I wake up, unsure of why I was asleep in the first place. I'd been at the restaurant last, I think.
Wait.
The images come back in a torrent; me, leaving the building, seeing the blonde man crushing Gray against the alley wall, his head buried in my suspect's neck, the surprise of the blonde man…..and then his teeth. My nerves catch alight as I feel adrenaline pour into my system. My breathing picks up, kicks my heart into gear, but I stay where I am and try not to move a muscle. I'm on my back, but not on the floor. Through my eyelids I sense natural light, so I open them a sliver to try to get a better grasp of my surroundings.
I'm on a bed, and barely a few feet from me is the back of the man with blonde hair. My mind spews expletives in some pretty interesting combinations before I can mentally shake myself and focus. But I don't have time to put anything together before the man speaks.
"Sit up," his low voice, barely louder than a whisper, commands. I ignore it, shut my eyes and basically play dead.
"I won't say it again," he sighs. "I can smell the adrenaline in your blood. Pretty sure that doesn't happen to the unconscious."
I sit up, push my feet against the bed to brace my back against the headboard, and grope at my thigh for the gun I strapped there before leaving. The gun that had been removed.
"While your bullets won't hurt me," he says, "they do steal precious energy. And they're annoying." He turns to me, and I get the full focus of his stare, something akin to what a bug would experience if God stared at it. And if there was a god, this one was not happy.
"What do you want from me?" I ask, my voice coming out a lot stronger than it should. My arms and are rubber, and I almost feel as if I'm outside myself, watching this peculiar exchange.
"Your memory," he places a cool hand on my leg and pulls me—with one hand—across the bed so I sit next to him. His entire being radiates power and I can barely look at him. Meanwhile, my mind is shrieking on high alert; Predatorpredatorpredator, it says. Find an exit, scratch, claw, get out get out!
Those unnaturally strong hands encircle my face, bury themselves in my hair; my arms come up and I press against him, try to move away, but I can't.
"I know you're just above basic instincts at the moment," he says, like he's discussing a boring algebra equation. "And your body is telling you to flee or fight. Look into my eyes. Focus."
I listen, stare into his eyes, those pale depths, a sea blue without a border so the color bleeds into the white, and take a breath.
"You have nowhere to go," he continues. "This place is entirely secure. And if you try to fight me, you will not win. And I don't want to kill you because you made an accidental discovery."
I collect myself, take a breath and ask him what he means.
"You remember. Or you will. I couldn't take it from you, anyway."
"Take it…." That silky voice. Predator, predator predator. The look in his eyes when I caught him drinking the blood of my 'date.'
"Oh," I say, though it comes out a sigh, a hiss of air between my lips.
"Yes." It's a hiss of his own, and the hands on my cheeks slide down slowly before being removed completely.
"You're a vampire, then." The words tumble from my mouth before I allow them, but there they are. He nods once. My hand clamps over my mouth and I back off of the bed, looking for a corner to keep my back to.
"Let me go," I say, trying to keep my voice level, non-hysteric.
"I can't," he says, then moves so fast that I don't see him until he's immediately in front of me, his arms pressed on either side of me against the wall. I'm caged.
"I'm a cop." I look into his eyes, try to show him the truth. "There will be people looking for me everywhere. I was wired. They'll know who you are."
"When you say wired, you mean this?" He pulls, in pieces, what was the communication device taped to my chest. My mouth opens and closes like a fish; I gasp for air, but it seems to be in short supply.
No, I tell myself. I will not give in to panic. Asses the situation. Though I'm captive, my kidnapper seems like he's telling the truth about his intentions not to kill me. I glance around the room. No windows, a single door. Ornate, old furniture. Another room attached, probably a bathroom. No visible weapons.
Shit. I'm stuck.
"Are you going to try to hurt me?"
He smiles. "Believe me, there would be no try. But no, I take no pleasure in the harming of innocents. It was my carelessness that led you here." His face draws back from mine; I decide to play along, to try and form some sort of trust. So I follow him back to the bed and sit again, though not as close as he pulled me the first time.
"And when do you plan on letting me leave?"
"You said it yourself: you're a cop. Your colleagues will want to know where you've been, and I doubt you're creative enough to make up a story that fools other cops."
"So, what?" I bite back tears, dig my teeth so hard into my tongue that my mouth fills with the coppery tang of blood. I swallow it down, but it trickles steadily. "You're not going to let me go? What will I do here, waste? I'd rather you kill—" He cut me off, drew closer to my mouth. His lips opened and met mine, and I felt the presence of his tongue trying to meet mine. I pulled backwards, away from his grasp.
"What?" I hissed. "You want this?" I spat on the floor, something I'd never done before, and bloody saliva made a pool that stood out against the pale wood.
He stood, an unreadable look in his eyes, and went into the attached room. I was right, it was a bathroom, because he came back out carrying a towel, which he threw on the floor with as much spite as I had when I spat on it.
"You're stubborn," he says. "Well, so am I." He turns his back to me, goes to the door. "I have a human maid who has been alerted of your presence. She'll bring you food. Don't ask her for help; she's loyal to me."
