Chapter 7 I’ll Be Watching You
I’LL BE WATCHING YOU
My eyes snap open.
The weight of Angel's arm around my waist is gone. The warmth of his chest against my back has disappeared. The steady rhythm of his breathing that lulled me to sleep is nowhere to be found.
In his place is a terrible sound that fills my ears and raises every hair on my body.
Angel is gasping for air. Filling the room with wet choking noises from the depths of his throat. Each strained breath a low, terrifying gurgle that sounds like it could be his last.
I shoot upright, reaching through the darkness for him. When my hand connects with his scorching skin, my heart drops. The fever is far worse than it's ever been. I'm surprised his flesh is still on his bones.
In the blink of an eye, I'm up on my knees, leaning over his splayed body and slapping the sides of his clammy face.
"Angel," I urge. "Angel, can you hear me?"
He doesn't respond, but his breathing changes. Now it comes in sharp bursts.
I lean down and put my ear near his lips, willing him to answer. "Angel, you've got to stop doing this."
Nothing.
I check his face for signs of life, and when all that greets me is a flat, expressionless face, my voice pitches up a few octaves. "Angel...? Give me a sign you're still in there."
Silence.
"Please?" I lay my hand on his chest and hold my breath.
The slow patter of his fading heartbeat is barely perceptible under my fingertips. Barely, but it's there. One thud. Followed by another. Then another. Like the haunting drum of a funeral march.
"S...Soph..." he wheezes.
I slump forward with relief. "You scared the shit out of me. You wanna sit up? Maybe get some air?"
He nods and props himself up against the pillows, palm pressed against his ribs, his whole body trembling. Even through the darkness, I can see there's no color in his cheeks. His pale, drained skin is almost translucent.
He takes a few breaths, deeper this time, and I lean over to the lamp and flick it on. He recoils at the brightness and uses the back of his free hand to cover his eyes.
"Sorry," I murmur. "Is it too bright? I can switch it off if you like? I can see in the dark anyway."
He shakes his head. "No...I..."
"It's okay. You don't have to talk. Just breathe, okay? Keep breathing. I'm right here with you. I just need to grab something real quick."
His bloodshot eyes track me as I stumble to the couch in search of El Arte de la Muerte Segunda. I've read that damn book cover to cover so many times over the last few days but found nothing. I must have missed something. A tiny detail that tells me what to do now.
I skim the text, whipping back and forth through the pages until I land on the part that details phase three of the transformation and read it for the hundredth time this week.
The third and final phase of the transformation brings immense relief for the subject.
The neophyte should now have grown a full set of fangs which will descend involuntarily when blood is introduced.
They will be experiencing a new array of sensory enhancements such as light sensitivity and the ability to hear sounds previously inaccessible to the human form.
The lacrimae ratio during this final phase should be nine parts blood to one part milk until the tenth day.
"You hungry?" I call, but before he can answer, I'm already on my feet. "I'm going to fix us something. It's been a long day. That's all. You'll be fine. You need to keep your strength up. Once you eat, you'll be fine."
He makes a few sounds of protest, but I ignore him.
I'm on a rampage through the kitchen, pulling out mugs and slamming drawers shut.
I don't bother wasting time with the stovetop warming method.
The milk will have to stay cold too. I slam a bag of blood into the microwave and jab at the fancy buttons like they owe me money.
When the whirr of the machine starts up behind me, I lean against the counter and weigh my options.
I can either call the client and tell them what's happening, or I can figure this out myself.
Calling the client isn't an option. I just can't do it.
For one, I'm old enough and stubborn enough to find a solution. Maybe it's foolish, but I've always had faith in my ability to get shit done, no matter what.
Sure, the stakes are a little higher this time, but I know I've got this. I'm a Maldita, for God's sake. I'm one of only a handful of vampires capable of shifting into animal form. The blood that runs through my veins is as sacred and ancient as the moon itself. If anyone can do this, it's me.
No, I can't go back to how it was before. If I call for help, Julian will slither back to La Madre and tell her that I fumbled this gig, and I can't allow that to happen. I'll have to go back to watching the privileged offspring of wealthy criminals—and I can only attend so many proms.
The choice I need to make is no choice at all.
The microwave dings, so I slop the blood into a mug and top it off with a whisper of milk—just enough to frighten it.
It's like a river meeting the sea—two liquids battling each other for dominance and refusing to play nicely.
I swirl the mug to combine, but it does little to stop the whole thing from looking revolting.
When I hand him the mug, his face crumples, but I do my best to encourage him. "I know. It's hard. There's more blood than usual, but that's good. Your body needs it. You'll see."
As soon as the cup gets within inches of his lips, his shaking arm freezes midair like it's being repelled.
"I don't know if I can," he wheezes.
Shit.
"You can," I encourage, placing my hand over his to steady it and gently placing it back at his side. "Hey, real quick. Do you mind if I take a peek into your mouth?"
He offers a weak smile. "My mouth? What are you? An amateur dentist?"
