I visualize myself in a big cavern of a room that is completely soundproof. With my mind, I shut a large silver door. I’m not sure why that detail is the one I choose to focus on. The silver repels him from my thoughts.
I realize the gravity of the things I’ve been thinking and that in all likelihood he’s seen them all. Probably this is all silliness in my imagination, which has no effect other than pissing him off. I’m afraid he’s angry now, so I open my eyes cautiously to check the status of things.
He’s standing a few feet away, his head cocked to the side like a curious puppy. “Well, that’s very interesting.”
I know when he says this that it worked. Somehow I’ve shut him out.
“You’re strong for a human. It makes me wonder if some of my Kindred’s blood flows through you.”
Does that mean he thinks I have a vampire ancestor somewhere? Because I haven’t drunk vampire blood. I shudder with revulsion at even the thought of drinking blood. He’s still looking at me with a curious expression, so I know whatever shield I put up is still working. Oddly, he’s not trying to breech it. Maybe he likes the quiet as much as I do.
I know he doesn’t mean I’m physically strong. Physically he could crush me like an ant. Physically I can barely push my car in neutral when I need to. But mentally I’ve shut him out of my thoughts with an imaginary silver door. I know he can demand I let him in, and I’m sure he’s got many persuasive ways to gain my obedience should he choose to. But for now, in this moment, I am free of the mental probing.
“I’ll let you keep your silver door. I won’t be able to read you once you’ve had my blood, anyway.”
This makes me take a step back. “Please, I don’t want to be a vampire.”
There could be a lot of benefits, and the things I’d miss—like sunlight—are things he most likely won’t allow me to ever have again anyway. I just don’t like the idea of being trapped here forever in this world. I’ve spent the past few years figuring out what I believe about souls and the afterlife. I have charming notions involving other planes and worlds and maybe even reincarnation. But vampires throw a wrench in all of that. It’s not that I’ve ever believed in vampires until this moment, but now that I’m faced with the reality, I’m not sure what happens to them when they really die.
Though I know the body and the soul are separate things, I’m so attached to the idea of a body that if a vampire just poofs out of existence, or melts, or something else equally distressing and instantaneous... where does his soul go? Because when a human being dies, there is still the body. We can convince ourselves that some transformative process took place that we couldn’t see. If a vampire dies in the ways I’ve seen in movies and read about in books, do they simply cease to be? Is that the cost of having conditional immortality? Does it destroy your soul and your real immortality? Play now; pay later?
It seems poetic and ironic. And likely. And for this reason, among others, I never want to be a vampire. The concept is more frightening than anything I can imagine he might plan for the rest of my human existence.
“You need not worry your pretty head,” he says. “I’ve only turned two women; both were failed experiments. I’m not prepared to go there again.”
I let out a breath and he moves back into my space. He keeps picking up strands of my hair and tugging his fingers through them. Just staring, watching it glisten and reflect off the light.
“Your hair is like sunshine. Do you know that, Juliette?”
I shrug. I keep going back to his casual
yes
in response to whether or not he intends to hurt me. I haven’t been able to stop the tears, though they’ve moved to a more consistent, silent slide down my cheeks, which I hope he doesn’t find too annoying. The last thing I want to do is irritate or annoy him in any way.
My next question is a whisper, but I know he can hear it. “Are you going to kill me?”
He regards me for a minute and shrugs. “Probably. At some point.”
His nonchalant acceptance of my demise at his hands acts like an arm sweeping under my legs, knocking me off my feet. I’m on the ground now, not bothering to try to be quiet. I think about the sugar cookies, and my mother’s soft laugh. I’ll never see her again. The one safe thing in my life, gone, sealed and placed out of my reach with the sentence the vampire has pronounced on me.
I want everything to be simple and predictable again. I want to mix frosting. I want to rewind time and stay in my mother’s kitchen, curled up next to the oven where it’s warm and everything smells of sugar and bread. I’m sobbing now, and I don’t care.
And my dad. I don’t see him a lot, but the last time I saw him we argued about something stupid. Was that really our last discussion? It’s too surreal. I can’t believe it yet.
