”
“You may call me The Slayer,” he rumbles, pushing me hard, back into the recesses of my mind.
I don’t care who he is, or what he is. All I know is that one way or another, I’m taking my fucking body back.