He leaves the light switch on; I press my ear against the door and listen to what sounds like deadbolts clicking into place before a sharp rap on the other side of the door, just about where my ear is, knocks me ever-so-gracefully onto my ass. I look around the room, take stock, see if anything will help me escape.
It's oddly beautiful, my cell; all the furniture is old and grand, loops and spirals carved into dark wood. The bed is enormous, the canopy kind with shades that can be drawn. They're black, and thick, perfect for blocking out light. I shudder at the thought and walk into the bathroom, which, like the bedroom, is ornate and old-fashioned. A monstrous claw-foot tub stands in the corner, surrounded by a white shower curtain. The mirror is floor-length and the sink is deep, like a wash-basin from the Victorian era. Again, the room has no windows. No way out.
I return to the bedroom, and after making sure the drapes on the bed are tied back, I move back the blankets, a deep burgundy with gold detailing, and climb in. I've no choice other than to sleep in my dress, though I remove the leg holster for the gun I had. It sickens me to know my captor has seen me almost naked; I grit my teeth and try to breathe slowly, try to lull myself to sleep. When my thoughts start to move independently and I can feel the heaviness of sleep paralysis moving through my body, a thought, like lightning, hits me so hard I bolt upright, and out of the bed.
My purse. It was in my hand when I left the restaurant, and it had not only a decoy cell, the one I had used for Gray, but my real phone, one that had tracking capabilities. I almost cackle in delight when I see the oversized silver clutch on the desk by the bed; I unzip it and fish for the zipper to the concealed pocket in the bottom. My hand hits it, and when the compartment is opened, there's nothing. My wallet is gone too, as is the other phone. All that remains is the cash I'd brought with me.
The scream that comes from me is animalistic, one of frustration and anger. My chest reverberates with the sound and I throw my purse at that stupid, beautiful bureau, leaving a sizeable nick from the metal clasp.
I go back to bed, tears of anger fighting to overpower my will not to cry, not to bend to my captor's will; it would be the first step, the first chink in my armor. Don't give in to it; I think, and let the moisture fall away from my eyes onto the pillow, where they'll be absorbed and forgotten; no more will fall.
I ease, slowly, into restless sleep about people melting into the darkness, taking me along as they go.
***
I wake to the noise of my door opening. A woman, mid-fifties with short, salt-and-pepper hair comes in. I sit up quickly, try to clear the sleep from my eyes and mind, push my hair back and look at her closer.
"Morning," she says, her tone friendly, but somehow stiff.
"You're not going to help me," I assess, and she gives me a nod. She adjusts he glasses, black, square frames, and sets a tray down on the nightstand. A few pieces of fruit, some toast and coffee are arranged neatly on the tray.
"But you're human," I say. "Why are you working for this vampire?" I must come off as ridiculous, snarled hair and wild raccoon eyes, all the while trying to appeal to her sense of logic.
"Because he's taken care of me over the years." It's all she gives to me; she walks through the room, carrying a box I hadn't noticed. When she returns, I try a different tactic.
"I'm a police officer," my stern voice comes out. "You're going to be in a lot of trouble when they find out you're an accessory to a kidnapping. The NYPD will find me, eventually."
"What makes you so sure we're in New York?" She smiles, knowing she's beaten me. "Believe me, honey, however effective your police department is, they're no match to Eric." I open my mouth, try to reason with her, but she just turns her back and leaves me.
"Great," I mutter, eyeing the breakfast before deciding I wasn't going to eat anything. A hunger strike is stupid, I know, but it's a rebellion of sorts, and I wasn't above being a pain in the ass.
What makes you so sure we're in New York?
The woman's words resonate in me; I get up, press my ear to the opposite wall and listen with my entire being for clues that could tell me my location. I don't hear the endless hum of traffic that's become a background noise to me since I moved to New York so many years ago; the silence I hear instead is punctuated only by the songs of birds whose names I don't know. It had to be morning then, right? I'm not sure; I think birds chirp all day, but I can't be sure. As soon as I realize I have no way of knowing what time it is, the hours line up in front of me, like the depth of an ocean: dark, unknowable, infinite. I'm surrounded by time enough to drown in it.
The hours pass, slowly. I check the bathroom; the box in there contains essentials for the shower and various other hygienic necessities. I put deodorant on and brush my teeth, then go back and lay in bed, meditate, try to think of the problem in front of me from every angle, trying to see where my captor—Eric, apparently—might have missed a step. But it's a game I can't win.
The door opens again; the woman comes in, slightly flushed, with the smell of wet leaves and cool air clinging to her. She clucks at the wasted food and replaces the tray. Steak, this time, with a salad.
"I'm a vegetarian," I say, coating the words in acid.
"Doesn't matter, really, does it?" The woman asks, nodding at the uneaten food.
I shrug. "What time is it?"
"2:30." She looks sympathetic for a moment. "There aren't any books or anything in here. Do you want me to get you anything? Eric's going to get clothes for you tomorrow, but I can pick up some books or something."
"Why are you being so nice?" I ask, and she frowns.
"It's not your fault you're here," she says, taking a step forward, but thinking better of it after a moment.
