The only sound that reached me after they left was that of my own shallow breathing, a rapid-fire manifestation of my panic. It had clawed its way to the surface, waited until my control faltered before launching its attack. My wrists and ankles burned from the rope's harsh bite; became stiff from the incapacitation. I fought the bounds, raged against them, but they just dug into my skin further, and I wilted, defeated, back into the makeshift bed.

Shapes came out to play, casting the darkness off enough so that I glimpsed their outline. Across the room was what looked like a rudimentary toilet, next to decrepit shelves painted white; they were so old that the paint had begun flaking in places, leaving dandruff-like residue on the floor below. When I looked at the toilet, I realized I had bodily functions to take care of, and soon. The question was how I'd manage to get there. The covers were easy enough to push back with my bound hands; I stood up shaky and hopped a few times before my knees buckled under me. The ground was unforgiving and I hit hard, collapsed onto my side onto the hard, cold floor. I was gasping, trying to contain myself but it was all too much; I was pathetic, doused so intensely with frustration and self-pity that I wanted to scream and scream until no sound came up, until my throat was reduced to bloody shreds that would drown me, put me out of my own misery.

I'm not sure how long I stayed there, lost for having immersed myself in fear and despair, but slowly, almost imperceptibly so, courage traveled through me, gave me the will to sit up, to use my hands and legs to spider-crawl to the other side of the room. Though, I'm not sure if courage is the right word, or feeling. I stopped being afraid because I already knew the outcomes; I would escape, or I would die. The facts cleared my mind, spurred what little strength I had in my body into action. The toilet was old-looking, but it was clean, for which I was thankful. I half-stood when finished, looking for toilet paper that wasn't there, and swayed again, losing my balance. This time, though, I was determined to not hit the ground, so I threw my weight to the side and fell into the wall, hitting my head on the lowest shelf as I went. It fell from the wall, clattered loudly as it hit the floor, amplified by the empty room. I winced, expecting the door to open, for Johan to come in and torture me in some new and different way. But nothing stirred, and I've never been so thankful for silence. The offending shelf was by my feet in two pieces, having shattered at the impact; I hopped carefully around them, as rusty nails stuck out from the degraded wood.

Nails.

Wood.

The significant of my accident gripped me so tightly my breath was stopped entirely. My knees cracked when I awkwardly bent to get to the floor again, but physical pain was beyond me now. My fingers scrabbled against rough, brittle wood that tried its hardest to get stuck under my nails, into my skin. I kept inching by, feeling for the key to my freedom; I looped the rope holding my hands around a long, rusty nail and began rubbing vigorously. The raw skin of my wrists heated up as I scraped layers away, moving up and down, catching a separating the fibers of the rope. Just keep going, I chanted as the fire in my hands spread up my wrists. No matter what, just keep going. I rubbed and rubbed, for how long I'm unsure, but my breathing started to get a little heavier and I slowed down a bit. It's not until I felt a splash on my leg that I realized tears were falling from my eyes. I was glazed over, robotic and unwilling to give this up, to let go of my freedom when it was so close. Warm wetness trickled down my arms, absorbed in the rope, but this liquid was far more precious. I rocked back and forth, heaving with the motions, trying not to cry out loud as pain hit each and every nerve I had. My body twitched, yelled at me to stop inflicting this upon myself, to just give it up.

And then, the rope went slack and my arms flopped down by my sides, feeling oddly light. The skin where the rope had been was puffy, pink and oozing clear liquid that I couldn't identify. Bile rose in my throat, crept toward my mouth but I swallowed it down, closed my eyes and took a breath, trying to think of anything but my injuries. The first image I came to was Eric, his eyes, the feel of his skin and hair underneath my fingers, and the nervous jump my stomach did whenever he was near. Was it his blood that tied me to him, made me want him so badly I could taste it? I'd been attracted to him that first night, but now I felt…no, I decided. I won't be making any rash emotional declarations right now. They won't be organic, and I'll never know if they're real. I opened my eyes again, which really didn't do too much, and started to work on the ropes at my feet which were expertly knotted, doubled back into a long maze of a twine that chafed painfully when my stiff fingers started on the many ties.

"Such a responsible girl," my mom's words could have been spoken aloud, but they were faint, contained solely within my own mind. I could see her, the tears in her eyes when I told her I was moving to Dallas for law school. She'd cupped my face with her hands, looked deeply into my eyes and sobbed, just once, before pulling me into her arms. I remember the rigidity of my limbs as her embrace encircled me; my lie was manifested in my arms and legs that wanted to leave her behind, to walk away from her love and comfort because what I was going to do would hurt her if she ever found out. But she couldn't help me pay for law school, and so I did what I had to be done.

