Page 25 of Afflicted

“Of course.” She gives me a little shrug, her voice just a little too high-pitched.

“You like me looking at you?”

“No.” She snaps, far too fast. She rolls her eyes. “I just… You know, you saved my life. I’m grateful for that. But that’s all.” Her eyes move back to me, and she looks me up and down. “You’re British, right?”

“I am. I was born in London.”

“How old are you?”

“In human years or vamp years?”

She shrugs. “Either, both, whatever.”

“I was turned 28 years ago, when I was 25. So, I’m 53 I suppose.”

“Old.” Her nose wrinkles again, making the freckles dance across her face.

I chuckle. “Yes, I suppose I am old to someone your age.”

“How did you end up in the states?”

“For someone who wanted me to act like you’re nothing and no one, you sure are asking a lot of questions.”

She sighs and storms through the stream, passing me to go back to the garden.

“I came over here with my maker,” I say when she’s right next to me, and she stops, looking up at me. “She got tired of London, so I came here with her.”

“And where is she now?”

“Dead.”

The answer makes her face drop a little. “Afflicted?”

“Mmm.” I nod. “Begged me to kill her, so I did.”

“Oh Jesus.” She flinches a little, and moves to keep walking, hesitating as she looks back up at me. Goddammit, those eyes. “Why did you save my life?”

“Because it’s my duty to protect you.” I hold her gaze, and her cheeks flush a little. “I told you. I want to look after you.”

“No feeder has ever wanted to look after me.”

“I guess they don’t see what I do.”

Her eyebrows flicker upwards, and she drops her gaze to the floor, the sweet flush of her cheeks rising higher and higher. “No one sees us. We’re just food.”

“No, you’re not.” I’m aching to reach out and touch her, run my fingers down the curve of that bare shoulder.

“Yes, I am.” She tilts her head as though she’s going to look at me again, but her shoulders slump with a sigh. “Please don’t talk to me like this.”

“Like what?” The urge to touch her is almost causing me pain.

She shakes her head. “I’m sorry you had to kill your maker,” she says softly before walking away from me across the soft leaves, the sound of her footsteps swallowed by the rain-soaked ground.

As I watch her go, my mind wanders to Margot. Beautiful Margot, with wild black hair and big blue eyes. My maker. The one who taught me everything. Who I’d loved to the point of obsession. Who’d lain in my arms, begging for death as blood poured from her eyes. After 200 years of life, she’d been taken by this fucking virus.

I sigh, kicking a pebble into the bubbling stream. Most days my humanity is just a ghost, hanging in the background. I learned to suppress all those human emotions years ago. I let go of them. I became a monster. A killer.

But watching this human woman walk away from me, I feel humanity pooling in my chest, all those things I’ve ignored for years rushing over me again.

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