Page 25 of Watch Me Turn
So I close my eyes and let myself drift.
7
I’LL BE WATCHING YOU
My eyes snap open.
The weight of Angel's arm around my waist is gone. The warmth of his chest against my back has disappeared. The steady rhythm of his breathing that lulled me to sleep is nowhere to be found.
In his place is a terrible sound that fills my ears and raises every hair on my body.
Angel is gasping for air. Filling the room with wet choking noises from the depths of his throat. Each strained breath a low, terrifying gurgle that sounds like it could be his last.
I shoot upright, reaching through the darkness for him. When my hand connects with his scorching skin, my heart drops. The fever is far worse than it's ever been. I'm surprised his flesh is still on his bones.
In the blink of an eye, I'm up on my knees, leaning over his splayed body and slapping the sides of his clammy face.
"Angel," I urge. "Angel, can you hear me?"
He doesn't respond, but his breathing changes. Now it comes in sharp bursts.
I lean down and put my ear near his lips, willing him to answer. "Angel, you've got to stop doing this."
Nothing.
I check his face for signs of life, and when all that greets me is a flat, expressionless face, my voice pitches up a few octaves. "Angel...? Give me a sign you're still in there."
Silence.
"Please?" I lay my hand on his chest and hold my breath.
The slow patter of his fading heartbeat is barely perceptible under my fingertips. Barely, but it's there. One thud. Followed by another. Then another. Like the haunting drum of a funeral march.
"S...Soph..." he wheezes.
I slump forward with relief. "You scared the shit out of me. You wanna sit up? Maybe get some air?"
He nods and props himself up against the pillows, palm pressed against his ribs, his whole body trembling. Even through the darkness, I can see there's no color in his cheeks. His pale, drained skin is almost translucent.
He takes a few breaths, deeper this time, and I lean over to the lamp and flick it on. He recoils at the brightness and uses the back of his free hand to cover his eyes.
"Sorry," I murmur. "Is it too bright? I can switch it off if you like? I can see in the dark anyway."
He shakes his head. "No...I..."
"It's okay. You don't have to talk. Just breathe, okay? Keep breathing. I'm right here with you. I just need to grab something real quick."
His bloodshot eyes track me as I stumble to the couch in search ofEl Arte de la Muerte Segunda. I've read that damn book cover to cover so many times over the last few days but found nothing. I must have missed something. A tiny detail that tells me what to do now.
I skim the text, whipping back and forth through the pages until I land on the part that details phase three of the transformation and read it for the hundredth time this week.
The third and final phase of the transformation brings immense relief for the subject. The neophyte should now have grown a full set of fangs which will descend involuntarily when blood is introduced. They will be experiencing a new array of sensory enhancements such as light sensitivity and the ability to hear sounds previously inaccessible to the human form. The lacrimae ratio during this final phase should be nine parts blood to one part milk until the tenth day.
"You hungry?" I call, but before he can answer, I'm already on my feet. "I'm going to fix us something. It's been a long day. That's all. You'll be fine. You need to keep your strength up. Once you eat, you'll be fine."
He makes a few sounds of protest, but I ignore him. I'm on a rampage through the kitchen, pulling out mugs and slamming drawers shut. I don't bother wasting time with the stovetop warming method. The milk will have to stay cold too. I slam a bag of blood into the microwave and jab at the fancy buttons like they owe me money. When the whirr of the machine starts up behind me, I lean against the counter and weigh my options.
I can either call the client and tell them what's happening, or I can figure this out myself.
