Page 126 of Red Fury
A horrible realization creeps over me. The way he’s acting, the constant sniffing, the manic look in his eyes. I still get the feeling that he’s acting like an addict. Like he’s addicted, only not to drugs.
But to my blood.
I open a window, letting some air in because the thought terrifies me more than anything else that’s happened. If that’s the case, if he’s somehow become addicted to my blood specifically, then I’ll probably be dead before anyone can help me. I’m too weak to help myself, and he’s not going to let me go. Not when I’m his drug of choice.
I almost couldn’t stop him before. I doubt I’ll have the same sliver of luck again this time.
He’ll start drinking, and he won’t stop until I’m drained. With the drugs in my system, I’ll die because I won’t have advanced healing.
The open window must help because he goes back to concentrating on the road ahead.
A few minutes later, we turn onto a long, narrow driveway that’s more dirt and gravel than actual road. The car bounces and lurches over potholes and ruts that feel like they haven’t been filled in years. Tree branches scrape against the windows, and I can hear rocks pinging off the undercarriage.
“Where are we?” I try again, but he doesn’t answer.
He just keeps driving, that same unsettling smile playing on his lips. His fangs have started to elongate, and I can see them when he grins.
It’s revolting…he’s revolting.
Five minutes later, we finally arrive at our destination. It’s a cottage that’s seen better days. Much better days. The paint is peeling off the siding in long strips, and several of the shutters are hanging at odd angles. The front porch sags in the middle, and there are weeds growing up through the floorboards.
It doesn’t look like anyone has lived here in a long time.
“Get out,” he tells me, turning off the engine.
I consider my options, which are basically nonexistent. I could try to run, but I can barely stand upright. My legs feel like jelly, and my vision keeps going in and out of focus. He’d catch me before I made it ten feet.
I unbuckle my seatbelt and open the car door. The fresh air hits my face, and for a moment, I feel slightly better. Then I try to stand, and my knees nearly buckle.
Kozlov is around the car in seconds, his hand gripping my upper arm to steady me.
“Careful now,” he says. “We can’t have you falling and hurting yourself.”
Bastard!
We walk toward the cottage, and once again, I think about trying to break free and running. But I know it would be useless.
“Where are we?” I ask again as we approach the front door. “Why did you bring me here?”
He pauses, his hand still on my arm, and looks up at the cottage. I’m not sure what I see in his eyes. It’s like he’s deep in thought. His face gets this look of calm for a few moments.
“My brother owns this property,” he says finally. “He bought it a few years ago out of a sense of nostalgia, though I never understood why.”
His grip tightens just a little.
“Not until now. Not until today.”
I want to ask him what he means, what the significance of this place is, why he brought me here of all places. Butsomething in his expression stops me. There’s a darkness there that makes my heart beat faster.
I wait for him to continue.
“Go inside,” he tells me, reaching around me to push open the front door. It creaks on its hinges.
I do as he says, and he follows close behind me. The inside of the cottage is just as run-down as the outside. The air smells musty and stale, like it’s been closed up for years.
Kozlov walks around once we’re inside, his eyes taking in the empty rooms. There’s no furniture, just bare floors and peeling wallpaper. It’s bigger than it looks from the outside. I can almost picture a family living here.
He fishes his cell phone out of his pocket and switches on the flashlight. “The dining room table used to be over here,” he says, gesturing to a spot near what I assume was once the kitchen. His voice has taken on a dreamy quality.
