Piper,
The sensitivity to lighting will pass once you’ve fed and fully transitioned. There is blood in your refrigerator. Don’t go out, you will almost certainly kill someone. I know this all comes as a shock. I’m sorry I couldn’t stay, but I will help you through this.
I will check on you later.
-Bane
Buzz
Buzz
Buzz
Kits face flashes across the screen, I hesitate to answer but remember that I’m supposed to be meeting him.
“Hey,” I breathe, desperately willing my tone to be steady, calm.
“Hey, I’m here, where are you?”
“I, uh, change of plans, Kit, I’m sorry I’m not going to make it.”
“What do you mean, what’s wrong?” he asks.
“I’m just not feeling great, I thought I slept off the hangover, but it’s back with a vengeance,” I lie, knowing damn well that I can’t sleep this problem off.
“It’s cool, I’ll come there.”
“No, don’t do that,” I snap. Bane’s letter is fresh in my mind, and while it occurs to me that he could be exaggerating about the whole killing someone thing, I’m not willing to take any chances when it comes to my best friend. “I really just want to go back to sleep.”
“Alright, well, hit me up tomorrow then.”
“Yeah, sure thing,” I say, combing my hair out of my face with my fingers.
“Piper, are you sure everything’s ok?” he asks.
The concern is clear in his words, and guilt churns my stomach. I press my eyes shut, lean my head against the wall, and take a calming breath.
“Yeah, I’m fine. I just need sleep.” The second lie is harder to stomach than the first, but I know it won’t be the last if I’m going to keep Kit out of whatever I’ve just stumbled ass-backward into. “I’ll call you tomorrow.”
I end the call and head toward the fridge, leaving my phone on the floor beside Bane’s note, Bane, at least I know his name now. I guess that’s something. Though, if he hadn’t approached me at the bar and turned me into a vampire, I wouldn’t really need to know his name, so there’s that. When I open the fridge, everything is entirely different than it was a few hours ago. All of my snacks are haphazardly tossed into the bottom two drawers, and the shelves are now occupied by neat rows of what look like hospital-grade blood bags. Gross. Unfortunately, the rest of me doesn’t seem to find it gross at all. My stomach begins to growl at the sight of the blood, and my throat feels like sandpaper. Sinking to the floor beside the refrigerator, I pull the tube free from the first bag, put it between my lips like a straw, and brace myself for the foul metallic taste of blood. My mouth floods with sweet sticky liquid as soon as the blood begins flowing freely from the bag, the flavor is unlike anything I’ve ever tasted and couldn’t be further from what I was expecting.
After two more, I feel better, full, less on edge than I was after reading Bane’s note and lying to Kit. Then It occurs to me that I’m still wrapped in a towel, sitting alone on my kitchen floor, in the dark. My mind is still a mess as I head toward the closet, pull out black athletic leggings and a cropped wrap around yoga top, slipping them on quickly and tossing the towel into the hamper.
When Kit and I first moved here, he insisted I start seeing a therapist. He said there was no way I would be able to beat my addiction and the demons that fueled it without help. He was right. So, for six months, I met with a friendly blonde named Wendy for one hour twice a week. She helped me dig into my past, find the cracks and holes in my emotional foundation, and slowly begin filling them in to ensure that my sobriety and mental health would be strong and long-lived. Spoiler alert, it turns out that most of my issues could be traced back to my parents, or, well, my lack of present parents. How cliche. Anyway, Wendy was all about being emotionally present, said I needed to deal with my problems head-on and with a clear mind.
That’s how I started doing yoga. At first, I thought it was ridiculous, everything except for the clothes. Crazy comfortable clothes are my thing, so I guess you could say that’s what pulled me in at first. I bought some yoga pants and tops, a mat and a foam brick thing, and a year later, I still rely on the practice- thirty-minutes a day to keep my mind quiet and under control.
I pull my mat out from under the small sofa on the other side of the studio, unroll it, and sit down to open the yoga app on my phone. I’ve done this so many times I have it memorized. Still, the instructor's voice is calming, and listening to her direction instead of actively remembering each pose helps me turn my mind off and relax into the movements.
Half an hour later, my tense muscles are loose, and my breathing is steady. I sit with my eyes closed, focusing on the calming sound of my own heartbeat. Then I notice two things at once, the hair on the back of my neck is tingling, standing on end the same way it did a few hours ago. There’s also a second heartbeat inside my apartment. It’s slow, controlled, and I feel my own pulse pick up in response to the sound. It’s him. I know it’s him. I can picture his cold, steely eyes boring into my back while he sips a beer, licking his lips slowly the way he did earlier tonight. Even if I couldn’t smell his spicy cologne from across the room and hear the way his tongue moves across his lips after each small sip, I would still know it was him. I mean, I would have to be the most unlucky person in the world to have two different psychos break into my apartment on the same night. The more I think about it though, I’m sure this guy is more dangerous than anyone else that could come through my door, or window. How the hell is he getting in here anyway?
The room is still, and aside from our hearts, breaths, and movements, silence fills the air. I swallow the lump in my throat and decide to break the ice. Hell, I might as well get this over with sooner than later.
“What do you want?” I ask without shifting positions.
“Don’t be angry. I told you I would come back to check on you,” Bane says. His voice is as smooth and seductive as I remember, causing memories from last night to flood my mind and my senses. My skin is met with a chill. I shiver, recalling his cool breath against my skin as he whispered in my ear, the pinch of his teeth nipping at my bottom lip, and finally, his teeth sinking into my already blood-drenched neck. Draining what life was still pumping through my veins.
“Well, you kept your word. You’re here, you checked. Now you can go,” I say, slowly standing up and stretching my arms over my head before turning to face him.
I’m not surprised to find him leaning his forearms against my small center island, sleeves pushed up to his elbows, a beer in one hand. I am surprised by the warm fluttering sensation in my stomach when I stare into his cold, stormy eyes. My rational thoughts seem to have left the building because all I can focus on is the handsome as all hell look oozing from him like some kind of Calvin Klein model.
“I know that this is a lot to take in, but I’m not going to hurt you. I want to help you.”
I nearly snort at the absurdity of his claim.
“You aren’t going to hurt me? I’m pretty sure you killed me last night,” I remind him, allowing a fraction of my anger to slip into my words.
“You look fine to me,” he says, shrugging and lifting the bottle to his lips. His eyes scan my body, linger on my chest before slowly returning to my eyes.