"Then help me get out," I whisper, and those stupid tears fill my eyes again.
"I'm sorry. I really am. But I can't." She looks like she means it, but what is her sympathy to me? She's obviously not going to budge.
"Hemingway," I reply. "Fitzgerald, Faulkner, Kerouac. They're my favorites."
"Those men had a soft spot for alcohol," she states, a smile pulling at the right corner of her mouth.
"Yeah," I murmur. "Imagine their books without it."
"Sun's down in two hours," she says, looking back at me regretfully. "He'll be stopping in."
"Fantastic. Can't wait." She clucks softly, then leaves. But her words make me think; if it's two-thirty now, and the sun sets at four-thirty, I'm still on the east coast. Maybe farther north, but still within four hours of New York; the leaves, and that unmistakable smell of fall weather means I'm in the country, or a suburb somewhere, but within access to a city.
I throw the tray of food into the garbage. Time passes, I'm not sure how much, but at some point I get up to take a shower. The claw-foot tub is a little odd, but the hot spray feels good on my way past stiff muscles; it slides down my skin like an embrace. I sit to shave, then pull my legs to my chest and breathe in the hot steam, so thick it's like water in my throat. My partner, my job, my apartment, my life, flicker through my mind and I have to breathe in, deeply, to keep from panicking. This man, this monster, has taken everything from me.
I need to get out from the heat, but when I stand, spots like the snow on a TV with bad reception cover my vision and I sway into the wall.
"Whoa," I whisper, leaning my cheek on the cool tile while my vision sorts itself out. After a moment, I shut the water off and step out of the tub, dry myself, and put my dress back on. My hair drips onto my chest and arms, but it feels sort of good against the humidity of the bathroom.
When I go back to the bedroom, though, the air goes icy, and the water dripping off my hair down my back in rivulets sends chills through my body. Eric stands there, leaning on the bureau, waiting for me.
"Hello."
I raise an eyebrow at him, cross my arms and lean on the doorframe of the bathroom.
"You didn't eat." I notice his accent for the first time; I'm not exactly sure where it's from, but the syllables are soft in unexpected places.
"I'm a vegetarian."
"Why?"
"Because I don't think I need to kill my food to eat it." I say through my teeth.
"That makes two of us," he smiles. I cough out a laugh. It's dry, harsh.
"Yeah. The whole vampire thing might negate that statement."
"I don't kill to eat." He stands up straight. "Come here."
I square my shoulders, harden my stare. "No."
"Fine," he breathes, moving toward me, in that too-quick way so I can't track his movement. He's in front of me now, his eyes inches from mine. He's pale, which I noticed before. His eyes are rimmed slightly with red, like he's been reading for hours at a time, refusing to give in to pressing exhaustion.
"What's your name?"
"What is this? Interview with the human?" I snarl. "You've got my wallet."
"I've got what is very likely a fake id given to you by the police for your fake date with that murderer, yes." He grins in pleasure when he sees my eyes widen in surprise.
"Now. What's your real name?"
"What's yours?" I retort, angry he's figured out my assignment so quickly.
"Something close to Eric Northman," he says. "It's been translated a bit over the years."
"And how did you know I wasn't on a real date with that guy?"
"Oh, I don't know," he sighs, rolling his eyes. "Could it be that anger was practically radiating off you the entire time? Not that Gray noticed."
"And what did you want with him?" By this time, I'm close enough to kiss Eric, but that's the last thing on my mind. My hands are on my hips; I'm in interrogation mode.
"Tell me your name."
"Elaine Perry."
"Good," he smiles. "Now, tell me your real name.
God, does this guy have a built in polygraph?
"Elise Hayes," I say, grudgingly.
"Well, Elise. It's nice to meet you."
"Sorry," I reply. "I can't really say the same thing." I turn my back on him, go back to the bathroom to get a towel to try and dry off my hair.
"What are you doing?" he calls.
"Drying my hair. I'm soaking wet." I turn around and he's in the bathroom with me, blocking the doorway.
"I know," he says, his gaze lascivious. I don't give him any satisfaction by blushing; instead, I turn to stone, my gaze neutral.
"Look at me," he orders, in that same silk voice he used in the alley. His words are like a caress, warm, soft, but it's false, like the tears of a crocodile. I turn my gaze downwards, refusing to make eye contact. I move closer to him.
"Excuse me." He allows me past; I sit on the side of the bed, ignoring him, but I can't hold the silence for long.
"You can't do this!" I scream, standing up. I ball my fists so hard my nails make crescent-moon marks in my palms. "You can't keep me here like this! This is the twenty-first century! People don't get away with things like this!"
He turns around, amused at my outburst. "In this life," he says, "I come first. And your knowledge of what I am threatens my very existence. So be glad I'm keeping you instead of killing you." There's fire in his eyes, so the blue jumps out against his skin.
"You can't have me," I say, lifting my chin. "In fact, I'd rather you kill me."
The next thing I feel is a hand, soft, behind my head. There's breath on my neck, then the soft ghost of lips, too.
"Oh, really?" He asks, his words muffled in my wet hair. I feel his mouth again, then the off pressure of those teeth, sinking into my skin.