The Breathless

By Jason Summers

She isn't a vampire.

Born of the devil at the dawn of time, Fina is your average twenty-something woman, trying to live her life and keep the world clear of monsters like herself.

She is much worse than a vampire.

After years of quiet, Fina is now being hunted by strangers who know her secrets and her power. These strangers don't come in peace. They come for nothing less than her soul.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jason Summers
• Release date: Apr 7, 2010
• ISBN: 9781452324036

Book preview

The Breathless

By Jason Summers

Cover Artwork by Alice Phieu

Copyright 2010 Jason Summers

Smashwords Edition

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Chapter 1

I cannot begin to even fathom what’s going through your mind, I say, clutching a glass of wine in my right hand, the other one reaching up to run its fingers through his hair.

His head pulls away and his hand comes up, blocking mine. There is a surge of anger coming from somewhere in my body. I fight the urge to let it surface. I did not like the way he stopped me from touching him so abruptly; it reminds me of why I am going to do what I'm about to do.

This little move for power he has just made: I could take it as a challenge, he knows that I am a million times stronger than he is. Nevertheless, I choose to let it pass, blame it on the wine.

We are seated at a table in his kitchen and we are both a little drunk, he more than I.

It is not a coincidence that I am more coherent than he is--it’s how I planned it.

It's very important that for my plan to succeed I be in a distinctively different frame of mind than him. I had not planned on drinking at all, but have ended up drinking a glass of wine, which arguably is not very much for a person like me to drink, but for some reason the alcohol has dampened my judgment, only to a small significance.

I am just like you, he says, his eyelids fluttering shut.

A slight, but sad, smile touches the side of my mouth, the poison is slowly but successfully overtaking his system. It will be only minutes before he passes out and, from that point, less than fifteen minutes until his heart stops and he is dead.

While I sit there, analyzing his face, checking his eyes to make sure they don't reopen, my mind wanders.

I think of him, and although it pains me to do so, I think of all the good things. How we met, the adventures we shared, that time we made love on the beach near the pier.

The memories are streaked with red as the most recent notable event resurfaces.

The betrayal.

His was not the kind of betrayal most people experience in a lifetime, it had nothing to do with love or sex, or money. That’s not exactly true. Love played a role in our relationship, so did money, and we did have a great deal of sex--but those elements were only contextual to the betrayal itself.

My estimates are correct as after only two minutes, his body goes limp, and his face collapses onto the table, on my hands, which I have placed where I knew his head would fall.

I should be a mess of emotions: if I was anyone else, or if I did not understand the clear blacks and whites of the situation, I would be.

I loved him, I still love him, and I know quite firmly that his devotion for me was, and is, true.

For all those things, a good part of my heart breaks at what I am doing, but an even greater part of it remains unaffected, sensible.

I know that he has compromised my secret, my identity, and my location. Even if this was not his intention, he has made himself a factor that I can no longer worry about, and for me, someone who has lived for thousands of years; I am incapable of letting it all be thrown away because I love him.

This has happened before, and it will happen again, although I wish it were not so.

I gently remove my hands and let his head move slowly from my skin to the table. I have a lot of work to do. My plans are to drive him out into the dessert and bury him beneath the stars.

He told me once that if ever he died, that's where he would want to be buried. That was the night we had made love on the beach by the pier. We had stared up at the stars together and spoke about death, exhausted. That night, they had sparkled blue with the hidden desire of a million possibilities. Tonight, they will burn red.

As we ride out towards the dessert, many things go through my mind.

I have placed Khan in the passenger seat, even buckled him up as to avoid suspicion. He looks asleep, not dead, which makes sense because technically he is not dead. I checked his pulse after putting him in the car. Although his heart rate has slowed, it is still there.

I wonder why the poison has not taken over his body yet, why his heart hasn't stopped.

It is one of the many things on my mind, and one of the least important.

I have opened the windows of the car to feel the wind. The steady stream of air pouring into the car is a pleasant assault on my senses.

