Waking Dreams (A Soul's Mark Novella) (2 page)

His eyes swept the room quickly.  There was
a small window in front of the bed, with light curtains pushed to the side,
revealing that night had fallen.  The inky black sky was streaked with
approaching clouds, and small flakes of snow had begun to drift down.  The room
was small and welcoming, with whitewashed walls, and even hardwood flooring.  
The furniture was sparse but in good repair; a dresser nestled under the
window, the small bedside table, and the bed.

And then he saw her—the angel with the
musical voice.

Stunning. 
Her
auburn locks cascaded over her shoulders in a waterfall of silk.  His eyes
trailed over her, taking in her lean body, her ample chest, and the way her
woolen slacks hugged her curvy hips and long legs.  Her face looked as if it
had been sculpted from delicate clay, with doll lips and high cheekbones, and
her eyes, big and chocolaty, were smiling at him.

“Who are you?” he whispered, his heart
skipping a beat.  “Am I dead?”
I must be,
he thought, because angels like
this do not exist in life.

“No silly, you’re not dead,” she said with
a giggle.  “My name is Angelle.”  She sat down, perching on the edge of the bed,
and smiled.  Then she glanced towards the door.  Eric followed her gaze, and
his jaw dropped when his eyes found what she was looking at—the demon.  “He’s
very handsome, Mitchell,” she said excitedly.  “I’ve never seen eyes like his
before.  They are so green, almost like grass in the springtime.  We must keep
him.”

He didn’t kill me.
  Panic clenched Eric’s stomach, and he felt hot and cold and sick. 
His mind spun with questions. 
Why?  Why was he here?  And where was here?
 
A pinprick of red burned in Mitchell’s eyes as he watched Eric, closely, and
thoroughly. 
What does the demon want? 
Eric did not know, but he also
did not want to find out.  His imagination ran wild with possibilities, torture
being the one thing that his mind reached at the end of each avenue.  He wanted
to run, and he thought about it, but his legs wouldn’t listen.  He scrambled
back, pressing himself against the wall, and he gripped at the blankets.

“Angelle, he’s not a pet,” the
demon—Mitchell—said with a chuckle.  “He may stay if he wishes, but he’s not
yours to keep.”  The way he spoke to her, it was as if he was speaking to a
child, teaching her and guiding her.

Stay? Why would I want to stay with a
demon?
  A soft
thump, thump, thump
, filled
Eric’s ears as the demon chuckled again, and for a moment, Eric’s eyes locked
onto his neck, where a throbbing vein pulsed rhythmically.  The memory of the
demon’s tangy, sweet blood hit him, and his mouth watered.  He kept his eyes
fixed on the pulsing vein, unable to look away, and a thought dawned on him;
Eric could see the demon’s heartbeat in his throat, and he yearned for the
blood that flowed through that vein.  The hair on the back of his neck rose,
and a rolling shiver prickled over Eric’s shoulders.  His eyes darted back and
forth between the two strangers, and that’s when he realized something else. 
There was no pain.  His stomach felt … fine.  Better than fine, actually.  He
dropped the blankets, pulled up his thin cotton shirt, and gasped.  Not even a
bruise.

“What have you done to me?” Eric breathed
with a mix of wonder and fear in his voice.

Mitchell did not answer.  He shifted
uneasily, and for a split second, Eric thought the demon looked nervous.  It
seemed … odd, unreal, and it passed quickly, so quickly that Eric wasn’t even
sure that he had seen it.

A soft intake of breath that sounded like a
sob brought Eric’s attention back to Angelle.  Her bottom lip jutted out, and
her big brown eyes widened and drooped.  It was so heartbreaking to see, that
Eric couldn’t stop himself.   It was as if in that moment, all reason flew away,
and as he looked at her, he forgot his fear, and he forgot that he should be
dead.  “Don’t cry,” he whispered.  “Please don’t.”

“Promise you’ll stay,” she murmured, gazing
at him through hooded eyes.  “No matter what?”

Eric chuckled, mesmerized by the creature,
and the burning in his throat grew.  He knew he should be terrified, but oddly,
he wasn’t.  He felt strong, stronger than he had ever felt before; his muscles
vibrated with energy.  The words slipped out without thought.  “I promise,” he
said in a raspy voice.  He brought a hand to his neck, rubbing down the center,
trying to ease the blistering heat.

