Warm Blood

five

5

present day

I awake with a start—the sound of my heart thumping loudly in my chest startles me. I'm immediately drawn to the pain in my wrists, confused once I realize the pain isn't real. I am not human—I can't feel pain, and even if I could, why would my dream suddenly awaken such false senses within me?

My gut tells me it's Wymond, but I've put that part of my past behind me. I shouldn't be thinking about the moment he first fed on me, and I shouldn't be feeling the agony and bewilderment that accompanied it. This marks the second night since arriving in New Orleans that I've dreamt of Wymond, and the thought of doing so makes me feel something I haven't felt in a long time.

Despair.

I run to the bathroom, slamming the door open, until I am faced with my cold reflection staring back at me in the mirror. Eyes, still blue as the ocean's depths. Hair, still dark and endless for as long as I can remember. I bring myself to smile, genuinely expecting it to be the familiar warm and inviting smile I give all my victims, but the smile I try to force in the mirror looks forced, and I gasp. This smile looks like the smile I would give myself to forget my worries over abandoning my family in 1342. It was a smile that hid my sadness and regret and all of those useless human emotions. Since then, I have gotten very good at faking these emotions, or at least, until now. 

Because in this very moment, I feel weak and I look weak, but I know that I am not weak.

My eyes glance to my wrist just as I brush my thumb over it, briefly remembering the golden flint in Wymond's eyes when he drank from me. I can remember it like it was yesterday.

In the bedroom, I hear Paul stir in his sleep, forcing me back to the present. He's slowly gaining back the energy I had drained from him and should be waking soon. He'll have questions about last night and I don't want to be here when he does—it's better to leave his memories hazy than to calm his fears about being fed on.

"See, love," Wymond used to say as he caressed my wrist with the utmost softness as though he hadn't just teared apart my flesh and drank my life source, "It's not so bad, now is it? You will be just fine, I promise."

It was a promise that I knew all too well because it always scared me how being with Wymond allowed me to walk the line between terrified and seduced. I hated leaving my family to wed a monster whose most dangerous motivation was to drink blood, but every time his teeth pierced my skin, I felt pure euphoria. Suddenly, the world wasn't so bleak when I was in his trance. All my fears would fade into the oblivion and all my wishes would come true all at once. Feeding made me transcend to another plane where nothing and everything existed at the same time, and I hated that I felt that way.

I'm out of the door in just mere seconds, desperate to leave the thoughts of Wymond behind. If I can't help myself from thinking and dreaming of him, at least I know I'll be able to occupy my mind with something else entirely—the new murderer in town.

While I'm sure no one would ever suspect a vampire for the recent murders, it does concern me that Amara does. She's smart, cautious, and much too inquisitive for her own good, and the last thing I want is to provide any truths to her claim. I've waited far too long for this moment just to let an amateur take it away from me. 

And yet, there is one person who comes to mind.

The sun is just beginning to peek through the clouds when I arrive at my destination: a quaint pub in the heart of New Orleans, just a few blocks down from SavU named Meera. At night, it's the perfect place for college students and stressed white collar workers to complain about their bad decisions and make worse decisions. But when the sun comes up, it's an abandoned hole-in-the-wall fit with the fallen chairs, scattered drinks, and stomach projectiles from the night before. It's a beloved gem of New Orleans that no one would ever stop to think the owner was a two-faced, conniving witch.