George, Nina and Annie were all gathered around the TV when Mitchell let himself in. They appeared to be far too interested in teleshopping, however, so he highly suspected that they had been discussing him and his recent banishment from his room. Three pairs of eyes turned innocently towards him.
"Hey," said George. "Look, I'm sorry about your room, it's just that Nina and I couldn't get her any further when we carried her in."
Mitchell shrugged. "S'ok, I'll make up the guest bed. How is she now?" he asked, fiddling with the edge of his jacket to avoid their searching eyes.
"I think she's finally asleep, I managed to sneak out some anesthetics and they seem to be helping." Nina answered.
He nodded. "That's good. I'm just going to head up for a quick shower." He looked at them, embarrassed. "Would someone grab me a change of clothes? It's probably best if I don't go back in just now."
"I'll get them for you," Annie said, and she popped out of sight. She returned shortly with a fresh pair of jeans, a flannel, v-neck and shorts to sleep in.
"Thanks, Annie," Mitchell said, giving her a tired smile. He stumbled tiredly up the stairs, almost dead on his feet.
He had been gone only a few minutes when George suddenly sat bolt upright. "Shit!" he exclaimed, and charged up after Mitchell. Nina and Annie exchanged bemused looks and shrugged.
George rounded the corner to the bathroom just in time to see Mitchell pull open the shower curtain. He flinched back as though someone had physically hit him and scrambled up against the pedestal sink. George scooted past him and grabbed up the forgotten bloody covers that he had left in the shower stall earlier.
"Jesus," said Mitchell through clenched teeth and clutching at the towel that was about to fall from his waist. "All I wanted was a relaxing shower."
"Sorry! Sorry! Completely my fault," George said, scrambling out with the offending blanket and giving Mitchell a wide berth.
Mitchell sat down wearily on the toilet seat after he heard the soft snick of the door closing behind George. Jesus, was he that weak? Here he was losing it at the sight and smell of a bloody blanket while she had the strength to stop herself mid-feed during a full on bloodlust. He'd never heard of a vampire doing that before, but then he'd never known of any who would have bothered to try. The closest he'd ever experienced was when turning a new vampire. When he had turned Lauren he'd managed to stop just before her death, so that she could feed from him. By then he had been full, and stopping had still been just barely possible for him.
He sighed. There was just no making sense of their mystery woman right now. Or of himself, if he was being completely honest. Feeling dispirited, he turned the tap all the way to hot and stepped into the comforting steam.
Time flowed through her, sluggish backwaters of years, decades, and centuries. Rivers of blood, blood and more blood. Faces distorted in screams, and, later, the panicked rolling eyes of something wild and fleet. That feeling of running, wind in her hair, as she chased down the thick warm scent of blood and fear. Coarse hair on her tongue as she burst through tough, warm skin with her teeth. The hot spurt of life blood. Then nothing. Years of nothing. A decade of only emptiness and survival, until surviving became just another automatic reflex. A throwback to life, like breathing.
She tried to crawl back to the nothingness, away from the pain in her chest and the turmoil in her head. Away from discordant and incomplete thoughts. But that scent ... It tugged at her mercilessly. It played the vision of deep brown eyes over and over. Eyes filled with compassion. Eyes filled with warmth. Hurt. Guilt. Anger. Flashing between emotions so quickly that it made her head spin. They woke her, those eyes. They pulled her from her self-imposed exile. She concentrated on blocking them out, and on courting the blackness that still lingered.
But there was still that scent.