But now, what?

My life was diverging in front of me. Eric, so he said, wanted me, but for how long? I wasn't sure he would be captivated with me forever and what then? My life, everything I'd worked so hard for was back in Rhode Island; my career, my family, my future as a lawyer. My humanity. What did I have with Eric, even if his interest was more than just a fleeting glance, eyes over the shoulder of a passerby? I would age, that was definite; right now, at this very moment, my cells were decaying, being replaced with newer versions of the same model, but soon enough, that would start to slow down. My skin would lose its elasticity, my hair its color, my eyes their sharp sight. He'd offered to turn me, but did I want it? Did I want to give up my lazy days, the memories of salty ocean-kissed hair and sun drenched skin the only remnant of my former life? I could see Eric as he would turn me, smiling, showing off those teeth that he wanted to give me. He'd kiss me gently, bite soft, push my hair back and take all of me into him, then replace me entirely with his blood. I'd told him he could never have me, never own me; would I be giving myself to him, trading ownership for immortality? If he became my maker, I would be under his control, completely.

What wrenched me out of my spinning thoughts was the metallic scrape of the door's rusted, bent base against the concrete of the floor.

Fuck.

I stayed still, but reached down for the piece of wood that ended in a point and kept my hands behind my back.

"Little girl," a man, Johan, called, looking for me. "The mean lady's gone away. I think it's time you and I had some fun." He approached the bed, and seeing I wasn't there, snarled at the bare sheets.

"Where are you?" His words were sinister, low. He wanted to hunt, but that wasn't going to happen.

"Here," I called, moving my legs slightly so he could catch sight of me. "I was going the bathroom."

"Want me to help you pull your pants up?" He asked, and my stomach turned. He wasn't beyond hurting me that way; I was sure of it. His voice felt like an inappropriate touch or look; his words made explicit a hunger I was sure was not sated by willing sex and blood donors. Eric may have been a vampire, but this man was a monster.

"Oh, that's right," his voice was nearer now, "You aren't wearing any."

"What's wrong, Johan? No girls willing to sleep with you? Or do you like hearing them scream for the wrong reasons, you sick fucking wretch?"

He laughed. "Humans. So judgmental."

"Rape is rape, idiot. It's wrong, no matter who does it."

"Oooh, little girl likes to be in control?" I couldn't see him, but I felt that he was in front of me; he hooked his hands into the neck of my shirt, pulled my up roughly so I had to clutch desperately at the plank held behind my back. He sniffed at my neck, then tensed, allowed his teeth to come out; my heart stuttered and I moved instinctively, forced the wood up and into his chest as hard as I could.

But not before his fangs, sharp as an exacto knife, breached my skin, then tore to the right, opening the artery that pulsed there. He gaped at me, stunned, before he melted into a pool of blood on the floor. I was distracted by the stream of life pouring from my neck, a fountain of my being that made my fingers slick, slide into the open wound when I tried to stop the flow, to put pressure on the artery. If I didn't I would bleed out here, on cold concrete, next to my would-be rapist. Before I could think about what I had to do too deeply, for fear of backing out, I dropped to my knees, took my hand off the vein and scooped up his blood, which had formed a pool on the floor, bringing it to my wound. After a few applications, I thought the blood was flowing slower, but I was still getting dizzy; the air blurred around me and I wanted to shout, to scream that I wouldn't die like this, but my mouth only formed shapes. Air couldn't seem to make it through. I knew what I had to do, but my mind was saying nononopleaseno in a revolving pattern that become a chant, even as I lowered my head to the ground and put my lips on lukewarm liquid, slurping it up like soba noodles at a Japanese restaurant. The blood came thick, convoluted so I gagged and it tried to come back up, but I resolutely forced the sickness down. Swallow after swallow, I dragged the blood into me until warmth spread through my veins, lit me up so I could push myself back, away from the pool and tear the rope, breaking it with my fingers. My wrists were healed, left with nary a scratch. I couldn't think of what I'd just done, so I waded through Johan's clothes, praying silently until I closed my hand around a steel key ring.

My luck was changing.

On legs that were surprisingly steady, I walked carefully past what was left of Johan, through the door on the opposite side of the room. Considering the conditions in which I had spent the last two days, what I opened the door to find was mildly surprising; I felt carpet under my feet, and a few couches were situated around a tv. The room was large, though not as cavernous as the one I'd been in.

My breath caught when I saw the beer delivery guy, my kidnapper, asleep on the couch. His clothes were different, and there was a foam to-go container on the glass table in front of him. He'd had a comfortable time, then.

Asshole.