The begging forecast only minutes ago has arrived. “Please. You had mercy the last time.”
“Did I? Or was I merely exhibiting restraint so I could selfishly take what I wanted when it had ripened to my liking? Admit it, Juliette. Deep down you knew I was coming back. Do you know how many times I stood outside your window and saw inside your dreams? Always of me and that night. You knew we had unfinished business. You’ve always known. You dreamed about me more than I dreamed about you. That’s saying something.”
Though he says it with conviction, it’s a conviction I don’t mirror. There is no way I could have ever known any of this.
“Are you hungry, pet?”
Both the unexpected question and the endearment catch me off guard. How can he ask me something so stupid right now?
I’ve been exposed to enough vampire lore—both old as well as modern twists—to wonder if we’re going to enter into some twisted vampire/human pet relationship and how close that relationship will be to the things I’ve read about. Some of what I read was pretty disturbing. I squeeze my eyes shut to block out what were once sexual fantasies. I can’t think about that right now.
It feels silly to have had such dark fantasies to begin with. My sexual experience is so limited that it feels embarrassing to have even had a sexual thought. It makes me feel somehow
less
since I don’t have the experience to back it up. How do I know what turns me on or what I would like or wouldn’t like? It seems as if it’s a case of
be careful what you wish for
, and my fantasies have somehow manifested to punish me for thinking such dirty things. Somehow I know that the reality won’t be safe and clean or nearly as erotic as when it was just movies in my mind that I masturbated to.
“Juliette? It was an easy question. It’s too early in our relationship to be trying my patience over such simple matters.”
I can’t believe I just zoned out. I feel wetness between my thighs from where my mind just went, and I blush. Can he smell me? What must he think? Oh God. He’s probably hundreds of years old. He’s probably had sex in ways I can’t begin to imagine. The very idea of doing anything sexual with him freaks me out. It doesn’t even freak me out because he’ll do it whether I want it or not. It freaks me out because I’m afraid I’ll look like such a child to him. He’ll laugh. Then I’ll hope he kills me because living like that seems like it would be worse than him just ending me quickly.
“Juliette!”
His eyes flash red and his fangs descend.
“I—I’m sorry. What was the question?” I can’t believe I’ve already forgotten what he asked me not a minute ago.
“I asked if you were hungry.”
I
am
hungry. Devon woke me, and we’d had plans to go eat, but then that didn’t happen.
“Yes.”
“Yes what?” he says.
Hell, I don’t know. Actually, I think I know. In fact, I know I know. But it’s another one of those things. If I say it, and that’s not what he wanted, I’ll want the floor to open and swallow me. I’m not sure if I can even force the word through my lips if he demands it. It seems silly. I’ll feel mocked and judged.
“Yes,
Master
,” he says, as if I’m retarded.
My face heats at his demand, and it takes me a second to make myself say it, still afraid there will be laughter and mocking even though he’s demanded it. “Yes, Master.” My voice is quiet, but I know he can hear me.
He nods. “Good girl. Come with me to the kitchen. I prepared something for you.”
He extends his hand like a gracious host, and I manage to scrape myself off the floor to follow him. The kitchen has the same sort of gothic feel, except that there are modern appliances: a microwave, a large stainless steel fridge, a bread machine (I can’t fathom why he has this), and a glass-top stove that just heats up and glows, not the old-fashioned kind like my mom still has in her apartment above the bakery.
His kitchen is immaculate, which I suppose can be expected. I’m not sure if he eats or not. Or even if he can. I mean, besides blood. My dream comes back to me, or parts of it that I couldn’t figure out before. Like when the woman said: “Snack?” She’d been asking about me, if Christian intended to feed. She’d told him to do it out back so there wouldn’t be a mess.
Are all vampires so neat and tidy?
“Sit,” Christian commands.
I sit at the table and watch as he takes a large pot from the fridge. “I made you a beef stew.”
This shocks me, both that he cooked, and that he cooked something for me. I assumed he’d feed me frozen dinners or things out of a can as if I were some cat he’s irritated he has to bother tending to. But he’s taken time and thought to consider what to feed me and is giving me real food. For a moment I latch onto this and think it’s a form of caring, something I can trust. But then he speaks again, shattering the illusion.
