stops.
“You need to feed.”
“What do you want from me?”
He draws something from his pocket. It’s a band of links made out of dark metal. He tosses it into the circle.
“Put it on.”
I pick it up. I’m burning. I can taste the ash in my mouth. When I hold it in my hands I realize what it is. A collar. The metal is greasy, and I could swear it moves under my fingers, like it’s breathing. Like it’s alive.
If this doesn’t stop I’m going to die, die the true death that spirals down into oblivion. Those words float from the back of my head, but they’re not mine. I lift the collar to my throat and it moves on its own with a sudden viper quickness, slipping around my neck. It clasps with a solid latching sound and tightens, squeezing my throat, the pointed corners of the links digging into my skin.
The burning doesn’t stop. I cough and a puff of ash falls out of my mouth. My skin has tightened around my bones. I can feel them starting to cut through. I’m dying.
“Here.”
The blood pack lands in front of me with a solid thump. It’s from a hospital, a plastic bag used for transfusions. I grab it and bite into it, ripping the cap off the stem. When I gulp it down I want to throw it back up, but it doesn’t reach my stomach. It’s cold, and blood is even worse cold than it is when it’s warm.
Whatever dependence I have on the lifeblood of human beings, it doesn’t spare me from one of the most noticeable effects of swallowing blood. It’s an emetic. It induces vomiting.
So once I’ve drained the pack dry, I start trying to throw up. It goes on for minutes, but at least I’m not coughing up my own ash from being cremated alive from the inside out. I flop down on my side, exhausted.
He kneels at the edge of the circle and presses his thumb to it, and whispers a word. There’s an audible little snap and I can feel the wall going away, but I’m in no position to do anything about it. I try to shake loose as he touches my arm and pulls me first to sit, then to stand, my head propped on his shoulder. His jugular is pulsing inches away from my teeth. Instinctively I move, and the collar clamps down on my throat.
Choking, I pull at it, but it’s so tight I can’t even get my fingers under it. It’s crushing my neck.
“Stop,” he says, “Clear your head. Christine, calm. Listen to my voice.”
I do as he says. The collar loosens, then loosens more. It still digs into my skin.
He’s already picked me up. He’s carrying me. Out of the library, down a hall.
“How am I awake in the day?” I manage to choke out.
“Magic.”
“I don’t believe in magic.”
“I don’t believe in faeries. Yet here we are.”
“You made Tinkerbell sad.”
There’s a tiny stumble in his gait, and his throat tightens.
“Yeah. I guess so.”
The door is already open. He passes a bookcase and a small sitting area, and the room’s own fireplace, and lays me on a four-poster bed. I settle into the mattress and sleep pulls at me.
“No. Stay awake.”
I look at him.
“Why are you doing this to me?”
Tenderly, he brushes the loose hair out of my eyes.
“You’ll understand in the end. Trust me.”
“No.”
He pulls away, then leans forward, looking into my eyes. Something about the jut of his jaw, the way he’s positioned, I think he might lean down and touch his lips to my forehead, but he stops.
“I’m going to put you to sleep now. There will be instructions there on the table when you wake up. Do as you’re told. Stay in this room. If you try to leave, the collar will stop you. The rest of the house is not sunproofed, so it’s not safe for you. Look over there.”
I looked past his shoulder to a door.
“You have your own bathroom. I want you to clean up. There’s some things for you to wear.”
“What? Why?”
He puts his fingertips on my forehead as he stands up.
“I can’t tell you anymore now. Hush.”
His voice is soft, gentle, at odds with the way he was before.
“You need to feed.”
“What do you want from me?”
He draws something from his pocket. It’s a band of links made out of dark metal. He tosses it into the circle.
“Put it on.”
I pick it up. I’m burning. I can taste the ash in my mouth. When I hold it in my hands I realize what it is. A collar. The metal is greasy, and I could swear it moves under my fingers, like it’s breathing. Like it’s alive.
If this doesn’t stop I’m going to die, die the true death that spirals down into oblivion. Those words float from the back of my head, but they’re not mine. I lift the collar to my throat and it moves on its own with a sudden viper quickness, slipping around my neck. It clasps with a solid latching sound and tightens, squeezing my throat, the pointed corners of the links digging into my skin.
The burning doesn’t stop. I cough and a puff of ash falls out of my mouth. My skin has tightened around my bones. I can feel them starting to cut through. I’m dying.
“Here.”
The blood pack lands in front of me with a solid thump. It’s from a hospital, a plastic bag used for transfusions. I grab it and bite into it, ripping the cap off the stem. When I gulp it down I want to throw it back up, but it doesn’t reach my stomach. It’s cold, and blood is even worse cold than it is when it’s warm.
Whatever dependence I have on the lifeblood of human beings, it doesn’t spare me from one of the most noticeable effects of swallowing blood. It’s an emetic. It induces vomiting.
So once I’ve drained the pack dry, I start trying to throw up. It goes on for minutes, but at least I’m not coughing up my own ash from being cremated alive from the inside out. I flop down on my side, exhausted.
He kneels at the edge of the circle and presses his thumb to it, and whispers a word. There’s an audible little snap and I can feel the wall going away, but I’m in no position to do anything about it. I try to shake loose as he touches my arm and pulls me first to sit, then to stand, my head propped on his shoulder. His jugular is pulsing inches away from my teeth. Instinctively I move, and the collar clamps down on my throat.
Choking, I pull at it, but it’s so tight I can’t even get my fingers under it. It’s crushing my neck.
“Stop,” he says, “Clear your head. Christine, calm. Listen to my voice.”
I do as he says. The collar loosens, then loosens more. It still digs into my skin.
He’s already picked me up. He’s carrying me. Out of the library, down a hall.
“How am I awake in the day?” I manage to choke out.
“Magic.”
“I don’t believe in magic.”
“I don’t believe in faeries. Yet here we are.”
“You made Tinkerbell sad.”
There’s a tiny stumble in his gait, and his throat tightens.
“Yeah. I guess so.”
The door is already open. He passes a bookcase and a small sitting area, and the room’s own fireplace, and lays me on a four-poster bed. I settle into the mattress and sleep pulls at me.
“No. Stay awake.”
I look at him.
“Why are you doing this to me?”
Tenderly, he brushes the loose hair out of my eyes.
“You’ll understand in the end. Trust me.”
“No.”
He pulls away, then leans forward, looking into my eyes. Something about the jut of his jaw, the way he’s positioned, I think he might lean down and touch his lips to my forehead, but he stops.
“I’m going to put you to sleep now. There will be instructions there on the table when you wake up. Do as you’re told. Stay in this room. If you try to leave, the collar will stop you. The rest of the house is not sunproofed, so it’s not safe for you. Look over there.”
I looked past his shoulder to a door.
“You have your own bathroom. I want you to clean up. There’s some things for you to wear.”
“What? Why?”
He puts his fingertips on my forehead as he stands up.
“I can’t tell you anymore now. Hush.”
His voice is soft, gentle, at odds with the way he was before.
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