She tilted her head from side to side,
searching his face for what, he did not know, but then, after a moment, her
eyes lit up and she said, “Oh, you’re hungry.”

“Angelle,” Mitchell snapped.  He cut her a
look of warning, and she shuddered slightly under his stare.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered shyly, and in an
incredibly quick motion, she was off the bed and standing before him.  She kept
her eyes cast down, as if she couldn’t bear to look at the demon, and the way
she trembled, Eric was certain she was frightened.

But the demon … he smiled.  It was a kind
of adorning smile, one that a parent would give a child, and after a long
minute, he said, “Go.”  Just that, one simple word.  And in a blink, she was
gone, and Eric was suddenly alone with the monster.

Mitchell closed the door with a soft click
and leaned against it.  His smile was gone; his lips drawn thin, in a straight
white line, and he crossed his arms over his chest.  Eric tried to keep calm,
but in that moment, his heart was pounding into his throat.  Eric did not
consider himself a small man by any means, but near Mitchell, he felt it. 
There was something about Mitchell that commanded fear and intimidation.  His
presence filled the room like a thick fog, sucking out all rational sense.

“How are you feeling?” Mitchell asked,
after staring at him for an excruciating and nerve racking long minute.

His deep, soothing voice calmed Eric’s
thumping heart.  “What are you going to do with me?” he countered, unnerved by
the bitterness that coated his tone, but he couldn’t hold it back.  This was
cruel.  All of it.  Why hadn’t the monster just killed him already?  Or left
him to die in the field?  And more importantly, why didn’t the idea of his
impending death bother him?

Mitchell rolled his eyes.  “Just answer the
question, Son,” he said with exasperation.

“Does the answer matter?”  The question
just flew out as if he had no filter.  There was something about the way he had
said
son,
almost gentle—tender—that made Eric furious.  Rage grew inside
him, simmering in his belly, and all he could see was red—literally.  It was as
if there was a film over his eyes tinting the world in scarlet.  Fire licked up
his throat, and his gums began to throb, pulsing in time with his racing
heartbeat.

“There’s no need to be frightened,”
Mitchell said softly.  He pushed off of the door and closed the distance between
them in a few long strides, taking a seat at the end of the bed.

“I’m not scared of you,” Eric spat.  Each
word he spoke irritated his throat more, and again, he rubbed it, trying to
calm the burn.

“Oh, no?”  Mitchell chuckled and shook his
head.  His eyes fluttered shut, and his nostrils flared.  When he turned back
to Eric, two sharp fangs poked out from his lips.  “I can smell it,” he said,
and he ran his tongue along the tips of his pointed teeth.

Eric stared at the teeth, sharp as knives,
and he found them strangely intriguing.  So many questions ran through his
mind.  Why fangs?  Are they as sharp as they look?  Did they hurt?  But the
question he asked was, “What are you?”

The question earned Eric a toothy smile,
and the frown lines on Mitchell’s forehead smoothed.  “I’m the same as you.” 
He paused, collecting his thoughts, and his smile vanished, although Eric
didn’t really consider that a bad thing.  The fangs were fascinating, but they
were also giving him the creeps, just a little.  Mitchell sighed; then, and
when, he looked at Eric, his eyes were pleading with him to understand.  “Look,
I didn’t mean for this to happen.  You weren’t supposed to die.  You weren’t
even supposed to know I was there.”

“Clearly, I did not die,” Eric said, and he
was certain he was looking at the demon as if he was mad.

“Well…” Mitchell started, and then he
dropped his eyes to the wooden floor.  He ran his hands through his thick hair,
and sighed.  “In a way, you did die, Son.  Please understand I had no choice.  Even
if I had managed to get you to a doctor before you passed, you would never have
lived through your injuries.”

Suddenly, things started to click
together.  His injuries were gone, and he was alive.  Anger quickly bubbled up
inside him, and Eric demanded, “What have you done to me?”

Mitchell looked up then, and his eyes
washed red.  “You are a vampire.”

