Page 122 of Red Fury
“Good girl!” Kozlov tells her. “Now uncap the needle. You!” he tells me. “Hold out your arm. I swear to fucking Christ if you try anything, she’s dead. I don’t give a shit about her life. I’ll kill everyone in the cabin. Do you understand?”
I nod. “Yes.”
I want so badly to shift and to end this prick, but I can’t. I believe him. He will do as he says. I can’t see a way out of this. I need to give myself up and then look for an opening.
I hold out my arm, my eyes on Kozlov.
“Inject her.”
“I-I…I um…I…d-don’t know how,” the flight attendant whimpers.
“Stick the needle into her and depress the syringe. If you fuck up, you die.”
Her hand is shaking, and tears are rolling down her face, but she does as he says.
I feel the sharp sting of the needle, and immediately, my world turns on its head. The strength drains from my muscles, and I collapse to my knees on the cabin floor.
“No,” I whisper, my voice already slurring.
The flight attendant scrambles away from Kozlov as he lets her go, her face pale. Around us, the other passengers are pressed up against the back wall of the cabin, some crying, others just staring in shock.
I stagger, trying to keep my feet. I hold on to the seat backs, finally falling between a row of seats.
Kozlov drops down beside me. “Finally,” he rasps.
His fangs sink into my throat before I can protest.
I try to scream, but a garbled sound escapes.
I can feel myself getting weaker with each pull of his mouth against my neck. His greedy gulps and grunts make me feel sick. My vision blurs. He’s drinking too much, too fast. At this rate, he’s going to kill me.
He moves to get a better position above me, giving me an opening. With the last of my strength, I pull my knee up and drive it into his groin as hard as I can.
Kozlov jerks back with a howl of pain and rage, his fangs tearing free of my throat. Blood drips from his chin as he doubles over, clutching himself.
“You bitch,” he gasps, but there’s something else in his voice now. Confusion. Like he’s fighting with himself.
I manage to prop myself up on one elbow, my hand pressed to the bleeding wounds on my neck. The drug is still in my system, making everything fuzzy and distant, but I’m alive. For now.
Kozlov straightens slowly, and I watch in fascination and horror as he seems to wage some kind of internal battle. His eyes flicker between red and normal, and his hands shake.
“No, no, no,” he mutters to himself. “Control. You have to maintain control. This is not who you are. This is not—” He looks at me, and for a moment, his eyes are almost normal again. “What have you done to me?” he asks.
I frown. My tongue feels too thick in my mouth to answer.
What is he talking about? I’ve done nothing to this asshole.
He shakes his head, like he’s trying to find clarity. Like he’s failing. He shakes it again, and some normality returns to his eyes.
Then he stands up slowly, wiping blood from his mouth with the back of his hand. He turns to face the terrified passengers huddled at the back of the cabin.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he says, his voice taking on that smooth, commanding tone I remember. “I apologize for the disturbance. Everything is under control now.”
I use the armrest of a nearby seat to pull myself to my feet, my legs shaky but functional – only just; I’m not running a marathon any time soon. The passengers stare at me with a mixture of fear and confusion. I realize that I have blood dripping from my neck, which is stinging.
“There’s nothing to worry about,” Kozlov continues, straightening his shirt and smoothing back his hair. “We’re simply going to make a small detour, but I assure you that everyone will reach their destination safely as long as nobody tries to be a hero. Do you want to be a hero today, ma’am?” he asks a lady, who shakes her head, her face a mask of terror.
His smile is charming and reassuring. The blood on his chin tells a whole other story.
