Limerence II (4 page)

The days are the
worst, when I know that everyone is out doing their thing, and I am left to my own devices. Even the humans have a job to do—yet I, it seems, am allowed to die by perpetual boredom. My days are filled with fighting, feeding, and walking aimlessly.

I have the same path that I take every day, the same route that I have planned out, that I know takes exactly forty-seven minutes of my time. Each day is planned with exactly what I will be doing, down to the minute, and it very rarely changes. I head out of my room, closing the door behind me, and set off in the first of my walks almost dismally.

I have not felt the same since my meltdown the other day, and while Evan has not brought it up, I know that he has been keeping a bigger distance between us. Long gone are the soft touches we used to steal from each other, the fun banter, and the playful innuendoes that yes, at times made me feel uncomfortable with desire; but with them missing. I realise how much I had relied on them—how much I had loved and depended on those small shows of affection from him. I scowl at myself, knowing that I’m sounding pathetic, if only to myself.

I watch the wooden floor beneath my feet as I walk, not paying attention to the way I am going, but that’s okay, since I know these halls like the back of my hand now. I stop and stare at my hand, wondering how well I do actually know it. A year ago I was just a woman—I painted and taught at a college—and now I fight with better skills than most prizefighters. So maybe I don’t know these hands, the front nor the back, as well as I thought. I turn my hands over, looking from the front to the back with a frown.

A thought trickles into my mind: I used to paint. I continue to stare at my hands, my brow furrowing in frustration as I try to remember the skill that I know I once possessed. I used to paint, and I loved it. How can I have forgotten that so easily?

I look up, knowing what I want to do with my day—at least for the next three hours and twenty-four minutes until I have to go train with Evan again. I smile; the first genuine smile I’ve smiled in days.

I turn in a circle wondering where to go, and then I think of Donny and know that he will be able to help me, and I set off for him.

“Donny,” I shout as I enter the dining room.

As usual, he is here. He looks up with a smile as he serves one of the other vampires—Celeste, I think her name is. She doesn’t acknowledge me, but takes her full glass of blood to a table by the window and stares at it longingly.

“Hungry?” Donny asks and automatically starts to fill a glass for me.

I shake my head. “No, but well—yes, now that I’m here, I might as well,” I say, and my body shudders when he hands me a tall, warm glass filled to the top.

“Mia, darling, my finest red, just for you.” He laughs and graces a hand out behind him, and I laugh.

Our food source today is a beautiful redheaded woman. Her pale skin is like milk, with the faintest of blush to her cheeks. She must be new, I realise as I taste her blood slowly, relishing in it. I can’t contain the low moan from the back of my throat.

“She’s delicious,” I say, staring longingly at her. “What is she?” Her eyes are wide and unfixed, boring holes into the air around her. Small scratches are on her arms and neck, her bottom lip puffier than the top one.

“She’s a fighter.” Donny smiles proudly.

“A fighter?”

“Yes, most humans come willingly, not realising what they are letting themselves in for, ready to give themselves to a world of darkness, longing, and lust. They assume it will be all romance and blood, like that stupid teenage movie that is so popular in the human world. They never think that they will just be the lunch.” He laughs. “But this one,” he turns and smiles at her proudly, “she’s a fighter. What you can taste in her blood is fear, fear and anger. This blood hasn’t even been flavoured, it’s a delicacy all on its own.” He licks his lips as he stares at her with a salacious look.

I drink the rest of the blood, and my skin feels hot and flushed, almost like I need to fan myself. “That’s—she’s . . .” I struggle to find the words to describe her—to describe the taste of her blood.

“Delicious. Yes, I know.” He pats her knee, his hand going a little too high up her leg as he continues to stare at her. Her eyes, which are glaring straight ahead, move just a fraction and I frown.

