The Last Girl (5 page)

His laugh is condescending. “I meant blood or cunt. Not the other, so you can stop the struggle to not think about it. Though we will do that, and you’ll probably even like it.”

I shudder at that. I feel that’s a door meant only for things that exit the body. I shouldn’t be surprised, though. It’s not just vampires. My friends have warned me that as soon as Devon gets in through the front, he’ll want to use the back door, too.

Another tear slides down. I know now that I don’t love Devon. If I did I would feel more than just a twinge at never seeing him again. In some way I feel relief, which just proves the awkwardness our relationship was barreling toward.

In this moment with Christian, there is the smallest hint of a type of freedom I couldn’t have with Devon. He was filled with expectations of me. I could always see it shining out from his eyes. There was an undercurrent of a struggle. He would push a little for more. I would resist. He would back down and then regroup for his next attempt.

Christian won’t ever attempt anything. He’ll simply do. In some ways it takes pressure off me. In other ways it’s much worse than the Devon situation. I’m aware that I’m trying to reshape things so I can cope, but I wonder how true these feelings are anyway.

I look up to see Christian’s head is cocked to the side, an amused little grin playing at the corners of his mouth. He’s reading me like a damn book, and I can’t stop thinking things. Nor can I bring myself to shut the silver door again, not after seeing a glimpse of his anger.

Without warning, he strikes. My breath is caught in my throat as his fangs slice into me. I let out a shriek that hurts my own ears. Yes, it fucking hurts. It hurts so much that every nerve ending begs for death just to make it stop. It’s a searing burn that digs into me and latches on. I can see Christian as nothing but the parasite he is. Right as I’m thinking this, something shifts.

There must be some kind of venom in his fangs. Or maybe that’s not the right word. But there is something that just happened because I can breathe and think again and the pain is gone, but his fangs are still in my throat. He’s got to be doing something to ease it.

He backs us against a wall and allows me to sag and press my weight against it. I feel like I’m outside my body, hovering, watching all this like it’s happening to someone else. But the floaty feeling isn’t trauma. It’s something else. It’s a drug. I’m being drugged.

The insistent pulls on my blood don’t hurt. They lull me into calm acceptance. My hands are on his shoulders. I don’t know how long they’ve been there, but to an outside observer this might look like a consensual act, like a lover’s embrace.

A couple of minutes pass like this, and then he’s licking the puncture marks clean. Then in that blur-speed he does, he’s sitting in an overstuffed chair by the fireplace. His hand is propping his chin up, and he’s observing me.

I feel light-headed, even after eating, and I’m afraid he’s taken too much. I find my legs not wanting to support me and then I’m sitting on the ground. My hand moves to my throat. There is no blood, but I can feel the little puckers and I wonder if I’m going to look like a vampire snack from now on, not that it matters in the grand scheme anymore.

“Come here,” he says.

There is no way I can stand up now, so I just crawl across the floor to him. I’m pretty sure that pleases him more, anyway. I feel like I’m crawling through invisible molasses. Every inch is a struggle, and I resent him for not helping me.

“Pet, your thoughts will be your own in a few moments, but until then it’s wisest for you to not think such ungrateful ones. I can leave you like this. Believe me, your suffering has just started. Perhaps I should leave you for the rest of the night so you know how vital my blood is to you now.”

Cramping has already starting in my stomach and the muscles of my arms and legs. I know he’s not kidding that this is going to get very painful very soon without his aid. The only thing I care about right now is appeasing him.

“I’m sorry, Master. I can’t help every thought or feeling I have. I’m human.”

This confession seems to placate him, and he motions me closer. I don’t pull away when he rips into his own wrist with his fangs and places it in front of my mouth. I thought I would recoil, that I’d be paranoid about turning into a vampire, but all I want is to feel better. I latch onto his wrist as if I’m a starving vampire myself.

“Good girl,” he says, petting my hair.

He lets me drink for a few minutes until he sees I’ve had enough, then he pulls his wrist away and a few moments later, it heals in front of my eyes. I shouldn’t be shocked by this because all my pain is gone. In fact, I feel better than I remember ever feeling in my entire life. I feel like I could run a marathon. Everything is sharper.

