Claiming the Vampire Slayer

Chapter Four: Hunger Strike

I wake to a cold stone floor under my head and the stench of mold in my nose.

My mind fragments into a dozen thoughts that hammer me all at once.

I remember Marcellus telling me not to fight him. I did anyway, of course. Who in their right mind would just blindly go along with a vampire?

Dampness is seeping through my clothes... Wait, I'm wearing clothes?

I swallow hard. The burn in my throat reminds me of what happened in the catacombs.

Marcellus moves in my peripheral vision. I snap my head in his direction and leap to my feet, hands clenched.

I search the ground for a weapon, but the cell is empty. Iron bars separate me from him.

They give an illusion of protection, but I know better.

"What were you doing in the catacombs?" he asks. His voice is low and smooth, with a hint of danger to it that tugs at something inside me.

I ignore him to prowl the cell from corner to corner. The floors are clean, if damp from water trickling down the wall.

Marcellus stands with his back to the wall. I blink, and then he's inside the cell.

What the fuck? Vampires are fast, but not like this. I should know; I've killed enough to know their weaknesses and strengths.

Before I can lunge away from him, his hands are around my neck. He squeezes, cutting off my air.

I gasp and flail, smacking at any part of him that's within reach. He just bares his fangs and presses his thumbs into the hollow of my throat.

A split second before I pass out, he releases the pressure while still keeping his fingers around my neck. "Why were you in my tomb?" he repeats.

I suck in air, gasping and coughing to the point that I almost puke. I keep hold of my senses, though, and refuse to answer.

I swear I see a flash of what might be regret—or maybe annoyance—in his eyes, but then he snarls in my face, fangs on full display.

"Tell me," he demands.

His thumbs return to the tender spot on my throat. He presses hard enough to remind me that he holds the power here.

That's what he thinks, though.

I was trained by two of the most revered slayers in our history. They taught me how to hold up under pressure.

The darkness returns to his eyes. I focus on them, putting every ounce of my willpower into staying silent.

"You will tell me," he snarls in my face. "Either of your own will, or under compulsion."

The word triggers an involuntary response that breaks my concentration. My hands spasm.

He nods knowingly. "You remember it. Good."

He releases me and steps back. I crumple to the ground, but spring back up to my feet, ready to fight. "You compelled me?" I spit at him, wishing they were bullets that would tear him to shreds.

"And I will do it again if you refuse to answer me."

I spit at his feet, then raise my chin. "Guess you'd better do it then, because I'm not telling you shit."

My mother would be proud of me. I feel strong, empowered.

"It will hurt," he says plainly and without emotion, leaning casually on the cell bars. He crosses his arms and waits.