When I wake early the next evening, it's with a realization. I get what I want. I didn't want to die, and so I kept living, albeit in a changed form. I've craved women, blood, material possessions over the years, and eventually, they've all been mine. To be denied something is unheard of for me, and I can't possess Elise. She doesn't even want me, doesn't crave me like so many others have. She's an enigma, a human beyond my control, beyond my ability to spin new memories, to erase my existence in her mind. I've effectively killed her anyway, by telling her that vampires have that power.
I push the sheets that cover me back from my body, angry over her disinterest, the source of her power. She knows this, laughs at it, though she's not even here with me. The idea of her cool gaze is an in insult, a taunt that makes my fingers tighten, dig into the bed under me. I rise, naked, and imagine her eyes running over my body like I'm a model for an art class; neutral, interested as a doctor examining a patient. My height doesn't intimidate her; she just stares up at me, bored. I shake my head, vanquish her from my mind and stand in front of the full-length mirror that stands across from my bed, taking in my own image. My hair is rumpled, so the brush on my nightstand is quickly run through it, returning it to its normal silk texture. I stare at the reflection of my body, unchanged for over 1,000 years. It's muscled, but not bulky, slim, but not skinny. I'm well built, a body fit to be a warrior, now used for nothing, really. To catch humans, an unfair advantage that irks me; what's the point of my power, if not to use it on something worthy? My reflection looks back at me, a reflection of my question. I examine my face, watch my own eyes and know that I am handsome, if not traditionally so. I tell myself I don't care what any human thinks, especially this one, though I choose to dress up today, just the same. I dress quickly, pulling on black slacks and a white shirt. Their expensive materiel is fluid, soothing against my skin. I dab cologne on my neck and open the door to leave; as I do, Mary's scent washes over me. She stands just outside my door, waiting.
"Yes?" I ask, already knowing what she's come to lecture me about.
"What did you do to her?" Her features are tight, strained. She's trying to keep her temper, something I've never seen her lose.
"What do you mean?" I'm already tired of the conversation, but I humor her, let her question me. Her anger makes me curious.
"Elise," she hisses, the 's' sharp enough to draw blood. "She can barely move from that bed--I don't think she's eaten in days."
"I'm giving her food," I say, my words bland. "Aren't I?" It's not my fault she's being immature, striking back at me through hunger.
"You captured a woman you can't break. Now, do what you have to, but leave me out of it." She turns her back on me, walks away pretending to be confident, but I can hear her heart, smell her adrenaline.
I go to Elise's room, open the door to see her sprawled on the floor in sweatpants and a tank top that show more of her skin. She looks up at me expectantly, her hair rippling down her back as she tilts her head.
"Why are you sitting on the floor?" She tells me it's comfortable, gives me a shaky smile. I enter the room fully, lean on the bedpost and take a closer look at her; I her skin is pale, almost translucent, dark circles bleeding out from under her eyes. She's leaning, resting on the bureau, shaking slightly. She blinks hard a few times, like she's having trouble staying awake.
I ask her if she's starting to go insane. She giggles, calls me silly; I'm agape at her behavior, but I just cross my arms and change the subject. She's lost weight since she's been here, but the clothes still fit. I wonder aloud why she's wearing such casual clothing in the middle of the day.
"Why?" She responds, raising a dark eyebrow, voice dry as sand. "Am I going somewhere special?" I laugh outright at this.
"Listen," she says, palms spread, telling me she comes in peace. I let her speak. She tells me, with that same grin plastered across her face, that she's giving me a second chance to let her go.
My lips turn up at the corners, mirror the false grin that's plastered across her face. "You are?"
She nods, the smile falls off her face and her eyes squint into slits. "Yup."
"Well," the syllables widen, elastic in my vocal chords, emulating the motion of thinking her words over. "I regretfully decline your offer." I say, formally, like she's a patron at a bank, cashing in on her life. She twitches, her hands clamping at her sides. I feel the anger pulse through her and I hold myself back, push my excitement down. I think I smell that clear, distinct sheen of blood, but it's so light, a droplet in an ocean. I must be imagining it. But she's up to something, I can smell it.
"If you have a downfall," she spits out between teeth clenched so hard I expect them to crack, "It's your experience. It makes you underestimate things. And people."
"I don't think I'm missing anything."
"Oh, that's right. You're old, you're smart, there's nothing new." She scowls at me. A wave of emotion passes through her so hard she doubles up, squeezes her eyes shut and tremors before she opens them again, coated with a wall of liquid she fights to keep from falling. Something flashes in those eyes, there, gone, flickering like a house with bad wiring, so I can't even catch it, turn it over and examine it. She pulls something out, something shiny and small, rectangular, holds it over her wrist, and I understand.
