Exhumed: Demons of Oblivion, #4

By Skyla Dawn Cameron

Note: This is the FOURTH book in the Demons of Oblivion series, after Bloodlines, Hunter, and Lineage. The books in this series are NOT standalone.

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Some people just won't stay buried...

Zara Lain, narcissistic vampire and assassin, cleaned up after a crazy warlock tried to build a vampire army, made some cash when the North American covens were left in shambles, got away when framed for the murder of a Demon Hunter, and dealt with some idiots who tried to jumpstart Armageddon. None of that could prepare her, however, for the moment when her lover of the undead persuasion awakens...

And promptly tries to kill her.

She’s raised a handful of orphaned baby vampires during the past six years and she knows the score: if they don’t get sane again, they have to be staked. And even if she can fix her would-be boyfriend, he’s not the only formerly deceased one in town who wants to kill her. Old enemies are back to put a cramp in her love life, ruin a good pair of heels, and just maybe end the world.

An apocalypse is nigh...and it gets a lot worse than having nothing to wear to the occasion.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Skyla Dawn Cameron
• Release date: Jan 7, 2016
• ISBN: 9780992128173

Book preview

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Some people just won't stay buried...

Zara Lain, narcissistic vampire and assassin, cleaned up after a crazy warlock tried to build a vampire army, made some cash when the North American covens were left in shambles, got away when framed for the murder of a Demon Hunter, and dealt with some idiots who tried to jumpstart Armageddon. None of that could prepare her, however, for the moment when her lover of the undead persuasion awakens...

And promptly tries to kill her.

She’s raised a handful of orphaned baby vampires during the past six years and she knows the score: if they don’t get sane again, they have to be staked. And even if she can fix her would-be boyfriend, he’s not the only formerly deceased one in town who wants to kill her. Old enemies are back to put a cramp in her love life, ruin a good pair of heels, and just maybe end the world.

An apocalypse is nigh...and it gets a lot worse than having nothing to wear to the occasion

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Warning: This book may cause you emotional turmoil and feelings of great pain. I'd apologize but it would be a lie; I feed on your tears. Keep 'em coming.

Exhumed

A Demons of Oblivion Novel

Skyla Dawn Cameron

Books by Skyla Dawn Cameron

DEMONS OF OBLIVION

Bloodlines

Hunter

Lineage

Exhumed

9 Crimes: A Nate O’Connor Novella

Damaged: A Zara Lain Novella

Oblivion (Coming Soon)

Whiskey Sour & Other Stories

Howl: A Juliette Aubrey Novella (Coming Soon)

Tales from Alchemy Red: A Vampire Walked Into a Bar

Tales from Alchemy Red: Hungry Like the Wendigo (Coming Soon)

Tales from Alchemy Red: Temptation (Coming Soon)

Soulless

Haunted (Coming Soon)

RIVER WOLFE

River (Coming Soon)

Wolfe (Coming Soon)

Exhumed

Copyright © 2012-2013 by Skyla Dawn Cameron

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

Cover Art © 2012-2013 by Skyla Dawn Cameron

2nd Edition: October 2013

eBook ISBN: 978-0-9921281-7-3

All rights reserved under the International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions.  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the author.

This book is a work of fiction.  Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

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The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this or any copyrighted work is illegal. Authors are paid on a per-purchase basis. Any use of this file beyond the rights stated above constitutes theft of the author’s earnings. File sharing is an international crime, prosecuted by the United States Department of Justice Division of Cyber Crimes, in partnership with Interpol. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is punishable by seizure of computers, up to five years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000 per reported instance.  Please purchase only authorized electronic or print editions and do not participate in or encourage the electronic piracy of copyrighted material.

If you obtained this book legally, you have my deepest gratitude for the support of my livelihood.

If you did not obtain this book legally, you increase the likelihood that there will be no future books. Please do not copy or distribute my work without my consent.

Dedication

For those of us who are the heroine and the monster.

The past is not a package one can lay away.

~Emily Dickinson

Love is whatever you can still betray. Betrayal can only happen if you love.

~John le Carre

Piglet sidled up to Pooh from behind. Pooh? he whispered.

Yes, Piglet?

Nothing, said Piglet, taking Pooh’s paw. I just wanted to be sure of you.

~A.A. Milne

Ana

The forest is black at night. Black in the way many humans do not understand—cannot conceive of. Without a moon or stars above, it is impossible to find one’s way.

