Page 20 of To Save a Vampire
I keep my eyes on his tattered blanket when I speak. “I feel very left out of the plan. I know something is going on, yet even my mother refuses to help me understand.” I pause and swallow, trying to find words to make me feel less alone. “It’s a childish feeling, and maybe it’s none of my business. Of course, I want to help you, but I hate the feeling of dishonesty. I don’t need all of the answers, I just need to know if it’s worth it,” I say in a rushing stream of words.
I take a chance by looking at his face to see if I really am as pathetic as I feel right now. He appears sad for me, however, more than that, he looks like he understands me. He starts to stroke his thumb against my palm before writing.
Ask me anything.
Anything.I want to ask him everything. But I can’t. I know I should wait for my mother to tell me, if she even will tell me. I have to know some things.
I take a calming breath and slowly exhale. “Were they going to kill you at the compound?” It’s the simplest and most important question.
Eventually. Yes.
I nod trying to understand. I have no doubt that, with enough time, Shaw would murder the hybrid who threatened him in his own compound. The doctor’s end goal can only be extinction for a dwindling race that litters his facility.
“How did you escape?”
“Charlotte signed me out to reevaluate my sedatives.” He clears his throat and his raspy whisper makes me feel guilty for asking so many questions. “Instead of taking me to the infirmary, she hid me in a bathroom and pulled the fire alarm. While everyone exited the building, I slipped out the emergency exit at the back.”
It might have taken the day for Shaw to even realize Forty-four was missing. He had to notice my mother’s absence. I try to think through why my mother would risk so much for one hybrid, but nothing comes to mind. She would never risk my future for his.
“Are we helping you or are you helping us?” Perhaps my mother is in some sort of trouble at the compound. What am I missing? What is the big picture?
He shrugs, brushing his bare shoulder against mine, sending a shiver down my spine at our small skin to skin contact. He doesn’t appear to notice the exchange and continues writing against my palm again.
Both.
I’d help him without question. But there are just too many building up to ignore them all. I try to sort through the important ones. The ones that make or break the trust that’s starting to surface between us. I’m testing his honesty, but I need to test him. I need to trust him.
“What was that sword, and why was it in this house?”
He looks away from me. He studies the floral wallpaper like he’s thinking through his own mess of a mind.
He clears his throat and in a rough whisper he says. “It’s called a Crimson Sword. Something as old as time. Humans are not aware of its existence. The material it is made of is the only thing lethal to all creatures of all races. It was left here for me by… someone I trust.”
Guilt strums through me at hearing his raspy voice. Unfortunately for him, the guilty feeling isn’t enough to stop my rapid-fire questions. “I thought vampires had to be staked through the heart?”
A deep and low laugh escapes his lips. A smile pulls at my lips from the sound of his strange and hypnotic happiness.
A stake to the heart might kill anyone.
I can’t suppress the quiet laugh that bubbles up inside me. He’s different than I thought he would be. Not at all the misanthrope society described him as.
A midnight monster… He isn’t a monster at all.
There’s a short silence surrounding us. I try not to break it and relax into the stress-free world wejustcreated. A world where things aren’t always so serious. But I can’t. As much as I try to ignore my other questions and to not press for more information, they push against my thoughts. I try not to bombard him with all the questions circling my mind. But one question stands out among hundreds.
I speak in the lowest whisper I can, just trying to force the words from my throat. Finally choosing blatant honesty in hopes of having it returned.
“Can I trust you?”
He looks up at me quickly, like I need to be sure of his answer. Instead of nodding or writing against my palm he tenses when he speaks.
“Yes,” he says before clearing his throat.
I lift my hand, and he watches me with intense eyes as I bring my hand to the light scar at his neck. It’s jagged but soft against my fingertips. It healed smoothly.
With his eyes closed, he takes my hand in his while I brush my thumb against his jaw. The imperfect scar is so strange and foreign on his warm, flawless skin.
“If it hurts this badly, why do you speak?” I ask in awe. Thinking back to every time he spoke to me with the chip in his throat.
