"Inadvertently complimenting yourself, Pam?" Though his face gave no hint of it, his voice was playful, a teasing tone, that of a father to his daughter. Pam's full lips pulled up as she looked at Eric, then back at me.
"Surprising," she said, standing, her movements smooth and continuous. The thought of my own movements, jerky and slow compared to hers, flickered through my head as she glided out of the room with all the presence of a ballerina.
"I'll leave you alone." She gazed at us over her shoulder and was gone; I still stood across the room from Eric, gripping my arms at the elbows. His expression had transitioned from neutral to furious, akin to the sky when ominous black clouds roll through, forewarning the people below of the wrath to come. He was angry, ashamed, though over what, I wasn't sure. He didn't speak, didn't come near, and the sounds of my breath, my heart, my life blared in my ears against the silence of his unmoving body. He had no animation, no spark.
"They tortured you. Would have killed you." His lips barely moved as he spoke the words.
"Yes," I said, so uncomfortable I began to itch and the blood vessels in my face dilated, allowed that warm fluid to rush to the surface, coloring me scarlet.
"He fed from you." A slow burn licked the fringes of his words, one that made me clench my fists, gnash my teeth to hold in the explosion my body was threatening to detonate. That I'd become a conduit to his every emotion creating a conflict within me; on the one hand, feeling him allowed me to react to him, to know how to approach him and give him what he needed without him having to ask, or come off as weak, but at the same time, it hardly left any space inside for myself.
"Yes, and I fought back with everything I had."
"Well," he stood; I craned my neck to meet his eyes. "You saved us a trip, at least."
"What?" There was an edge to my voice. I was impatient, didn't want to be talked in circles, lead around the subject until he decided he was good and ready to back me into it. His reference to a trip, something I obviously wouldn't understand was another power trip, a way to make me feel stupid when he revealed what he was actually speaking of.
"I would have ripped your captor to pieces," he said, plainly, like he was telling me the time. "Which would have resulted in a trial."
"You would have been called to the magister?" Eric blinked, surprised I knew who he was speaking of. "Vampire politics, 210."
He nodded, a slight angle of the head, and walked to me, put his long arms on my shoulders and stared into my eyes.
"Did they say why they took you?"
"They thought I was special." A lump formed in my throat, an ache that resonated through me deeply, cutting like a dull knife, ripping away at the walls I'd constructed to keep the experience from affecting me. "They thought you brought me here because I had some sort of draw, or powers." My body wanted relief, but I pushed the salty liquid back into my eyes, down my throat. "And if I wasn't, well, hey, I was bait for you."
"They wanted me?" His head was close to mine, mere millimeters away from my nose, and he stared into my eyes, searching.
"Yeah, Johan, a blonde vampire, thin, about six feet tall, was going to kill you, then campaign for your position. And the witch was going to take a percent of whatever wealth they took."
Eric was deadly now, had lapsed into silence, leaving me to quake with his rage.
"Stop it," I grabbed his arms. "Calm down." His eyes widened and his emotions only got more intense.
"Calm down? Some nobody vampire kidnaps you from my home, from under my nose, and is gunning for me? I'll have that witch's head."
From his home. From under his nose. Was he angry that I'd been taken, or just that I'd been taken from him?
"Can we go?" I asked, tugging at the elastic waist of my shorts. They might as well have been underwear, they were so short. "I just need to get out of here."
"We can't go home," he replied, furrowing his brow. As if it was my home to begin with. "But we'll go to Pam's house, for tonight." His eyes were trained on me and I matched his stance, though not his façade. Sometimes I forgot how old he was, the extent to which he'd been removed from humanity. The idea of a life as long as his confused me, depressed me; what had kept him going? I'd gone through a period in my early twenties, my senior year in college, a time when I was so sad it hurt to do anything. Sometimes I was surprised I'd made it out alive at all. And, really, had I? I wasn't sure if I was happier, but I knew I was capable of living. I'd numbed myself, dialed down what I felt in favor of a pattern of control and acquaintances. The past few days had reduced me, broke something in me that had been a steel rod, holding me up no matter what happened. But now—I straightened my shoulders, blinked my glazed eyes and drew my mind away from its internal reverie and imitated an alert expression—whatever had kept me going was cracking.
With one eye still on me, Eric called to his child and picked up the phone, spoke very briefly, details about picking up the stolen Mercedes, and placed his hand on the small of my back as Pam strolled into and out of the office, headed toward the parking lot.
"Calm down," he said, bending toward me like he was going to embrace, but instead he just stayed in my space until I walked forward, following Pam. Calm down? After having been taken, beaten and bled, only to escape, all within the span of three days, I expected something more than 'calm down.' A current of irritation ran through me, then intensified because I knew he could read me, now, as well as he could himself.