It’s a warm air, in the dessert it is always that way. Still, it refreshes me, and edges away the remaining haze from the alcohol.

It is not long before we are away from the lights of the city and are coasting along the dark, sprawling dessert highway.

I have at least two hours of driving ahead of me, and my body is showing no sign of needing rest. I am not surprised--I rarely sleep.

Every two or three minutes, I check on Khan. There is no need for me to grab his wrist to check for a pulse, all I need to do is look at him. An average person would not be able to see his breathing, not be able to notice the slight, slow moving of his chest every time his body fights to take in air. I am not an average person. Although his breaths are shallow, I can still see them. In fact, I can hear them. I am able to pick up the faintest of sounds with my unusually sensitive hearing.

I am relaxed and take this peaceful opportunity to consider the events of the past day, as well as consider the actions that are going to occur in the next few hours.

I begin to think of the man I originally saw Khan talking with. He had been wearing a long coat and sunglasses, but despite his disguise, he appeared familiar to me. Of course, I only saw him briefly, and from a distance, but I am not normally wrong about these things. I have met many people over the years, and although my memory is very good, it is always possible I am making a mistake in assuming that I have met this man before. The possibility is small, but there nonetheless. My inability to match him with any memory in my mind is troublesome to me--I rarely have this problem.

I sat on a park bench casually pretending to read a newspaper.

The sun was strong, and several children were playing in the big fountain in the center of the park. I could feel the heat, but I was not hot. I am never hot. I believe I am cold-blooded.

While I sat there, I analyzed the people in the park. There were a good dozen or so people with children playing, a handful couples sprawled on blankets. A family was having a picnic. Some kids were playing Frisbee.

I felt disappointed, as if I had been expecting somebody more exciting to be present in the park.

It was not long before the wheels of revelation began turning.

Twenty yards in front of me and to the right, I could see Khan jogging. For a second I felt guilty and questioned my motives. There was no doubt in my mind that I trusted Khan, but since waking from a horrible dream four nights earlier I’d been incapable of shaking a nagging suspicion that something was going to happen. That’s why I followed him on his morning jog, and I wasn’t exactly sure what I should expect.

I easily made my way to the park faster than Khan could ever jog, and had been sitting, reading the newspaper for about ten minutes when I saw him enter the park form the east gates and begin making his way down the path.

He was breathing heavily, sweat soaking through his shirt. I have always found Khan to be at his sexiest immediately after working out. The sweat glistening in his short brown hair and on his face. The flushed rosy colour that would tint his cheeks. It was at these moments that I would find him irresistible, or perhaps I should say more irresistible than usual.

Khan would probably have looked gorgeous to me wearing a garbage bag.

From where I sat in the park, I was not worried that he would see me. The only reason I could see him was because my senses were infinitely stronger than his were.

We had often gone jogging along that very same route so I knew precisely where he would enter and leave the park from.

It would take him twenty minutes to jog anywhere near me, and if he came close, I would change my position.

However, after only a minute or two, Khan stopped to tie his shoe. As he bent over and worked on the laces, a man, the man I would find familiar, and who I had not seen during my initial analysis of the people in park approached him.

He stood there for several seconds, doing nothing, waiting for Khan to notice him. His hair was cut short, snow white. Eventually Khan noticed him and I listened to their conversation as I feigned interest in the newspaper.

Can I help you? I heard Khan say as he returned to standing. The man was taller than him by about half a foot, which made him rather tall since Khan was nearly six feet tall himself.

I was wondering if you could help me with some information. The man said. He had a European accent I couldn’t pinpoint, and spoke in a friendly tone.

Sure. Khan said, What can I help you with?

I'm looking for a girl.

I could only imagine what was going through his head.

I had warned him many times about the things that could happen. I'm sure he imagined that those things would never actually follow through to reality.

I don't know too many girls, but go ahead. Khan said, forcing to stay calm.

I could tell he didn't feel safe, and in the presence of this man, I wasn't very at ease myself.

Something about him didn't