Vampire. 
That
one word awoke something in Eric, and a skin tingling chill rolled over his
shoulders. 
Vampire.
  The word sounded strange—fake.  Eric laughed.  He
couldn’t stop it.  It bubbled up and burst out of his mouth.  But then
something shifted in him, something dark, cold, and oddly exhilarating, and his
laughter clogged in his throat.  He jumped from the bed, landing nimbly on the
balls of his feet, and ripped off his shirt, running his fingers over his hard
abdomen, searching for any trace of damage.

Nothing.  Absolutely nothing.

Impossible,
a scared, little voice in his head whispered.  All of this was impossible.  He
should be dead; Eric was certain of it.  But as he examined his body, there
wasn’t even a scratch from where Sterling had landed, and his muscles were
firmer, and more defined.  “I’m not a vampire,” Eric gaffed, still staring at
his unmarked stomach.  “They do not exist.”

“They do and you are.”  There was amusement
in Mitchell’s deep voice as he spoke, but there was also an air of confidence. 
Eric couldn’t just hear it; he could smell it, thick in the air.  It was cool
and assured, and it made Eric feel like a mad man.  He listened to the demon’s
heartbeat, drumming in regular thumps; it did not quicken, and he was certain it
would if Mitchell was lying.

“Is this some kind of joke?”  Eric
questioned.  His voice quivered slightly, and he wasn’t sure if it was from
fear or blinding anger.  Both emotions were swirling together, binding as one. 
He narrowed his eyes, his jaw twitched, and heat rushed up his neck and settled
in his cheeks.

“No,” Mitchell replied, simply, as if that
was enough of an answer.  He sat on the edge of the bed motionless, staring at
him intently, with his hands folded in his lap.

“The girl, Angelle, is she …?”  Eric
couldn’t finish the question, but the demon understood and nodded in
confirmation.  “Are there more?” he demanded, and Mitchell nodded again.  The
nods were maddening.  Eric clenched his fists and began pacing the floor.  The
muscles along his neck and back went into a fit of spasms, rolling under his
skin, and tensing as his anger rose to white-hot rage.  “How long have I been
sleeping?” Eric growled.

“An hour,” he answered.

Eric stopped pacing and spun towards
Mitchell.  “Why did you do this to me?” he shouted.  He had never felt anger
like this before.  It raged through him, like an angry bull.  It was terrifying
and invigorating, and it consumed him.

“I am not a monster, Mr. Carter,” Mitchell
said tightly.   His lips were thin and his eyes, hard.  He sat up straighter,
and he rolled his shoulders back, making them look even larger.  “You were
dying, and I did what I could to make sure that did not happen.  And if you
recall, you did tell me that you did not want to die.”  He enunciated every
syllable, with clipped precision, and the way he was looking at Eric was
anything but amused.

“But you … the myths … you drink …” his
head felt as if it would explode.  All the legends, all the tales, it was like
waking from a dream only to find himself in a nightmare.  And the persistent
burning in his throat was driving him over the edge.

“Blood,” Mitchell said with a nod,
confirming the statement, and his features softened a little.

Blood.
  The
word made Eric’s heart skip a beat, and his throat constricted.  His gums began
to pulsate, and he felt a pinch, a small tearing sensation, at the top of his
mouth.  He felt something slide down and then poke at his bottom lip, and he
raised his hand to his mouth.  He gasped when his fingers found two sharp fangs
protruding from his gums.  They were smooth, pointed, and Eric was certain they
looked exactly like Mitchell’s—deadly and intriguing.

Eric shuddered, and dropped down on the bed
in shock.  “What were you doing in my field?” he whispered, even though he was
sure he already knew the answer.

Mitchell sighed, a gusty sound, and for a
moment, Eric thought he wasn’t going to answer, but then Mitchell said softly, “Hunting.”

“Me?” Eric asked.

“Yes,” Mitchell replied directly and plainly.

Eric looked at him then, searching his
bright blue eyes for any hint of humanity.  Mitchell’s one word answer sounded
cold, and callous, as if it were fact, or common even, to hunt humans, and Eric
couldn’t believe that anyone, demon or not, could be that cruel.  But all he
found in Mitchell’s expression was confirmation, and his blood boiled.  “So you
did plan on killing me,” Eric snarled savagely.