Okay, so this chapter is a day overdue. I wanted to have sixteen up yesterday, on my birthday, and then post every day after that for a week because IT'S CHRISTMAS but I was absolutely exhausted yesterday and quite frankly I feel like shit. But my birthday was good, and I love writing for this story as much as I love your reviews, so, many sodas and Candy Crush levels later, this is done! Actually, this took me about two hours. So it's not that big of a deal. I was just tired and procrastinating and full of sugar. Heh. ^.^
And because it's a day late, that means chapter seventeen will be posted later today. Eighteen is already mostly finished (but I might change my mind about the chronological order of the events that are coming and it *might* become chapter nineteen). Chapters twenty through twenty-two will follow shortly after that. Actually, chapter eighteen will be up tomorrow and after that, I'll post a new chapter every day until number twenty-two is out. At least, I hope that's how it's all gonna go. Let's try it out. ;)
(And then the mother came into the room and said we're going shopping right now which put off the uploading of this chapter by another hour. Goddammit. But at least I got coffee. A 1:1:1 ratio of french vanilla to double mocha to white chocolate caramel, with liquid caramel poured in at the end. There was a sugary version of the caramel and then a sugar-free version right next to it and I *almost* grabbed the sugar-free version before I saw the label and I was like aaah caramel you're trying to mess with me. Sneaky. And I'm still in parenthesis. Oops.)
It's a little after 1:30 here. Damn, son. I need to get going.
The silence that followed was unnerving. Michael tried to gauge their expressions—specifically Max's. But his creator's face was indiscernible. For one fleeting moment, Michael worried that he had messed up big time, and this would result in some kind of punishment. He mentally checked all the rules Max had laid out for him before he realized just how pathetic that was, and wiped those thoughts away. No, he didn't do anything wrong. Killing a person like Max had ordered would have been wrong.
Finally, the oldest vampire of the bunch spoke. "Michael," he began carefully, "when I told you to never kill a human, I meant never kill a human unless I tell you to." He sounded confused—very. As if he thought that maybe Michael had misinterpreted his orders somehow. That his conflicting commands had thrown the newborn vampire off course. That this was a very strange misunderstanding that he had never experienced before.
"I know," Michael said tersely. "Maybe you were thinking you wanted me to kill a person, Max, but in your words exactly, 'Don't come back until you have fed.' Well, I did. I killed something and drank its blood. That's what you wanted, right?" His words were clipped, and his hard gaze was set precisely on Max and no one else.
Another very tense moment of silence passed, and Michael could sense the apprehension rolling off of Max's shoulders. He was being showed up; he probably wasn't used to that. And Michael could imagine that he hated it. Hated that someone who had been a vampire for a few days was twisting his sire's words in order to dance around them and defy the original command. But at the same time, it was Max's fault for assuming that Michael was going to do everything he asked, and it had to impress him at least a little that Michael was daring enough to do that. Or Michael was reading this all wrong and Max was internally furious. That could be what was going on, too.
Max looked over his shoulder at David, who was smirking and seemed to be enjoying this way too much. "Did you plant this idea in his head?"
"I did this all by myself, thank you," Michael snipped. "I won't kill people."
Max turned his gaze on the dead dog, burning in the fire, and said distantly, "In all my years…"
"What? In all your years, no one's stuck up for their morals?" Michael scoffed.
"No." Max lifted his gaze and locked eyes with Michael. "No one has been strong enough to resist human blood."
That was cause for some more silence, which allowed that to sink in for everybody. Michael wondered what that meant—for him, and for everyone else. Did that make him strong, or were the others just weaker when they were recently-turned? Were they at a more vulnerable place than Michael? He had Sam to think about, after all. He still had family, though some of them held more weight in his decisions than others. (He certainly wasn't thinking about what his dad would say when he was fighting the urge to kill those girls back in the forest.)
He looked to his little brother, who was watching the scene unfold with an open mouth. Obviously he, just like the others, had been sure Michael would kill someone. Michael inhaled slowly, taking in the individual smells of the vampires around him but also the sweet aroma of human blood. It was still tempting. The fact that it was his brother didn't change that. But it was…better. Better than before, at least. Michael felt more confident, now that he had beaten his thirst the first couple times around. He trusted himself to share the same air as Sam now. It was basic progress, but it meant more to him than you could imagine. It meant that he might beat his bloodlust a lot sooner than expected. It meant that he wouldn't hurt the people he loved.
It meant he could be one of the undead without becoming a monster.