Unless you’re a vampire.

The lights are off in the house. I pass the mausoleum but continue on as if I can’t see it—as if I can’t remember it. Remember being there, in the dark. Remember waking unable to move. There’s a hole in my mind, memories I’m unwilling to recall, unwilling to process yet. Dragomir says it’s been years since I was killed. Murdered. It could’ve been years still since I awoke as well; I cannot be exposed to daylight now and tied down, locked away, deemed a dangerous monster after my awakening, I cannot say how much time has passed. So the mausoleum is nothing, just a large dark shape in my sharp peripheral vision, something I shall revisit after.

When I’m through with the task ahead.

My maker had me expecting change. The eight years I’d been gone had seen the turn of a century. Lost independence. My land weakened, made a territory of an empire. Dragomir had droned on and on, preparing me for the night they let me out of that tiny room in their basement.

But nothing seems different. Trees are a little larger. The grounds are mostly the same, seared into my memory as I’d traversed them many times.

I have a key to both doors of the house—my own, something small Dragomir had taken from my body when he assassinated me. Turned me. I take it to the servants’ door around the side and it slides easily in the lock. When I was the lady of the house, we kept only a handful of people as staff. Perhaps whoever the new mistress is, she’d provided a greater dowry, for now I hear the heartbeats of at least a dozen, all quiet in their beds.

Except for one.

Madelina had been a mouse of a thing. She kept a good house and I tried, but though timid when I faced her directly, I sensed something when I gave her my back—sensed sharp eyes, sensed dislike. I dismissed it then, but not now; now there is nothing nice of me left, nothing willing to give someone the benefit of the doubt. Madelina pads through the hall, the floorboards creaking softly, light flickering across the walls from the candle she carries in a brass holder, and I know it then.

She will be the first to die.

Her dark hair hangs in a braid over her shoulder, her long white bedclothes stark in comparison. She’s thin and bony after all this time, and her face is more gaunt than I remember, the hollows beneath her high cheekbones darker now.

I wait in the dark, pressed against the wall. Nearer and nearer, my gaze narrows on her throat, on the steady pulse of blood beneath her flesh. I hunger but I will not eat this one. This is my first kill in my right mind. My first kill without the full insanity of starvation and isolation. My first planned kill.

And it will be beautiful.

She pauses as she turns the corner toward her room, right foot poised with her heel off the ground and nightgown fluttering about her legs. Her gaze moves toward the door, which I have left slightly ajar. She frowns, shifts the candle. She searches the darkness.

I move.

I’m fast now. It lasts for short bursts, but it’s enough. I’m alive, jittery, thrilled, nervous energy moving through my limbs; one hand locks on her throat, the other over her mouth, and I pin her against the nearest wall. Her eyes widen and the candle drops, striking the hardwood and blowing out.

Spirit, she hisses against my hand.

Not quite.

I bare my fangs and slam them into her throat. Blood rushes past my lips—fresh, warm, unlike what Dragomir and his consort have been feeding me, funneling their leftovers down my throat while I’m tied to a chair. The blood sparks hunger but I resist and drag my fangs down, cutting deep.

I lean back.

Madelina sputters and chokes, blood nearly black as it pours down her neck, over her nightgown. She stumbles.

I cock my head to the side, watching. Detached.

She tries to suck in a breath. Blood gurgles. She might wake someone soon so I grab her face in both my hands and give her head a firm wrench. Spine snaps and the tear in her throat deepens. I’m drenched in blood. The body drops and I drag my hands over the walls as I walk towards the bedrooms.

I kill two in their sleep before the third wakes. This one I recognize: Almos served my husband well before my marriage. I can’t remember if he’d been kind or not.

I also don’t care.

The light is poor in his corner of the room, but he sees me; he backs up, huddled between two beds. I’m covered in blood and his gaze trails over my gown, up to my face and fangs. He murmurs more words about monsters and demons.

Strange, having someone see you as something else. The servants before glanced over me, Ana the wife. Quiet, obedient. Accommodating. Ana easily replaced. Forgotten. Now I am a monster. A demon, apparently.

Even if I don’t entirely feel it, I can grow to be that. Happily.

