Teeth

Chapter Seventeen

Thomas grabbed the duvet and tugged it up to his chin, rolling forward onto his stomach and burying his face into the pillow. It was too bright in the room, the bed too comfortable, and he wished that he could go back to sleep. Awake, his stomach rolled and churned, threatening to upend itself. His head thumped and throbbed and his hand was sore, though he wasn't sure of the reason for the latter.

His dreams dripped from his memory. A blonde corpse had danced for him, urging him further down a dark corridor. Blood swirled and rippled around his ankles with every step and every sniff of air had the scent of cinnamon, elderflower, and finely brewed coffee. He couldn't remember where he'd been heading, though it had been so clear in the dream. The corpse turned to him, leaning close. Her blonde hair brushed his cheek.

"Kill the girl," the corpse had muttered in his ear in a voice that did not match the face. The voice was male, it was familiar, it was August.

Thomas threw the duvet back and scrambled from the bed as the memory returned to him. He thrust his feet into his jeans and pulled them haphazardly over his hips as he stumbled for the door. Another wave of nausea hit him, a thousand tastes all in one. Snatches of memory flashed behind his eyes and throbbed in his ears. His vision flickered like a scratched disc, jerking in and out of focus.

He was dancing, his body hot and moving too fast. He was in a coffee shop, the taste of blood on his tongue. He was standing in the supply cupboard and the blood didn't taste good, but he just kept on drinking.

He was salivating at the smell of Paige's blood, fighting every urge he had ever felt as it bubbled to the surface, a soup of desire and need and hunger.

Thomas gulped and steeled himself. This couldn't wait until the feeling passed. It wouldn't go away by hiding in bed. He snatched a t-shirt from the laundry basket with no idea whether it was his own or one of Spencer's. Wrenching the door open, he let it bang against the wall, and fled down the corridor, the shirt still hanging from his grasp.

He reached the stairs, ready to descend, when he realised that he had never been shown August's room. Where would he find him? What if he wasn't here? Thomas stopped, leaning against the bannister as he turned the shirt the right way out and tugged it on.

"You're the new one, right?"

The voice came from above him, making him jump. Lifting his head, he gazed up, his eyes adjusting to the light. Her dark skin was submerged in shadow but he could see her seated in the corner of the first landing. She leaned forwards over her knees, clutching a notebook to her chest. Tight, impeccable braids twisted back into a knot on top of her head behind a pair of thick-rimmed glasses. Thomas nodded and took a step up, swaying as pain shot across his temple and throbbed behind his eyes.

"Thomas," he said.

She lifted a pen and tapped the end against her lip.

"Heather," she replied, though her voice was curious, as if she didn't quite believe her own answer. "Are you alright?"

"I'm looking for August."

"Dressed like that, I'm surprised he didn't just leave you," Heather chuckled.

Before he could think of a reply she opened the notebook and scribbled something down. Thomas took another step up the stairs, craning his neck to see, but she snapped the book closed as fast as she'd opened it.

"Spence won't be pleased if you're stealing his man as well as his clothes."

Thomas plucked the shirt further from his body. He wasn't getting any more comfortable with the fact people could smell things on him so easily but even he could pick Spencer's scent from the material now he thought about it. It made his stomach roll and he squeezed his eyes shut, trying to think of something, anything, that he could focus on instead.