Well, he was sure killing was inevitable; it would happen at some point. But at least it wouldn't be his brother, and at least he would be able to prepare himself. No more "Go out there and kill something" bullshit.
That is, if Max didn't get pissed at him and order him to kill a human the next time around.
"So are we eating dogs?" Paul asked, breaking the uncomfortable silence that had fallen.
Everyone waited for Max's response. Michael tensed, hoping he wouldn't make Michael go back out and do things the "right way." Finally— "Yes." Just a simple "yes." Thankfully, he didn't sound bitter about it. Baffled, but not bitter.
Star blanched. "I'm not hungry anymore."
"It's an insult to him if you don't, my dear," Max informed her curtly.
"It's tradition." David's voice held more than just a hint of mockery.
"Yes, it is." Either Max didn't pick up on the sarcasm, or he simply ignored it. And then, with finality: "We feed on animals tonight."
There were no audible protests, but visibly, anyone could see that dogs were not their choice cuisine. Their discomfort made Sam grin.
Except David didn't look queasy at the thought of chowing down on something furry. He was still smirking. He made eye contact with Sam, just for a second, and his grin intensified. Sam flushed and looked away, his heart rate picking up in speed.
What was that look supposed to mean?
Michael and Sam waited until the others were concealed by the dark forest before relaxing. Sam sighed and Michael's shoulders loosened. "Poor dog."
Michael looked incredulously at the blonde, because no way did he just say that, but Michael was quickly reassured when a smile split across Sam's face. Slowly, Michael smiled, too.
Tick, tock, tick, tock.
The sounds of the clock made it difficult to think, because the mechanisms inside it were so noisy. Sam could hear the ticking and tocking and the spinning and turning of the clockwork. He began to sweat, growing nervous with every passing click—with every hour that he sat there and waited and watched as the hands went around and around.
Suddenly the office he was sitting in went from stuffy to cold. He could see his breath—could actually feel the chill on his skin. He rubbed his arms and looked around the room frantically, trying to figure out what it was he was doing here.
Sam stood and walked in circles around the room, growing more and more restless with each passing minute. He bounced up and down, trying to keep warm, while pulling open drawers and searching their contents for reasons he couldn't verify.
There were small picture frames sitting on the fireplace mantel that he squinted his eyes trying to discern.
A woman. No, two of them. There were many different color pictures of one girl, but only one black-and-white photo of the other. The one that took up more pictures had dark hair and tanned skin—that was easy to determine. But the photo in black-and-white made it difficult to see what her hair and skin color was, precisely. Overall pretty light and fair, that much Sam could tell. She could be a redhead, blonde, or light-haired brunette. But Sam didn't know if that mattered, because she was probably not around anymore; her clothing suggested the photo was taken a long, long time ago.
What am I doing here?
Sam wandered the room some more, until he stood in front of a marked-up calendar. September. And the days were all crossed off up until the fifteenth.
September fifteenth. What about it?
The black ink that was used to cross off each day on the calendar began to leak. Slowly, at first, and then it continued to streak down—like somebody's mascara after crying.
Except the ink was thick. Much thicker than it should be. And it kept dripping and multiplying in area until the whole calendar was dripping the black substance onto the floor. Sam took a shaky step back, and then the walls started oozing black as well. The scenic picture frames hanging around the room warped into sinister faces that stared at Sam with blackened eyes and sharp teeth.
Suddenly it was very hard to breathe, and Sam found himself hyperventilating. He turned around in a circle, looking for the door, for a window—any kind of way out. But there was nothing. He was stuck in the room, trapped, suffocating. The fireplace's flames had grown in intensity, until it appeared to be clawing its way out of its brick-like confines. It melted the pictures of the women that rested on its mantel and singed anything it touched. It seemed like that was Sam's only alternative. Burn to death or drown in the black goo.
He reached for the desk to steady himself when his head spun, but before he could lean on it for support, his knees gave and he fainted.
Sam bolted upright in bed, gasping for air and sweating profusely. His eyes frantically checked his surroundings when at first he didn't recognize where he was. But slowly it came to him, and he relaxed, if only a little.
He placed a hand over his chest to calm his rapid heartbeat and tried to regular his breathing. He was fine. It was just a dream. A really vivid, messed up dream. But he was okay. Completely unscathed (he even checked).
It was 10:05 am. Good—that meant the vampires were sleeping and hopefully hadn't heard him dramatically wake from his dream. That would just be embarrassing. Especially if he had to explain it to Michael, if the brunette asked.
Jesus, he needed therapy.