My nails are long and I slash them against his throat, cutting deep. My other hand juts out and snatches his hair, yanking his head back. He thrashes and cries. I cut with my nails again and blood arcs gracefully in the air, painting the walls. And I cut again. And again. And again, pouring rage into the movements, preternatural strength doing more and more damage. I pause at last, a fistful of stringy meat around my fingers, and turn my hand over to gaze at the mess. So easy. Ana had been nothing to them, and now they are nothing to me.

I discard the body and go in search of more.

Six go easily. And their children. I feel no horror in dissecting their tiny bodies. Innocence means nothing now. I was innocent and it hadn’t mattered. There is no justice, no right in the world, and I feel nothing at being a part of that unfairness. They are victims simply due to their parents living and working here; I was a victim simply due to my family’s choice in husband for me.

I am finished with the lower floor. Now I walk up the stairs. My steps are soft and the wood makes no noise under my bare feet; my gown is sticky against my legs, soaked through with the blood of my victims. My stomach is empty and hollow, twisting with hunger I will soon sate. My heart is...gone. I left it in the crypt when I died and I do not wish it back again.

No one has awoken in the upper level. I head straight for my bedroom, where I slept with my husband night after night, believing he loved me, trusting him. The door is shut and I ease it open, steeling myself even as adrenalin pumps through my veins, as my pulse pounds in my ears, as my vision tunnels. Knowing what I will see still doesn’t prepare me.

The bed is occupied. Two lumps under a sheet. A woman in my place. Her hair fans out across my pillow. Her pale, dainty hand is on my husband’s chest. If I look, I know I will find her clothes tucked away in my chest across the room. I will smell her in my spot at the breakfast table. I will see signs of her presence all over my home.

It isn’t rage anymore rising in me. Clutching me. Coating me in a cold sweat, burning behind my eyes. I can’t breathe. I can’t think. I’m trembling, shaking, staring. There isn’t a word for this feeling, betrayal cutting so deep I feel cleaved through. The steady tattoo of my pulse hasn’t eased up but is beating harder, harder, so hard I see it pounding against my peripheral vision.

I want to flee. I want to cry.

Most of all, I want to wake up.

Monster. Demon. I remember myself then, remember what I am. Remember that I am here not to mourn—I can’t mourn now. Pavel betrayed a girl called Ana.

And Ana is dead.

I move silently to the candle waiting on a shelf. There ought to be light for this, so that they might see me. So that I might prolong their fear.

A soft breath draws my attention. I tilt my head, predatory gaze moving across the room in search of the source.

Then I see the bassinet.

Chapter One

There’s an App for That

"Do I really look like the kind of girl who would kill someone for just fifty grand? I ran my fingertips up the stem of my champagne glass and tilted my head to the side, smiling sweetly. And if you say yes, by the way, I’m going to punch you. Free of charge."

Craig shifted, gaze darting around the restaurant. I’d picked a nice place I knew, all swanky and expensive. Low candlelight on the tables, classical music playing at just the right volume in the background, wait staff who seemed to disappear into the background and only reappear if something was needed. The hum of voices and occasional brief, lilting laughter from the other patrons was nonintrusive and no one could follow our conversation from the plush burgundy booth where we made our deal. Or attempted to make our deal. Tension had Craig’s shoulders hunched up and he glanced behind him again.

Icky, packed coffee shop or biker bar? Yeah, he probably would’ve thought nothing of it. But you don’t hire an assassin on behalf of your boss in a five star restaurant with the current face of Italian Vogue sitting three tables over next to her NBA boyfriend, and an up and coming director whose film was buzzed about at Sundance sitting in the corner.

Well, most people don’t. But I like to be on my own turf during negotiations so I have the upper hand when some douchetard tries to lowball me.

Like right about now.

I leaned back, plucked my champagne from the table, and took a sip. Sweet, dry, and bubbly. I watched my companion over the rim of the glass. Cocked a brow. Waited for him to finish fidgeting, which might take a while.

Craig was short, square-shouldered, with very closely cropped dark hair and dark eyes that tried to be hard but failed utterly. A lightweight. He’d dressed well in steel gray Armani for our meeting but the sleeves of his coat were a touch too long and the pants didn’t sit right—bought off the rack, nothing custom tailored. Way over his head.

I set down my glass. Crossed my legs under the table, expensive dress pants shifting over my skin. Smiled again. The flickering candlelight played off the champagne bottle, danced between us. I was quite comfortable and could sit here all night; Craig, I suspected, had no such ability. That he hadn’t left when I said no to fifty grand told me he’d been given a lot more leeway. And that he hadn’t a clue what he was doing.