"We'll talk when we get to Pam's," he whispered to me, suddenly close. I was stock still, having reached the door. I stood between the dark of the building and the illumination of the street lights over the parking lot, nodded once, and continued. His gaze was on me, between my shoulder blades, but I didn't flinch, and I didn't look back at him. If I had, I would have seen the soft sheen of his hair and skin in the dark, brilliant against the night, and would have been disarmed, my frustration forgotten in favor of the memory of his touch on my body.
Eric's 'look at me' corvette was parked next to what I assumed was Pam's somewhat less flashy dark blue Jaguar. Still, it made me salivate, made my fingers itch to wrap themselves around that leather steering wheel and see what that beautiful car could do. I stood at the door of the corvette and watched as she floated down into the seat.
Eric stepped in front of me, obscured my sight. He was smiling, a dazzling, inside joke grin; he had found something so similar in me that was the very heart of him. He craved excitement, something to break up the monotony of 1,000 years, and I craved the release of pushing my boundaries, stepping over the edge just to see how far the drop is.
"I never took you for an adrenaline junkie."
"I fed vampires as a day job." I quirked an eyebrow at him. "You don't know me very well, Eric." I sat into the low leather passenger seat, shaking my head at the truth of the statement. He knew the facts about my life; my records, my history as documented by paperwork that chopped my being down into categorical sections. But that was just a sketch of someone, an idea of the things I did, not who I was.
"I will." The words, though they were confident, were patient. He knew I wasn't a forthcoming person, knew I had secrets, and was waiting for me to show myself, remove all the layers and lay in front of him, bare in that sense. But therein lay my doubt about him. He understood my need for privacy, but had subsequently bonded me to him, given me his blood so he would know what consumed me, what made me angry and cheerful and free. I think I'd been somewhat of a mystery to him, a human that had challenged him, wasn't enthralled with his being a vampire, or drop-dead gorgeous. So if, eventually, he knew me entirely, would he remain interested? And how much of Eric was Eric? I wondered how much of him was defined by his vampirism, if anything of the original human was left inside his ageless exterior.
The thought triggered the memory of that strange dream I had whilst I was held captive, the sequence of Eric's human death. Now I wanted to know if it was true, or if what I'd seen of Eric's past was the fantasy of a chemically-addled mind. I mulled this over as the car started and Eric took us out onto the road, behind Pam's car. The drive was silent, but when I let my eyes drift shut, I could sense his being next to me, the power and energy running through him. Somehow, whether because of our blood sharing, or the power I'd absorbed from Johan, I could now sense Eric, tell where he was, like a pair of satellites, corresponding to one another in the recesses of space. I couldn't help but be scared; it seemed I was irreversibly tied to him—my life was intertwining with his more and more, with every beat of my heart.
The drive to Pam's took somewhere around forty minutes, and the ride was silent, though not uncomfortably so. I watched as he drove, made small adjustments, barely paying attention to the road in front of him. The music, a soft, sweeping melody that wasn't in English was relaxing, and surprising. I guess I really didn't know Eric, either. If he was knowable at all. I stared out of the window, at the lonely roadside scenery of the trees until eventually, after a series of rights and lefts made so quickly, so deftly I knew I'd be unable to ever find my way back, we arrived in front of an enormous Victorian-style house. It was a soft blue, almost grey, and had red shutters. I like it immediately; it reminded me of home.
"It's beautiful," I said, almost under my breath when I got out of the car, knowing Pam would hear me. She nodded, acknowledging and agreeing, and led us into the house, which could have occupied Coco Chanel herself. The furniture was old, feminine and slightly sexy, European-esque, understated in way that screamed expensive. I knew, as I took in the subtle touches—a footstool here, a rich cream drape there—that I was obviously gaping, but I'd grown up in a solidly middle-class home and appreciated the things Pam had.
"I'm in the master bedroom upstairs," Pam said, ushering us in, though the explanation was geared toward me, not Eric. "The bedroom down the hall should suffice for you two." Without a backward glance, she ascended the stairs, her heels keeping a rhythmic time as she went. Eric put his hand on my shoulder, then motioned for me to follow him, so I did, down a long hallway that ended in a bedroom that was understated, decorated in sleek gray and white tones that had a slight sheen to them. The en suite bathroom was glorious, with his and hers showers and a Jacuzzi tub. I could have pulled off my clothes right there and soaked until I was a prune, but I headed back into the main room, where Eric was waiting for me on the bed. He was on his back, staring up at the ceiling, so I lay next to him. Our hair mingled, blonde contrasting with my own bright auburn.
"You're conflicted." He reached for me, took my hand and sandwiched it between his own; my fingers were long, but they disappeared entirely in his grip.
"Yes," I nodded, biting my bottom lip before pressing them together and pulling up my eyebrows.
"This," I motioned with my other hand, "has all been so strange and terrifying. It's not like I get kidnapped every day, Eric."
"For that," he said, slowly, "I must ask your forgiveness. I should have protected you better than I did."