"I told you," she says, dragging the object, a razor, over her wrist slowly, so it takes a long, deep path up her arm until it reaches the crease of her elbow, "You won't have me."
I hear her, but understanding is gone from my mind when the sight, then the smell of her blood hits me in the face with the force of a brick wall. The wound starts dripping rivers, currents that splash to the ground, in drips that are magnified in my ears so they're really landmines going off. The blood turns into a river and I want to bathe in it, drink it so she coats me inside and out. My muscles tense, my mouth opens and my teeth beg to be put to use. I take a step forward, but she stops me dead in my tracks.
"If you drink from me now, if you kill me, you're no better than Gray. And you know it." I can't look at her, can't watch her blood go to waste so I look up, glue my eyes to the ceiling, dig my nails into the bedpost and try not to breathe.
"Why are you doing this?" I question the ceiling.
"I'm getting tired of waiting to be consumed by you. Let me go or I'll die."
"I've already killed you," I say, coldly. She can't know that I care, or she'll kill herself trying to gain leverage. "I've told you too much, and if I let you go, a vampire--any vampire would be free to kill you. And I know they would." I scrub a hand across my face, plug my nose for a second, but her blood is everywhere, on everything.
I look down at her, watch as she begins to understand that there is no life for her anymore, anywhere. Elise switches the razor to her other hand, runs it over her unmarked arm, spilling fresh blood into the air. The liquid pools around her like wet paint, the perfect color red.
"Look at it," She commands, though my eyes don't move away. "Look at me, you coward." It's my turn to clench my teeth, to force myself to play her game. My eyes dilate when I take in the full effect of her injuries and spilled blood. I kill a growl in my throat, try to keep my expression blank and look at her, as she asks.
"This is what you've done." She puts her palms on the floor next to her, dying them red, making them sticky slick. "You're responsible for this, for killing me. I just beat you to the punch." She reaches up for me, the image of a child grasping for its parent. She's not my blood, but I want hers. I want to take her dripping hands, a shock against her clothes and skin, and lick them dry. I kneel, knocking her fingers against my shirt, smearing her blood onto it like a finger painting. She corrects her course, her palms sliding into mine so they're intertwined. I jerk mine away, hold her by the shoulders so hard I leave marks, ten easy plum bruises, arranged in a half-circle.
"My blood's on your hands," she says, barely focusing on my face. "Enjoy." I slide my hands down her shoulders, leaving trails on her skin. Her body sags against me like a balloon that's been left for days, air leaking slowly from it. Her hand stretches limply when I take it into mine again and bring it to my lips. Every fiber of my being tells me to bite down, to join to her so we're one until she's gone and I'm left. But when we connect, when I lean over her gushing wrist and she covers my mouth with her warmth, a sickening shade of lipstick against my skin, I feel repulsion so thick I fight to stay sitting. I leave her open wrist with a kiss before pulling her into me, close, so our noses almost touch. She's getting chalky, her skin losing its color to meet me in the middle. My hand is on her cheek. I have to remind myself to make sure my touch is soft, gentle. She closes her eyes for a moment while I explore the terrain of her face, eyes, cheeks, nose, mouth, an echo of the way she touched me.
"I wanted you," I say, then let our lips touch, brush against each other, feather-light. I press harder and her still lips gain life under mine. "I want you more than anything else." I say the words into her mouth when we stop moving in and out and around so she can come up for air. She places one last, searing kiss on me before turning her head, letting herself collapse. Slowly, her heart slows down until it begins to trip over itself, missing beats, then becoming arrhythmic. Most of what should be inside of her, flowing fast, defying gravity, coats me, my clothes, but my reaction to the smell, my need, has disappeared. I brush my cheek against hers; she adjusts to the jostle, rubs back like a cat as I continue down to her neck. Once there, I make my decision. It's already been made for me, really. I collect myself, break through her skin and pull deeply, drawing out as much as I can with each swallow.
"What are you doing?" She asks, but I just press down harder, and this time, she doesn't fight, just sighs in ecstasy and lets her head tilt back, jaw slack. She tastes wild, her blood thick and strong as I imbibe. Her emotions are open to me, intense so I feel what she does, feel who she is. She's scared to death, angry at me, but resigned to her death. When I feel her begin to slip away, I withdraw, licking her blood off my teeth.
"I'm letting you go."