Of course, I hated it. My secretary had her own place with her girlfriend and while she put me in touch with people, she did fuck all to organize contracts for me now. Over a year of not having to do it and I forgot how much it totally sucked.

At least I was getting good champagne out of it.

Finally my companion leaned forward, table rattling under his elbows in a way that likely had the maitre d’ wringing his hands and prepping to run over. I can offer up to five hundred.

Once in a while I did a charity case for that now. Rarely, though. What are the particulars? Higher risk to me, higher the pay.

The phone buzzed in my slim black clutch next to me. Lips twitched, hand clenched, but I held still. Whoever it was could wait. If it was Nic, I’d chew her out and fire her ass for not taking care of this herself.

Look. His voice pitched low as he leaned forward even farther, close enough that I thought he might lose his balance and flop on the table. I got a whiff of his cologne and it wasn’t pretty. I can’t give out anything until you agree.

Jesus H.— I’m not agreeing to anything until I know the particulars. Especially not for that paltry sum. Five million? Ten? Hell, I’d do just about anything for numbers like that, including put my very fine person at considerable physical risk. But five hundred thousand doesn’t even cover the property tax I pay in a year. Try again. I lifted the bottle of champagne from the bucket, ice clanking against the metal, and refilled my glass, then returned it. Took my glass stem. Sat back once more. Sighed dramatically. Now. Let’s talk target. Who is it?

Craig, I knew, was from a special organization. I wouldn’t go so far as to say mafia and all the images that idea incurred, but they were involved in crime and they had cash. Otherwise my contacts were all hushed about it. Craig was shit for brains, but his boss wouldn’t have sent a lackey to see me about it if it wasn’t serious.

Clearly you want it untraceable to your boss or you’d get someone from within the organization, I offered. Is it a bigger boss? Someone higher up? Father, maybe?

Craig’s mouth flapped wordlessly, sweat beading on his brow. He leaned back, shoulders deflating. Older sister.

My phone buzzed again. Irritation rose but I smoothed it back. And what’s so tough about her?

"She’s...special. Not...entirely human."

Better and better. Supernatural kills start at one million. Surely my secretary explained this to you.

But—

They’re higher risk. Again, my secretary would have told you all this.

But my boss—

"You do not approach Zara Lain, attempt to procure her services as a killer-for-hire, and then punk out on your end of things"—Buzz. Fucking phone—and continuing the conversation in this direction will, at best result in me leaving here without having a business arrangement with you, and at worst, result me in sending your head back in a box to your boss for insulting me. Now, why don’t you call your boss back— Buzz. Oh, for fuck’s— Just hold that decapitation thought for a minute. I reached for my clutch, popped it open, and plucked out my phone. If it was Nicolette, I was going to—

I stared at the touch screen. Blinked.

Still stared.

Motherfucker.

Panic coated my insides, sudden gooseflesh rising fast and hard on my arms. My fingertips trembled so I shoved my hands down to my sides as I eased toward the edge of the booth. If you’ll excuse me—

Wait! The table nearly flipped as he tried to follow, scrambling around the corner booth after me as I rose. I need to tell my boss—

Everywhere, the restaurant perked up, patrons at tables pausing to watch and wait staff shifting in case they needed to intercede, and I was too irritated to pretend to be embarrassed about the disturbance. Phone held so tightly the edges bit into my fingers, clutch gripped in the other hand, I wove around the tables for the door.

But what do I tell—

I spun, dancing backward, and shook my head. Tell him you caught me at a real bad time. My back struck the door and I stepped out into the warm summer air.

Shit shit shit SHIT. I held up my phone again as the attendant outside went for my car. Something had happened in the apartment. Jarred the coffin. Unhooked the wires.

It could be anything. Anything at all.

My stomach tightened and I swiped hair from my face as the wind blew it. Fucking Nicolette had to get her own fucking place with her fucking girlfriend when... Shit, there was no sense getting pissy about her. If I was out of town, she’d vampire-sit. It was our agreement. I wasn’t out of town—I was five miles from home. Closer to the apartment than she was, so no sense in calling her.

I glanced at the screen of my phone once more, red jerky lines and WARNING flashing at the top.