My steps were quiet as I crept out into the room, spying a door straight ahead. But when I saw a baseball bat leaned against the wall, I couldn't help but make sure he wouldn't follow me. I wrapped my fingers around the smooth base of the bat and stomped toward him, making as much noise as I could. When that didn't work, and he only turned over to mumble something incoherent in his sleep, I raised the bat up and brought it down on the table, shattering the glass with a satisfyingly sharp crack.

He was up a second later, looking at me drowsily; I didn't give him time to say anything, instead brought the bat down a second time, against his head. He was out before surprise could even hover over his facial features. I waited, made sure he was breathing, which he was, though I doubted he'd be up anytime soon. I kept the weapon in hand as I eased the door open onto the night air; a car sat in front of the building, waiting for me like a well-trained dog. A very nice well trained dog, I noticed, sliding my hand across the 'Mercedes S series' logo on the back bumper of the car. I was thankful for the coverage of the dark; the reflection that stared back at me as I slid into the seat was something out of a horror movie. The wild eyes, smudged make up and rings of blood, my own and Johan's, would have scared anyone, including me.

I stopped looking at myself; it was too troubling to see that I wore the signs of shock and abuse outwardly. I couldn't confront them yet; they hadn't internalized, and I feared what I would feel when they did. Besides, I still had to keep my head in the game. I had a car, and when I started, the gas tank showed it was full, but my distance was still constrained—I had no idea how far I was from Shreveport. I'd woken up on what I thought was the same day I'd been kidnapped, but I couldn't be sure. My escape route was looking bleak, as I had no money, no way of refilling the tank, and even better, I couldn't really get out of the car—unless I wanted to be arrested for indecent exposure. And, oh, yeah, every surface of my bare skin was covered in blood that had dried and started cracking from movement.

I rested my head on the steering wheel, the hard leather no great comfort, and jumped, my hands shooting out to the side, ready to attack, when a voice spoke to me from inside of the car.

"Hello." I craned my neck, lifted my body and checked the backseat—no one was hiding there, waiting for me to drop my guard—not that I'd had any in the first place.

"Please buckle your seatbelt," the voice continued, coolly. Too coolly; it was the monotone of a machine that spoke to me. Shaking with residual fright and relief, I saw that the center panel of the car, what I'd assumed was a very high-tech stereo was actually an OnStar system. I frowned at the machine, thinking. This was too easy; I'd been handed a ticket out, a deus ex Machina that pointed, it seems, with a giant blinking arrow, back to Eric. I didn't trust the car, but I had no other choice but to use it. I keyed in my destination quickly, waited as the route was mapped out, hoping I could make it on one tank. When the directions came up, I closed my eyes, thankful and relieved. I was an hour away.

The car was smooth as I pulled out of the gravel driveway onto pavement; I drove away from my prison, following the computer's odd, tinny voice, hoping in the back of my mind that the car wasn't going to blow up. Maybe I watched too many Bond movies, but I had just been kidnapped. The roads were straight and long, smooth as glass, like I was driving on a placid lake. The headlights guided me, but I'm not sure how much I actually needed them. Johan's blood buzzed inside me, illuminating the dark so I could see through it, past the haze of black that left normal people blind. I wondered if vampires had eyeshine, the bright refraction you see in an animal's eyes when you shine a light on them in the dark. The thought brought a chuckle from me as I imagined Eric's eyes reflecting an eerie silver light; he was already cat-like enough—those strong, sinewy limbs, eyes that tipped up at the corners, unmatched power coiled in his body, waiting to be released. That power was in me now, mixed with another's; the idea of Johan inside me made me tremble with disgust, so I pushed the thought away, stopped thinking of vampires and their blood. I shut my mind off entirely, that nagging voice that wondered about the consequences of having ingested so much over the past few weeks.

Shreveport was waiting, so I drove as fast as I could toward Eric.

***

By the time I pulled into Fangtasia's vacant lot, it was close to midnight. I parked next to the back door so my clothing, or lack thereof, wouldn't be so apparent. I pulled on the door, but it was locked.

I never got that key, I remembered, but it wouldn't have mattered anyway; I didn't have my purse. I couldn't go to Eric's house—what if the woman had found out and was waiting there? I banged on the door, my blood-covered hands making the hard metal reverberate into the quiet night. I meant to keep going, keep throwing myself at the building until this odd anger had been purged completely, but I didn't have the chance. The door opened in front of me as I hurled myself forward; the momentum threw me off balance and my hands slammed into the broad chest of a very tall, very blonde man.

Eric.