“Donny, did she . . . ?” I stare at her harder and move to stand in front of her, watching as her pupils dilate ever so slightly. The humans brought here for . . . well,
dinner
, don’t move. They are sedated and unaware of what is happening to them. But this redhead seems to see me, I realise as I stand closer to her, leaning over the counter to within touching distance. My hand reaches forwards, but I purposely don’t get close enough to actually touch her, for I can see in Donny’s protectiveness of her that he wouldn’t like that.

“Yes, she’s aware. Not by much, and madness will take her soon, but the more aware she is, the better she tastes.” He looks back at me, his face full of glee. “Clever, right?” he says proudly. “The more fear and anger she has, the tastier she will be.” It’s then that I notice his fangs are out, his own greed and madness taking hold of him. He stares longingly at her, and I can tell that if it weren’t for his total control he would have drank her dry by now.

I stare from the fiery-haired woman to him, feeling for the first time something akin to guilt for what we do to these humans; the families that we ruin by taking these poor people and stealing their lives—their blood. The others are not aware once they are brought here, once they are our food source, but this woman is more than aware of what is happening, and she is frightened by it—by me.

I cock my head to the side, moving in and out of her view. Her eyes are fixed on me almost pleadingly, and a single tear drips from the corner of her eye. She is frozen in place, and will never leave here alive, and she knows it. It’s strangely fascinating, to know that she is aware of her impending death. I frown hard, almost forgetting what I came here for, my fascination in her drowning out any guilt I may feel for her mortality.

I’m sure that a year ago I would have been horrified by this. Hell, I would have been horrified by
any
of this—vampires, Bastions, blood—yet I am accepting of it, as if this were always meant to be. But to so casually stand by and watch an innocent be stripped of not only her blood and dignity, but her mind also . . . well, that’s just cruel.

I look back to Donny with a nervous laugh and a shake of my head. “That’s extremely clever, Donny,” I say and smile widely at him. “Can I have another glass of her?” I lick my lips greedily.

Sure she’s aware, and frightened, but that doesn’t stop her tasting so damn good.

*

Donny did know where I could paint: a teaching classroom that wasn’t used anymore. The coven used to be bigger before the Queen waged war with the infamous Mr San. Now only a handful of rooms are used, and they don’t teach half the things they used to.

The room is dusty and filthy and I open the shades to let some light in before I try and find the paints. I already feel better just being here; the change of scenery, the change of schedule—it all seems to settle my nerves and make me feel more alive than I have been in a long time. Or maybe it’s the small remembrance of my old life, a memory of the old Mia that I find so comforting. Either way, I’m just glad for the distraction, and for a break in my routine.

I drag a large standing easel from the cupboard and a dusty blank canvas, standing it on the small ledge of the easel. I mix some colours, but then my mind feels blank on what to actually paint. I look around the room for inspiration, but find none, and then I think of the beautiful red-haired woman, her eyes so full of pain and yet her body strong and determined—her mind slowly swirling into madness as she is stripped of everything that makes her
her
. Does she think this is all a dream—a nightmare of sorts that she cannot wake up from? Or does she actually know what is happening, where she is? Does she feel pain? I think of Donny’s hand moving slowly up her thigh. God, does she feel pleasure?

I mix the colours rapidly, the ideas coming quicker than I can keep track of, and then I am lost in myself, to the smells of paints and water, to the sound of brushes dancing across paper. I change the water several times, feeling hot under the glow of the sun coming in through the window. I strip out of my boots and work barefoot, paint splashing on my toes as I mix more paint in a frenzy. Images flash before me, and I know I need to get every one of them on paper, or at least the ideas of them down. This beautiful redhead, this delicious-tasting woman, deserves that much—to be immortalised forever on my canvas.

I will remember her, I promise myself and her. I will remember her taste, and her eyes. I will always remember her: my first taste of fear.