I thought my vision had been fine before, but right now it’s, oh my God, I see details in the individual fibers in his coat. I hear crickets that somehow I know are miles away. I smell the dishwashing liquid inside the dishwasher downstairs.

“Your senses won’t be this sharp all the time. Just for a few hours after you drink. My understanding is that the experience is quite addicting to humans.”

His understanding is right. I close my eyes and touch the side of my throat where he bit me, and I’m not surprised to feel nothing there. No puncture marks. It’s as if the bite never happened, like it was all a dream. But when I open my eyes, he’s still here.

“I thought you said you couldn’t read my thoughts once I’d drunk from you?” Was he lying?

Christian laughs. “Oh pet, you are adorable. You think I don’t know the body language of someone who can see and hear and smell things they’ve never experienced before? I wasn’t reading your mind. I was reading you. Just because I won’t know your exact thoughts as they appear in your head, don’t think you’ve become a mystery I can’t unravel. You have no idea how expressive your face is. I can read it just as easily as I could your thoughts.”

Silence descends between us for a minute or two, then he says, “Would you like to go out?”

“Out?” I know he said he’d take me out, but I just got here.

“I don’t like being cooped up all the time at night. This is my middle of the day. Did you sit at home and not do anything all day? You think I spend eternity in this house reading and brooding about my lost humanity?”

I shake my head quickly, hoping I haven’t pulled him out of a good mood. What I’ve just experienced with him is like Stockholm syndrome on speed. My entire existence rests in his hands. Assuming he’s smart about how he secures me during the daytime, I know there is no chance of escape. What’s more, I’ve had a taste of the depth of suffering he can introduce to me simply by denying me his blood right after feeding. The only thing I want to do is appease him.

I’m not even scared about the sex. I don’t know when it’s coming, probably soon, but we are way past such mundane issues as losing my virginity to my vampire captor.

“We should shop for you. Would you like that?”

It’s ten at night. What’s open this late? Nothing in this town.

“Pet, I asked you a question.”

I don’t think; I just answer, “Y-yes, Master.” He’s not a moron. He’s got to know what time it is. Hell, maybe he’s taking me to Wal-mart. Just because he wants to shop for me, and just because he lives in this unbelievable gothtastic mansion, doesn’t mean he’s above shopping at Wal-mart, I guess.

In a minor fit of hysteria, I wish he was still in my head because then I wouldn’t have to ask or say ridiculous things. I know I’m not going to work up the nerve to ask about Wal-mart. I’ll just quietly go along with him and wait to see where we end up. But he told the truth. He has no idea what I’m thinking right now. I test the theory anyway just to be sure.

I’m going to rip your heart out and lay it to dry in the sunlight, you motherfucking psycho.

Nope. Not even a flash of recognition. His eyes are their normal dark chocolate brown, and he’s getting up from the chair. I’m still on my knees. I was too afraid to get up after I’d drunk from him. Some weird survival instinct has caused me to divine these small natural ways to show submission—that I pose no threat.

The idea that I could pose a threat to him, of course, is laughable. But that minor detail doesn’t seem to penetrate.

He reaches down to help me up and off we go, through the gothic mansion, to his Batmobile. Actually, black Mercedes, but I’m not convinced he doesn’t have some freaky off-beat car hidden away somewhere.

We drive for awhile in silence. He’s been listening to music from another time and place that I don’t recognize. Finally, I work up the nerve to speak.

“Master?”

“Yes, pet?”

“May I ask a question?”

“You can ask. I can’t guarantee I’ll answer.”

This is my opportunity to understand that night six years ago. Besides the fear of death running through my head, there has been the mystery that won’t go away. The thing I’ve tried and failed to understand time and again.

“That night… ” I know he knows which night I’m speaking of. “Why didn’t you take anything of value? You just took papers.”

He’s quiet for several minutes, and I worry I’ve upset him, but finally he answers. “Your father had some documents that belonged to me. They were papers that could have unmasked me for what I am, that proved I was far older than was possible for a human, and far older than I looked. So I stole the documents back.”

