“I need to know that we’re ok,” she says quietly. Her voice is a mere shadow of the usual, firm but friendly tone she speaks in. A sound that reminds me that beneath her flawless exterior are the shattered pieces she’s so determined to hide from the world.
I’m at a complete loss for words as I pinch the bridge of my nose and continue to search my memory for the truth, What the hell happened tonight?
“Kit?” Piper whispers after a few minutes of silence.
“Yeah, I’m here. Honestly, Piper, I’m not too clear on what happened tonight. Care to fill me in on the details and what I should be mad about?” I say, hoping her words can clear things up for me.
She sighs again, and I can picture her sitting on the side of her bed, combing her hair back with her polished black fingers.
“I uh, I relapsed,” she says plainly, pausing to huff into the phone again. “I met a guy at work and long story short he brought me a party flask. You came downstairs and saw the tail end of the exchange. You were pissed off, you took the flask and took a pretty big swig. Then you blacked out, and when you came-to, you told me we were done. I called you an Uber and left. I know you’re mad, and you have every right to be, but I just need you to know that I didn’t do it. It was one moment of weakness. Calling that guy was so stupid, I know that. But I’m still sober, thanks to you, Kit.”
I let her words sink in, and I replay them again in my mind. I remember going downstairs to look for her when she disappeared from my friend Justin’s apartment. I opened the lobby doors and heard a car peel off, saw her standing in the street with a small flask in her hand, but that's where my memory and Piper’s story head in two different directions. Her version has to be the right one, it’s the only answer that makes any sense. Because if my account of the night is true, my best friend is a monster that isn’t supposed to exist, and she was seconds away from killing me a few hours ago. I shake the thought away, It’s obviously fucking crazy, I just had a bad trip. I was hallucinating.
“Kit?” I hear Piper tremble my name and realize I never answered her. I’ve been completely silent for a while. Lost in my own delusional, drug-induced thoughts.
“Yeah.” I breathe into the line, unsure of what I’ll say next. The thing is, I know that Piper’s story is the truth. It has to be. It’s rational, makes sense, and I can hear the honesty in her voice, the fear behind every shaking word, but I can’t erase the memory of her dark eyes, the cold, animalistic thirst, the fangs. A chill runs across my bare forearms, and I'm reminded of how I shoved them up while I frantically searched my apartment. It all felt so real. It still does.
“How do you feel?” she asks after another silent stretch.
“I don’t know. I mean, not great, you know?”
“Yeah, I know. You must be really confused and hungover.”
“That’s putting it mildly,” I say as my attention shifts toward the windows. The curtain is swaying slightly, and for a minute, I pass it off as a draft, but then something occurs to me. It’s October, too cold for central air, too warm to put the heat on. So, where the hell is that draft coming from?
“I’m really sorry for everything, Kit,” she whispers.
I wedge my phone between my ear and shoulder as I cross the room and pull the grey linen curtain aside, and everything becomes clear.
“I know. Look, Piper, can we pick this up in the morning? I’m pretty beat.”
“Yeah, of course,” she pauses. “Goodnight, Kit.” And then she’s gone, just like earlier.
I toss my phone in the general direction of the sofa, a second later it clatters against the hardwood. The awful sound that fills the room tells me I need a new phone, but I don’t care. I run my hand against the windowsill, the smooth stained wood feels like ice against my skin. The temperature was supposed to drop tonight, but even if I didn’t know that, I wouldn’t have left the window open when I was out. I live in a safe area, but this is still Philadelphia, and getting robbed and murdered wasn’t on my agenda for tonight. What the fuck does this mean? What I remember can’t be real. There’s no way. I know that. But, at the same time, the image of Piper is seared into my mind. The only other memory I can compare this to is when I found her passed out when she almost overdosed back in NewYork, a memory so dark and traumatic that I would give anything to purge it from my mind, but I can’t. It’s burned into the folds of my brain, it haunts my dreams, and fuels my nightmares.
Everything about tonight feels too real to be a dream or a drug-induced hallucination. My memory feels clearer by the minute, with every breath of crisp air that slides through the open window. I know Piper was here, fighting the urge to hurt me and drain the blood from my body. I can still feel my heart racing, the sweat beading on my chest, and my brow, the warm metallic blood coating my tongue as I tipped the cold metal flask against my lips. It’s impossible. There is no way in hell my best friend could be a vampire. Monsters aren’t real, vampires aren’t real. My rational brain is fighting back, grasping at the facts, clinging to reality. Find a different explanation because Piper can’t be a vampire.
Piper
* * *
Now: October 30th
“Are you following me?” I snap. I can feel myself coming more undone by the second, but it’s like I’m a roller coaster, approaching the steep decline with too much momentum to hit the breaks. Hell, at this point, I don’t even think I have any breaks to hit. My mind is a complete disaster, and all I can see is Kit’s terrified face staring back at me, pleading for me not to hurt him.
“Yeah, I am. Pretty lucky for you, don’t you think?” Bane growls, his fangs are in full view.
It’s a show of strength, the perfect reminder of exactly how I ended up in this position. Instead of listening to the small voice in the back of my mind, the one reminding me how quickly he can wrap his hands around my neck and steal the oxygen from my lungs, I let my rage and hunger fuel me, and I snarl back. For the first time since he pulled me out of Kit’s window, hand pressed firmly against my mouth, I look into his eyes.
The rational voice in my mind is barely a whisper now, attempting to remind me that I should be grateful I didn’t just tear my best friend apart and drain him of every last drop of his blood, but the rest of me is focused on the monster standing a foot away. The gorgeous man who seduced me in a bar and took me home hours later changed, destroyed, and on the most dangerous downward spiral imaginable. My breathing is ragged, and despite the coaxing words of that tiny voice, I’ve zeroed in on Bane, specifically his throat, because tearing into his neck would solve at least one of my problems, if not both, and right now, that sounds perfect.
Another, louder growl slips through my own barred fangs, recognition sparks behind his silver eyes, they narrow, and he cocks his head to the side.
“Don’t even think about it,” he warns. His tone is serious and flat, no hint of the honied, smooth voice I’m used to.
It’s too late, though. Bane could be spilling top-secret government intel right now, and I wouldn’t be able to stop. The second I turned my attention to the blood flowing through his veins, I gave into the predator that’s been fighting, clawing to be free since I stepped into an apartment full of drunk warm bodies hours ago.