The hours rush by and I have no idea what time it is—only that I’ve been happily lost in my work for too long. By the setting of the sun shining through the window, I know that I have lost all track of time and Evan will be cross with me because I have missed his training session. But it wasn’t really my fault; I couldn’t have stopped even if I had wanted to. The images so clear in my head and begging to be released on to the paper were so inexplicable that once I began there was no stopping until it was complete.

I finally put down my brush and palette as the sun bows down, and I climb atop one of the tables to stare at my work. My arms should feel tired from holding the brush for so long, my legs should be aching from standing all day, but neither of those things happen. I feel attached to my old life in so many ways and yet so far removed from it. My muscles have the memory of what is expected of them, but my vampire side quashes those lies away. The painting stirs things in me which I haven’t felt in a long time, and I need to make sense of it. And for the first time in a year I want to sleep. Not because I am bored, but because I feel tired, worn out from…just being, I guess.

The redhead’s eyes stare back at me, her face framed by fire and blood, her tortured expression so beautiful that I feel both repulsed and turned on by it. I stare at her, seeing into her soul, feeling her pain and her thoughts as though they were my own.

“It’s beautiful.”

I jump and turn to see Evan standing in the doorway.

“I’m sorry I missed our lesson.” I bite my bottom lip, wondering what punishment I’ll get.
She
perks up at the thought of a spanking, and rolls her eyes when I dismiss it immediately. She’s been deceptively quiet since my breakdown the other night, and though she hasn’t been gone completely, I do feel like maybe I’m making some headway in getting control over her—and maybe getting a decent life for myself, if so.

Evan comes all the way into the room, his steps strong and unfaltering. He comes to stand next to me, his muscled arms crossed in front of him as he continues to admire my painting. His chin is covered in a day-old beard, and my hand itches to run across it and feel the gruffness beneath my fingertips, the scratchiness of it both rough and tender. He looks down at me with a smile, his dark eyes broody. I almost roll my eyes at my childish thoughts.

“Does this make you happy?” he asks, and gestures to my painting.

I nod. “I think so, yes. It’s quietened
her
, and that definitely makes me happy,” I conclude with a shaky voice feeling nervous.

“You’re very good. I never knew.”

“Me neither.” I shrug. “I forgot that I enjoyed painting.” I can’t take my eyes off him. I thought he would be mad at me, but instead he is the picture of calmness, his handsome face staring in amazement at my painting, the smallest trace of a smile on his full lips.

“You should do this more often.”

I shrug again. “Maybe.”

Evan turns to me, his smile just a fraction bigger. “I insist, Little Mia.” My nickname rolls off his tongue easily and I can’t help but feel a blush rise to my cheeks.

I roll my eyes at him. “I’ve told you about calling me Little Mia, Evan.” I smile back, feeling our relationship slipping back into its old routine.

He steps forwards and places a hand on the back of my head, his fingers moving through my hair. “Or you’ll have me on my back?” he says gruffly, his eyes turning dark and hooded.

I quiver—no: I tremble, my entire body quaking and blossoming with desire at his words. “Yes,” I say, and swallow as we lock eyes. “I certainly will.”

I have the strangest feeling that he might kiss me, and I wait with bated breath for it, for him. For his lips both rough and soft on mine, both calm and insistent, his desire taking hold of us both, and longing pushing us towards something that we both want and need but are scared to do. He stares down at me, his hand still in my hair. I almost moan aloud with brazen desire for him, and then at the last moment he pulls away and looks back to the painting with a deep frown, and I am left panting and frustrated. Again. And I can’t help but wonder if all of this between us is actually in my head. But when I look at him, I see his longing written all over his face—no matter how much he tries to conceal it with his cool exterior.

“I am sorry about the other night,” he says, startling me with not only his bluntness, but the change of conversation. “Perhaps you were not ready.”

“You have nothing to be sorry for,” I scoff. “It’s me that should apologise. I don’t even remember getting back to my room. I went completely crazy.” I sigh, both embarrassed and annoyed at myself for not controlling her yet. And seriously pissed about how he affects me so much.