Have a boyfriend newly turned into a vampire, in stasis, with no way of knowing when he’d wake? There’s an app for that.

My deep sea blue metallic BMW convertible pulled up. The attendant passed me my keys and I slipped into the driver’s side, slamming my foot down on the gas before I even had my door closed. The engine purred like a sleepy kitten as I sped, quite the contrast to the violent thump of my heart and adrenalin-soaked veins.

I hadn’t paid for my drink. Or tipped the valet attendant. Maybe Craig would. If not, I could call and give them my credit card. Or ask Nic to. Or...

Or for three blessed seconds I was thinking about something other than what waited me at home.

I rammed my foot down on the gas, speeding down the busy city streets, and I tried to will away the rising dread in my gut.

And failed miserably.

Chapter Two

Sunrise

The convertible jerked to a halt in front of my apartment building. Parking inside, going up the elevator—it all seemed slow. Too slow. I left my keys swinging in the ignition, car beeping at me for forgetting them. Left my purse. All I took was my phone, clutched in a death grip. I slammed the door and ran, sharp heels beating on the cement. My place didn’t have a fire escape—I didn’t need one with all the other escape routes I had built in—but I could get up there. And I would.

Phone stuffed in the pocket of my slacks, I took a running leap and grabbed the drainage pipe. Feet scraping on brick, pipe groaning, I held it but a second before scrambling up and left, reaching out and snatching the edge of the second floor windowsill. I’d stopped renting that floor out years ago when I dug him up and brought his coffin to stay here, so there was no one to disturb as I clambered upward.

Even in the summer, the air gets cooler at night the higher up you go outside, as the wind blows freely, salt and fish off the harbour nearby tingeing the atmosphere. My hair danced over my face and I leapt again, this time grasping the top floor sill. My floor.

He’s okay. He’s okay. Probably just—

Shit. He might be awake. He might be awake.

I shook my head vehemently, hot tears burning my cheeks as they fell.

Once again, when forced to choose between a hot guy and a hell of a lot of money, and you’ve got three centuries of perspective—not to mention bad relationship experience—the choice is surprisingly simple.

My fangs grew.

I love you, I whispered.

I nearly lost my grip. Gave myself a mental shake to shove back that last memory of him and grabbed the window ledge with my other hand, hauling myself up. Barked my elbow on the brick. Scuffed up my knee. My poor goddamn clothes, getting mucked up for a boy. But I kept going.

I stood precariously on the thick brick windowsill, wind pushing at my back and yanking at my hair. The windows were glass but beyond them were steel blinds I’d had installed, awkward to break through and, if damaged, would leave me exposed to the sun during the day.

Thankfully, there’s an app for that too.

Like my interior lights, the blinds were hooked to my phone, and with a swift button pressing after I swiped it from my pocket, the blinds rose. Well-oiled hinges were silent and the slats folded before me, revealing the dark apartment within.

He might be awake. Holy fuck.

He might not be. I shouldn’t get my hopes up. I shouldn’t—

The blinds had finished opening, so I unlatched a window and popped it open. The windows were tall, reaching near the ceiling, and only the bottom section opened. It was enough for me to duck and squeeze through and I jumped, landing with a thud on the living room hardwood floor. Moonlight spilled through behind me, casting large squares across the floor, foreign because I rarely had the blinds up anymore.

I stuffed the phone back in my pocket and I was already running, darting across the floor and up the stairs to my loft. Light burned under the closed door but then I usually left it on, like I left his coffin out in my room in case he awoke, and because—

I eased open the door.

Stared.

And stared.

And...and couldn’t fucking comprehend, couldn’t think or function and just kept staring.

He was awake.

Awake.

My heart was a loud, steady hammer in my chest, sounding up by my ears. The initial jolt of shock wore off, lifting lightheadedness from my brain. I blinked. Focused.

He stood across the room, back to me and facing the wall. Blood poured bright crimson from a cut on his arm, streaking down his elbow, his bicep. Both hands were up, locked around a white sheet from... The bed came into focus in my peripheral vision, blankets and pillows askew. He’d torn the sheet from my bed and held it in place over the wall. Blood soaked through, red bleeding over white.

Something was very, very wrong and the thought crashed into me hard, slamming with enough force that I felt it in my bones.

No, he’s fine. He’s...

He’s not fine.