"I felt like before, you were more upset over the way I'd been taken, not that fact that I had. Like, your pride was more your concern than my disappearance."
"It does make me look weak."
A lump formed in my throat; this was not how I expected the conversation to go.
"Don't get upset, Elliot." His hands were still on mine. "I was worried about your well-being, too."
I choked, but it came out a dry laugh. He was worried about my well-being. I'd stayed strong, desperately tried to get back to him, and he was offering me the equivalent of 'I'm sorry you feel that way;' a bullshit apology there, a bullshit condolence here.
"This is dizzying, Elliot. I'd forgotten how emotional humans are." Anger had spiked in me, and he was only fueling it.
"Then you shouldn't have given me your blood. I didn't want it, and I don't need it." I tugged my hand out of his grip. "And I sincerely apologize for my emotions; from what I've been reading off you, the only acceptable states are, what, lust and anger?"
"Elliot," he warned. But I couldn't do this, couldn't back down now.
"What, Eric? You know, I don't fucking appreciate being your emotional channel, and I hate that you know how I feel."
"Why?"
"Because it's a violation of my privacy. You get to know when I'm sad or angry or giddy, but you're DOA half the time. It's not fair. And when you do feel, it overtakes me. I'm too young to have this kind of connection with another person."
"Why must you always be in control? He sat up, looked down at me.
"Why do you always act like it's a given that you will be?" My words were getting thicker; my throat strained. "I stayed alive for you, Eric. I was almost raped, had my carotid artery just about ripped out of my throat, and all you can pull together is your worry for my 'well being?' None of this would have happened, were it not for you."
Eric moved nimbly over me, so he straddled my waist, though he didn't pin my arms.
"Why do you insist on fighting everything? What are you running from?"
I sat up, practically snarling. "Running from? Eric, you've ended my life. You took me away from everyone I love, kept me down here to get kidnapped and tortured, and in the end, how long is this little thing between us going to last? A year? Five years? Eventually, you'll lose interest and I'll have squandered my life with you."
"I've told you, Elliot. I want you. Why are you so stubborn that you can't see that?"
"Because I just know you won't stay." He ground his hips into me; I'd turned my head, refused to look at him, stuck in my mindset. He was impatient, irritated, but also distressed, reckless.
"I have had over 1,000 years to understand what I want, Elliot," he leaned on his elbow, made me look into his eyes. "I have tied you to me in the most permanent way I know possible while allowing you to remain human. You're feeding your own fear of commitment."
"We're too close," I said, flushing. "It's so messy, this bond; it makes me feel out of control, like my life is slipping away."
Eric slid off me, and I breathed easier with the relief. I was breathing heavy, on the verge of breaking down.
"You'll decide what you want," Eric said, staring at the wall. "Stay or go, leave Louisiana. Flee home. It's up to you, but I'm done proving myself to a human."
I sat up, with a weight on my chest so heavy I though I was having a heart attack.
"Eric, I—" He didn't move. I spoke to a rock; as old as time, as quiet as a placid lake. So I got up, legs stiff, and went to the door. My hand was on the doorknob when old reliable, that steel rod inside that kept me aloof, kept my back straight and my head turned in front of me snapped in two. I wasn't quite sure how I made it to the ground, but before I could leave the room I was on my knees, my hands out it front of me, reeling, my mind acting like a projection that sent images in front of my eyes. I saw myself walking away from Eric, but at the same time, a boy, that same boy from my dream looking into Eric's eyes serenely as he was begged not to do whatever he was about to go through with. Tears of blood ran down Eric's cheeks, sorrow and pain and confusion at his abandonment—the boy was leaving him! I gasped out loud, shrieked something that sounded like 'snälla,' and clutched at my head. Panic in its purest form exploded into my veins; nonononononono was all my mind could think, in a loop as the movie in my head kept playing. The boy put his hand on Eric's neck, smiled down on him and ordered him off the roof; Eric stood, drawn, looking small, somehow, and marched backwards down a stairwell, his eyes on the boy, his maker, the entire time.
I remained, though, on that roof, as the boy stripped off his shirt, held his arms out in blind ecstasy and was washed out of existence in a cloud of blue flame as the sun peeked over the skyline, washing the buildings with a gold that could never stay.
When I opened my eyes, Eric was in front of me, gripping my shoulders. I swayed in his grasp as I tried to make sense of what I'd just seen. His eyes were wide, too; whatever had just happened hadn't only affected me.
"That was your…" I began, but the word couldn't make it past my lips. The look in his eyes and the pain that was beginning to swell around the edges of my eyes silenced me.
"Yes," he answered, the words soft like a goodbye. Maybe they were.
"Eric," I asked, taking his face with shaking hands, "Are you mine?"
He pressed his lips into mine, crushed my chest against his and wound his hands through my hair. "Yes," he breathed into my mouth, sending sweet air down my throat.
"Then," I ran the words over in my head, making sure they were true. "I'm yours."