His arms opened and I was taken, dragged in so close I could have been a part of him. I let it happen, curled my hands in his shirt, then around his back. Warm ease, relief, filled me to the point that my mind was muted, drowsy; I'd figured over the past few days that anytime an emotion overwhelmed me, it had been his. I could deal with my own feelings, but his in we were amplified, drastically. Strange. My thoughts dissolved, though, when his lips met mine; I stood up on my toes, kissed back with everything I had, swirling my around his mouth, touching every surface, tasting him deeply, like it was the first time.

My shirt lifted up with me, though, and I drew back, tugging it so it covered my butt.

"Don't," I said, my hand on his chest. "I need to put on clothes." He took a look at me, and to my surprise didn't leer upon seeing how little clothing I wore. He stepped back, taking me with him, and without saying a word, lifted my hands, my arms to his face, breathing in the scent of the blood that covered me.

"This isn't just your blood."

"No."

"This is a vampire's blood."

"Yes."

"How," he started to ask, but I couldn't explain, not right now.

"I need a shower," I said, putting my hands on his hips. "And clothes." He was silent, looked at me closely, like I was going to break if he said anything. He stayed quiet, and guided me to his office and through a door I'd never noticed, which contained a small but very clean bathroom. He closed the door behind us; I just stood, blankly, looking into the full-length mirror next to the sink. My hair was knotted and matted with blood, but it was also a deeper, pretty shade of red my own dark hair could never seem to reach, no matter how many times I hennaed it. My eyes looked clearer, brighter, a shade of blue that was just slightly more intense, and my skin was dewy, almost translucent. I didn't recognize her, this girl who stared back at me. I forgot that Eric's eyes were on me until he stepped in front of my view, blocked the stranger out and gently lifted up my shirt until it was over my head. I held my arms up and allowed him to take the fabric off, throw it in a bundle across the room. I wanted to burn it. I stood in front of him, naked, limp in my skin, staring into his tank top clad chest. He pulled the shirt off, then slid down his pants before bringing me into him again, though this time nothing separated us. I looked up into his face, his eyes and took in the symmetrical features, the sheer prominence of his physical perfection and let my hand drift up to his head, running over his cheeks, his eyes, those beautiful lips. They stopped me, held me close but didn't bite. He released my hand when he started the shower, but never looked away from me. I got in, let the warmth cover me when I felt his hands, rubbing firmly at the blood, washing it away so the water that flowed from me was a pale rust color. He shampooed my hair, ran his fingers through my strands carefully, lathering it up, then leaned me under the spray so it washed out, smelling like gardenias.

We kissed again, contact that didn't break until the shower was over; I clung to him, drawing out his strength like a siphon, until I felt a bit more human. He dried me carefully, with the touch of a lover, but still made no move to try and coerce me into sex. I threw the towel he had down, recaptured his mouth and did the only thing that made sense to me at the moment; he obeyed when I told him to lie down, and I climbed on top of him, adjusting slightly halfway down to accommodate for his size. Our bodies moved slowly this time in a reaffirmation. I was here, I was with him, and even through what I'd experienced, he still appealed to me. He sat up and the angle change inside of me sent electricity through every pore of my skin; he held me, rocked me up and down until I crushed myself against his shoulder, shouted his name upon release. He followed shortly thereafter, and I stayed wrapped around him, breathing heavy, when he whispered into my ear.

"Thought I was the vampire," he said, laughing at me when I looked up, confused. He shrugged his shoulder, the one I'd rested my head on, and I saw the marks there—the unmistakably human teeth marks.

"Oh," I said, licking my lips, tasting the blood there.

"I'll get you some clothes," He said, pulling on his sweatpants. I waited until he came back with a t-shirt, shorts and a thong—not my typical outfit by any degree, but fine in a pinch. When I dressed and came out of the bathroom, he was in the office, waiting for me, with Pam.

"Impressive," she said, "For a human."

"What?" I asked, bristling toward her. "Escaping, or killing a vampire and drinking his blood to heal a fatal wound he inflicted?"

That shut her up, and had Eric out of his seat so fast the kingly chair toppled over.

"What did they do to you?" He asked, and a ball of anger curled around my stomach. I clenched my jaw and launched into the whole story, every detail that I remembered; the beer distributor kidnapper, Johan, and the witch. I stared into the air, blankly as I recounted killing the vampire and his last blow to me, that had left my carotid artery severed.

"Oh," I said to Eric, remembering the Mercedes out front. "You should probably get rid of that car; have it hauled away, though. Don't get inside of it." Eric just nodded at me, thinking.

"So," Pam drawled, an almost-smile playing at her mouth, "You killed and ate a vampire? On your own?"

I nodded, curtly. Did she think I was lying? Let her come smell me if she wanted proof.

"God," She said, looking at Eric. "Do you know how to pick them."