Page 8 of Watch Me Turn
His heart hammers against my back, adrenaline and fever making him shake. But his grip is steady, and the knife doesn't waver.
"You're going to unlock that door," he continues. "And then you're going to get me the fuck out of here."
I throw my head back and let out a cackle as he tenses behind me. "Yeah. Okay. Sure. Good luck with that."
"Something funny?"
"You are. You think that little butter knife is going to save you?"
"It'll cut your throat just fine."
"Will it?" I let my voice drop to a purr. "Go ahead. Cut me. I double dare you."
His grip tightens. "Don't test me."
"I'm not testing you. I'm giving you permission. Go on, cobarde, slice my throat."
"I'm no fucking coward," he snarls as he grabs a fistful of my curls and yanks my head back, but I don't resist. The blade bites into my skin just enough to draw a thin line of blood.
"Do it," I whisper. "See what happens."
For a moment, I think he might. Then I let my fangs descend fully. My elongated canines drop into my mouth and catch the light like two ivory needles.
I turn my head just enough that he can see them in profile.
Angel's entire body goes rigid. The knife clatters to the floor as he stumbles backward, eyes wide with terror.
"What the fuck—what theFUCK?—"
He trips over his own awkward feet and crashes into the wall, bumping his head and sliding down until he's sitting on the floor. He stares up at me, blinking rapidly, his eyes searching for answers. He puts his hand over his chest as he sucks in a few deep breaths.
"Should I tell you what's happening to you?" I ask, retracting my fangs and wiping the thin line of blood from my throat with my finger. It heals almost instantly.
Angel opens his mouth, but no sound comes out. His eyes are fixed on my mouth, looking for the fangs that are no longer there.
I crouch and move the curl from his forehead like he's a little baby and smile at him sweetly. "Or do you need another minute to process?"
3
DENIAL IS A RIVER
We've been at this for hours.
The raging, screaming, and thrashing of Angel coming to terms with what's happening to him is only occasionally punctuated by a few moments of blissful silent disbelief. When those moments come, I cherish them.
He's torn into his feather pillows, and the insides litter the bed like the last remnants of a dove massacre. The soft white fluff clings to his sweat-soaked hair and body as he breathlessly pounds his fists into the mattress.
"What the fuck is happening to me?" he roars toward the ceiling, fists clenched and raised. "Who did this to me?"
"I already told you," I say without looking up from my book. "Enemies of your father. Enemies of your family. People who want you dead. I guess being an asshole has consequences."
"I don't remember anything. I don't know how I got here," he cries. "I was at my house. I heard a noise outside, then...it's dark. It's all dark. Was I in…a helicopter?"
He'll wear himself out eventually. He has to. I roll my eyes and go back to my book, skimming it for more information on day three symptoms.
By day three the neophyte should be exhibiting the first signs of the thirst. Concurrently the body's demand for mortal sustenance abates, as the digestive organs purge the last traces of the final human meal. You should expect sickness, but do not be deterred. Continue to feed lacrimae at the appropriate dilution. The fever should settle as the skin cools...
I steal a glance at Angel, who lets out a final, punishing wail and slumps onto the bed. His labored breaths rattle through his chest like the last gasps of his human life leaving his body. He's still burning up. His waxy skin is proof positive of that, but we have time for that to change. It's still early in the day. At least I think it's day? Without the moon to guide us, it's hard to tell and I’m not decoding the hours on the digital clock. Math was never my strong suit.
