Page 26 of Watch Me Turn
Calling the client isn't an option. I just can't do it.
For one, I'm old enough and stubborn enough to find a solution. Maybe it's foolish, but I've always had faith in my ability to get shit done, no matter what.
Sure, the stakes are a little higher this time, but I know I've got this. I'm a Maldita, for God's sake. I'm one of only a handful of vampires capable of shifting into animal form. The blood that runs through my veins is as sacred and ancient as the moon itself. If anyone can do this, it's me.
No, I can't go back to how it was before. If I call for help, Julian will slither back to La Madre and tell her that I fumbled this gig, and I can't allow that to happen. I'll have to go back to watching the privileged offspring of wealthy criminals—and I can only attend so many proms.
The choice I need to make is no choice at all.
The microwave dings, so I slop the blood into a mug and top it off with a whisper of milk—just enough to frighten it. It's like a river meeting the sea—two liquids battling each other for dominance and refusing to play nicely. I swirl the mug to combine, but it does little to stop the whole thing from looking revolting.
When I hand him the mug, his face crumples, but I do my best to encourage him. "I know. It's hard. There's more blood than usual, but that's good. Your body needs it. You'll see."
As soon as the cup gets within inches of his lips, his shaking arm freezes midair like it's being repelled.
"I don't know if I can," he wheezes.
Shit.
"You can," I encourage, placing my hand over his to steady it and gently placing it back at his side. "Hey, real quick. Do you mind if I take a peek into your mouth?"
He offers a weak smile. "My mouth? What are you? An amateur dentist?"
"Yeah, even the undead need a hobby. Now open wide." I lift the corner of his lip with my thumb and feel along his gums. "I just want to check on your fangs. They should be fully in by now."
"And?" he asks.
I swallow and drop his lip. "Yup. All good."
Shit. Fuck. Mierda.
He winces as he sits up straighter. "Sophia, I know you're lying. Something's wrong, isn't it? Tell me."
My smile doesn't reach my eyes. "It's fine, Angel. Just drink the blood."
"Sophia. I know you're trying to protect me, but I'm a big boy. I can take it."
I search for a good lie, but I can't find one. Nothing seems to fit. I don't know how to tell him that I have no idea. That I'm deeply unqualified for this job and that what's happening to him isn't good. He's never going to be human again, nor will he be immortal.
Instead, he'll die with a relative stranger in an underground prison, and it's all my fault.
"Sophia," he rasps.
The words come tumbling out of my mouth. "It seems like your body is rejecting the turning. Your thirst is nonexistent, your fever is still raging, and your fangs have stopped growing. You keep having these seizures or whatever the hell this is, where you basically die for five minutes, and I don't know how much longer you'll survive them." I pause to glance up at him, but his face is expressionless. "I have read everything I can in my book, but there's nothing. Nothing. Your body is blocking something, and I'm running out of ideas, but I'm not giving up. I'll find something, I promise." I bury my head in my hands, and my voice is muffled. "I'm so sorry."
"Well, shit," he says.
"Yeah," I say, glancing up. "Shit is right."
He settles back, fingers interlaced across his chest, gaze tracing invisible patterns on the ceiling. Neither of us speaks. The room stills to near silence, thick and heavy save for the rasp of his strained breathing and the slow pounding of his heart.
The silence sits heavy, like a stalled engine refusing to turn over. I'm about to say something—anything to fill the void—when a shrill ring cuts through the room and stops my dead heart from beating altogether.
The phone. The connection to the Hollow.
The client is calling.
A prickling sensation creeps up my neck, and every instinct tells me to ignore it.