"Yeah, even the undead need a hobby. Now open wide." I lift the corner of his lip with my thumb and feel along his gums. "I just want to check on your fangs. They should be fully in by now."
"And?" he asks.
I swallow and drop his lip. "Yup. All good."
Shit. Fuck. Mierda.
He winces as he sits up straighter. "Sophia, I know you're lying. Something's wrong, isn't it? Tell me."
My smile doesn't reach my eyes. "It's fine, Angel. Just drink the blood."
"Sophia. I know you're trying to protect me, but I'm a big boy. I can take it."
I search for a good lie, but I can't find one. Nothing seems to fit. I don't know how to tell him that I have no idea. That I'm deeply unqualified for this job and that what's happening to him isn't good. He's never going to be human again, nor will he be immortal.
Instead, he'll die with a relative stranger in an underground prison, and it's all my fault.
"Sophia," he rasps.
The words come tumbling out of my mouth.
"It seems like your body is rejecting the turning.
Your thirst is nonexistent, your fever is still raging, and your fangs have stopped growing.
You keep having these seizures or whatever the hell this is, where you basically die for five minutes, and I don't know how much longer you'll survive them.
" I pause to glance up at him, but his face is expressionless.
"I have read everything I can in my book, but there's nothing.
Nothing. Your body is blocking something, and I'm running out of ideas, but I'm not giving up.
I'll find something, I promise." I bury my head in my hands, and my voice is muffled. "I'm so sorry."
"Well, shit," he says.
"Yeah," I say, glancing up. "Shit is right."
He settles back, fingers interlaced across his chest, gaze tracing invisible patterns on the ceiling. Neither of us speaks. The room stills to near silence, thick and heavy save for the rasp of his strained breathing and the slow pounding of his heart.
The silence sits heavy, like a stalled engine refusing to turn over. I'm about to say something—anything to fill the void—when a shrill ring cuts through the room and stops my dead heart from beating altogether.
The phone. The connection to the Hollow.
The client is calling.
A prickling sensation creeps up my neck, and every instinct tells me to ignore it.
Angel's eyes dart between the phone and me as the ringing intensifies. Sharp, loud, insistent.
That phone was designed to dial out. To only call one number. To be used in emergencies only. For some reason it never occurred to me that it would go the other way.
It rings a fifth time.
"Sophia?" Angel's voice is careful, uncertain. He's pushed himself up on his elbows, fever-bright eyes tracking my face.
I can't move. Can't breathe. I'm too busy thinking about what awaits me on the other end.
Julian is probably just checking in. A routine call to ensure we're on track.
That's gotta be it. All I need to do is pick up the receiver and buy some more time.
Just a three more days, and I'll figure this out.
"Sophia? Are you going to answer that?"
My legs are unsteady as I make my way over to the table and lift the receiver. When I press the cold plastic to my ear, the line crackles as it connects. Old school, the same way the old yellow one on my parents' kitchen wall would.
I force a breezy, nonchalant tone. "Um...hello?"
That clipped tone unmistakable. "Miss Vijil? It's Julian. What took you so long to answer?"
"I...erm...sorry. I was preparing a feed for the precious cargo. Keeping him well fed and building up his strength." I twirl the cord around my finger. "So, what's up?"
"What's up?" he snorts. "This isn't a social call. I'm looking for an update. How is Mr. Ruiz progressing? What can you tell me about his condition?"
I chew my lip and look over to Angel, still pale, still slumped, still dying.
"Everything is developing nicely," I say. "Really good. Must be the quality of the sire's blood. Very potent."
Static fizzes down the line, then, "Indeed. Very potent. How is his demeanor? Is he still agitated?"
Just a few days ago, Angel was climbing the walls and ready to tear into them with his bare fingers if he thought he could get out of here, but now? "Content and cooperative."
"Oh?"
"Yes, we've come to an understanding."
Angel's eyebrows shoot up, and I flash a smile, the tension bleeding out of my spine. The phone feels lighter in my hand. This is fine. Just a routine call. Julian doesn't suspect a thing.
"Good. Very good." There's a pause, then his voice drops lower, almost conversational. "Mutual understanding is important for something like this. I hope you've been able to get comfortable."
The word lands awkwardly. Like it doesn't quite fit.
"It's been fine," I say carefully.
His tone is cold. "I'm sure I don't need to remind you of your obligation to your client, but you should know that there will be severe consequences if Mr. Ruiz is not turned as planned."
"Excuse me?" I squeak.
"I'm sure you know how important it is to maintain a professional boundary when you're in such intimate quarters."
The word “intimate” slithers down my back like ice water. My eyes dart around the room, landing on nothing, finding nothing. What does he know? How could he know?
"Thank you for the update, Miss Vijil. This has been very enlightening indeed."
The line goes dead before I can respond.
I stand frozen, receiver still pressed to my ear, listening to empty static. My hand is trembling.
"Sophia?" Angel's voice cuts through the white noise in my brain. "How bad is it?"
I lower the phone back to its cradle, my mind racing.
Has Julian been watching us?
And more importantly—what has he seen?