“You will eat what I cook for you. You will eat organic. You will drink water or tea, occasionally wine or other alcohol if I allow it. You will not be drinking soft drinks, or eating sugar, or packaged or processed crap. Humans who eat crap taste like crap. You’ll be my primary food source, and I want you to be gourmet.”
I can’t stop the new tears as they flow down my cheeks. “Will it hurt?”
He stops for a moment and looks at me as if I’ve grown a second head. “Biting you?”
I nod.
“Of course it will hurt, you little twit. Sharp teeth piercing flesh hurts. But I will heal you afterward. And when I’ve finished feeding and playing with you each night, I will give you some of my blood so you’ll heal and won’t grow weak.”
I wipe the tears off my face with the back of my hand. I’m ashamed he probably sees me as weak. Maybe too weak. Maybe he’ll kill me if it annoys him too much. He waited so long, and I know he must be reconsidering his choice. Still, I ask the question.
“Why me?”
He ladles stew into a bowl and pops it into the microwave. There is a long pause before he answers.
“Even though I can’t read a human’s thoughts when they’ve had my blood, I can still hypnotize them. Keeping a pet who doesn’t have their own mind feels like being with a wind-up doll. I want genuine emotions and reactions. If I order you to do something hard or frightening, I want to feel your reaction to that. Puppets are boring, and I’m too old for such silly games. I haven’t met someone who could resist my thrall in a long time. I tried to control your mind that night but couldn’t. I decided then that I’d wait for you. When you touched my face, though, that sealed it. Your curiosity about me overcoming your fear was too novel to ignore. I was awestruck.”
He is silent for several minutes. I think he’ll continue, but he doesn’t. The microwave ding breaks the spell and he places the food and a bottle of water in front of me.
I don’t want to appear ungrateful, but I ask anyway, “Do you have crackers?”
“You cannot have crackers. But I have some homemade bread.” He takes a tray from the fridge and slices off a generous piece and hands it to me.
I dip the bread in the stew and take a bite. Then I try a spoonful of the vegetables and beef. Holy God. For a moment I forget I’ll never see my mother again. I forget school is a distant memory, and that I’m both the captive and food source of a vampire. For this one moment I’m in heaven because this is the best thing I’ve ever tasted.
I have no power to choose my fate here, and there are horrible and frightening things about my situation: captivity, pain, and probably death. But there are also tiny silver linings in the clouds, assuming he doesn’t keep me in a rat-infested dungeon. But that seems unlikely. If he’s obsessed about his food having a proper diet, it would be stupid to keep me in dirty living conditions. It would hardly improve the quality of his food.
He sits across from me at the table, watching me eat. When I glance up to him, I note that his eyes stray occasionally to my jugular. I take a slow, deep breath. I feel like a pig being fattened for slaughter.
The silence is too much for me. “Are you going to kill me because you’ll get bored with me?”
“I don’t get bored. When you’ve lived this long, you learn how to not get bored or you go mad.”
“Then why?”
He glares at me, leaning forward, seeming to eat up the small space between us in his growing impatience. “Do not speak to me as though we are equals. We will never be equals. Why WHAT?”
I shrink back as his voice rises.
If he kills me, it will be due to my inability to address him in the way he wishes without prompting. I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to just talk to him that way. It’s too foreign, and frankly rather weird. Though I’m sure once he’s hurt me, once I understand the situation, the word will fall from my lips naturally and easily.
Anything to appease him
will be my stance at that point. My self-preservation instincts can’t be that weak.
“Why, Master,” I say.
He sighs and shakes his head at having to prompt me. “It will just happen someday. I won’t be able to help it. At some point I will lose control; it’s what I am. I’m not a comforting fairy-tale. There is no such thing as a noble or good vampire. I am a predator. You are my prey. When I am finished playing with you, I will kill you. But it will probably be years; it usually is. You have nothing to fear for the foreseeable future. Except pain.”
I eat as slowly as possible because if I take my time, it will prolong my pain-free existence with him. But finally my spoon drags across the bottom of the bowl, taking the last bit of vegetable and beef broth with it.