My hands jutted out, gripping the doorframe, because I was slipping, ready to fall, trying to pull myself together and failing utterly because something was wrong. My lips parted, trembling. Nate.

He glanced back at me and smiled cheerily, the sight breaking my heart. I have to cover the windows.

Oh god. My fingers squeezed the frame hard enough to crack the wood.

What had I done?

He looked the same. A bit thinner through the body—he was only in a pair of dark yoga pants, so I saw where his ribs were starting to show, how sharp his shoulders were—and face a bit gaunt. It would take time to regain weight. Feeding. I’d kept his hair trimmed to the length it had been when he was turned, face clean shaven as it had been, because I wanted the minimal amount of changes for him when he awoke. But...

But.

He...was not himself. Not when I met his startling blue eyes and saw something not quite registering in their depths, not quite seeing me. It was that distinct look of crazy I’d seen a few times in other vampires.

Vampires I’d had to stake.

Fuck. FUCK. What the fuck have I done?

Nate offered me another smile and I didn’t have a goddamn clue if he even knew who I was. It’ll be okay. You won’t burn. But I have to keep the windows covered.

What the bloody blue hell?

I started forward, steps quickening and hands shaking. He stared at the blood, frowning, possibly completely unaware of me still there.

Nate... I halted as he glanced back at me.

They don’t survive the ensuing insanity. I interviewed one for my thesis.

Huh?

My vision blurred, tears rising and itching in my eyes. Nate’s beautiful face fell into a frown, thick dark brown brows pulling deep as he considered something. I waited for him to snap out of it, to remember himself, remember me, remember...remember what I’d done to him. I could take him hating me.

I couldn’t take this.

He looked at the sheet again, expression confused and wrenching my heart once more. I need to cover them. I...I...

I took two more steps forward, reaching him. Fingertips trembling, I touched his arm, wrapped my hand around his bicep, and pulled him away, turned him toward me. The white sheet slipped and pooled on the floor.

I don’t remember your name, he whispered as he frowned at me.

Words struck, piercing deep. But I steeled myself and reached up to touch his face, hoping—praying—that if I stared into his eyes long enough, maybe he’d come back to me. Nate.

His eyes closed for a moment and he let out a deep sigh, leaning contentedly into my hand.

Tears were falling harder and I fought to keep my voice steady. I couldn’t be a weepy, emotional wreck or that would confuse him more. Nate, you’re going to be okay.

A bright smile lit his face as he looked at me again, cheery and completely oblivious as to who I was. Of course I’m okay. But I have work to do. If I don’t cover the windows, you’ll burn. He shifted away and I just stood, staring, trying to dredge up a plan and completely failing.

What. The fuck. Had I done?

It was a dream. Had to be. And I had dreamed of this, over and over—dreamed of seeing him, hearing him, of doing really fun things involving orgasms with him. But this was more surreal than any dream, more screwed up than any scenario I’d tried to prepare myself for.

Nate turned away and walked a few steps to the box on the floor—the coffin where he’d slept in stasis these past few years, monitored, watched, cared for by me and Nicolette because I knew this day would come. And I’d had six fucking years to be ready for this and yet I’d never...

Never what? Never thought it would go badly? The way your karma is racked up, baby, you could’ve bet money on this happening.

He jerked his hand over the sharp metal edge of the box; I yelped, startled for him, but he darted past and began dragging his bloody hand over my white wall again. He’d been...he’d been painting. A square with lines in the middle, and...

I have to cover the windows. He’d been painting a window? With blood? Oh holy hell.

Please, I whispered. Cleared my throat, tried to draw strength into it. If I could get him to be calm, I could figure this out. I figured everything out, always. Please come and sit down...

Irritation laced his voice. I’m doing this for you, you know. When there’s a window, I can cover it, and then you won’t see the sunrise. He started to hum then, an old song I thought might be She by Elvis Costello that was firmly on the creepy end of the scale, and as I watched him, it clicked in my head.

What would be the last thing he’d remember? Me biting him? The showdown with his brother? Or that morning, when he’d left me sleeping in bed and gone about covering the windows of the cabin?

Did he...did he even know then? What he was now? What had happened?

Fuck, I needed help. My phone was a lump in my pocket against my thigh, reminding me I at least had help. I had people who could help me figure this out—had gone out of my way cultivating relationships with contacts and those who would be of use to me in case any difficult situation arose. But I didn’t want to do anything until I could get him