“You didn’t kill him.” I’m not sure if this is supposed to be a question. I just don’t understand the lack of bloodshed when Christian has proven to be so frightening already.

“At that time we were blending and had social standing among humans in your town. It was a stupid experiment. I suppose one gets inventive after centuries and starts playing idiotic games to see what they can get away with under the noses of others. I merely took the papers that were rightfully mine and hypnotized him. Then we faded out of social life altogether.”

“But he later discovered that the papers were missing. How could he know about them?”

“It’s easier to hypnotize with a partial truth than a complete lie. It’s more likely to take over the long term. So I led him to believe that when he discovered the papers were gone, he would remember them as papers of an entirely different nature.”

“Do vampires need an invitation?” I figure I’ll try to slide one more query in.

“We do. Finn, myself, and Nadine had already been invited in on a previous occasion. I believe you were away at summer camp at the time.”

I nod, grateful he’s unlocked this mystery for me. There is probably more to the story that I’ll never know, but this is enough to close the door on those questions that have lingered in the back of my mind.

We drive for a little over an hour without speaking again until we arrive in Tampa. He’s wrapped up in his music; I’m in my thoughts. Tampa is a pretty tourist-y city that tends to be up late with shops also open late. But this late? I’m not so sure. And anyway, I don’t really want an airbrushed T-shirt with my name on it and a stylized picture of a flamingo. But that’s not where he’s taking me.

We don’t go to the beach or any of the tourist traps. We stay away from the dive bars and even the nicer bars. He takes me into the heart of the city instead, down a few strange streets I wasn’t aware of—not that I go to Tampa all the time, but you think you know a place.

He parks at an abandoned warehouse, or at least it looks like a warehouse from the outside. In truth, it’s not so abandoned because there are plenty of cars here, nice cars like what Christian has. Mercedes. BMW. And some snazzier things like Porche and Aston Martin. He guides me to the door and does what I can only describe as a secret knock. The door opens.

It’s dark and smells of mildew with cobwebs and dust and dirt everywhere. I think I see a rat scuttle by. I shiver and grab onto Christian. He doesn’t say anything about it or get angry with me, but I feel stupid for having done it. Of all the things to be scared of right now, a rat has me jumping into his arms like he’s suddenly my protector? Please.

And yet, I do feel an odd sort of protection over me, as if he’ll kill anything that looks at me funny, even a rat. I have the strong sense nothing is allowed to hurt me but him. Later I’m sure this won’t make me feel safe, but this isn’t later.

We walk down the hallway over dilapidated green carpet that seems like it must have been ugly even when it was new. There’s an elevator at the end of the hallway. We get on. It goes down.

When the doors open again I can’t help the gasp that comes out of my mouth. We are in a high-end boutique with crystal chandeliers and gleaming parquet floors. There are tons of gorgeous clothes hanging on racks. A full sales staff stands off to the side, waiting unobtrusively. I’m not sure if they’re vampires or human pets.

“Christian!” a female voice calls out. I recognize the voice. It’s the woman from that night. I cringe, remembering what she said about killing me and how indifferent she was to my possible demise. I press myself harder against Christian and he wraps an arm indulgently around me.

“Nadine. It’s been a long time.”

She laughs. “I was just about to say that.” She looks me over, then just shakes her head. “I knew you were saving her. I can’t believe you waited so long.”

Christian shrugs, then turns to me. “Juliette, I’m going to pick out some things for you, but I want you to pick out whatever you want, as well. Don’t worry about the cost. Nadine will help you shop.”

I look to the other vampire, but her expression is open and not unkind—or at least not vicious. She appears willing to help, and doesn’t seem to have any immediate plans to off me while Christian isn’t looking, at least not today.

“It’s okay,” he says. I can’t believe how patient he’s being with me. He’s not treating me like his whore or some dirty human pet. He’s not leading me around on a leash or humiliating me or hurting me. This seems so normal.

Nadine and I shop. She doesn’t tell me anything of value about Christian or herself, or how they know each other or what their history might be. It’s all inane small talk. She has a surprising inventory of knowledge regarding reality television. I can’t quite wrap my head around that one.