Page 45 of The Undead

I’d thought of this as a tomb before, but now the reality crashed in on me. Itwasa tomb. A modern vampire’s version of a coffin—conveniently lockable from outside.

Adam must have locked me in, Adam or Sylvia. Somehow I was betting on Adam. I flexed my fingers and felt a sensation glide over me, something dark and hungry and absolutely seductive. Adam. Yes. The sensation was anticipation, and I was thinking about his death, about his stolen blood spurting out over my hands and beading like garnets on my flesh. I sank down, stunned, to the tangled sheets and put my head in my hands. Gold, both head and hands, despite the fever heat that I’d just felt.

Dear God, why …

The claustrophobia hit me again, wiping out everything but the primitive instinct to escape. I was back at the door before I remembered moving, clawing at the handle, slamming my hands into the door again and again with bone-breaking force. No bones broke. No flesh shredded.

No door opened.

When the red fury faded, I stood in the middle of a room that looked as if a tornado had passed through it. The only thing I hadn’t disturbed was the bookcase, probably because it was against the wall and out of the immediate path of my rage. My bed was—dismembered. Its white stuffing littered the room like the entrails of a slaughtered beast. I couldn’t even identify the remains of the pillow.

This time I collapsed into a corner, drew my knees up against my chest, and concentrated on breathing in and out, just as if I needed the oxygen. It was calming, at least. It forced me to concentrate on something other than panic.

My head came up with a snap even before I realized that someone approached the door—someone human, someone with a working heart and lungs. Female. The scent was familiar.

“Michael?” she asked through the door. I didn’t move. “Michael, are you all right?”

Some instinct took hold of me. Sit still, it said. Say nothing. Wait.

I did that thing.

“Michael?” Sylvia said again, sounding anxious. I could hear the pounding of her heart as it beat faster. “Please say something. Please.”

Say nothing. Wait.Wait.

She cursed softly, under her breath, and started to walk away. Stopped. Came back to the door and fit a key into the lock with a metallic dick.

Say nothing …

Sylvia eased the door open. She saw the wreckage first, and her lips parted in helpless amazement. I came up from a crouch and crossed the distance to her faster than her eyes could track me. I remembered how Adam had moved in the morgue. Faster than I could see—

Instinct moved me toward her, toward the pulse beating in her body. I froze as I realized why it had counseled me to silence and waiting. It was a predator’s instinct. Tigers sat for hours watching their prey. I’d become a tiger, something worse than a tiger, perhaps. Sylvia’s wrist was in my hand, pulse throbbing light and fast under my fingers.Thatwas what I wanted. Her life.

I let her go and went back to my corner, resting my forehead on my clenched fists. I wanted to pray, as I hadn’t prayed since I was a child in the Clear Creek Baptist Church, but nothing came to my mind except an incoherent plea for mercy.

“Mike?” Sylvia asked in a voice no steadier than her wildly beating heart. “Mike, I’m sorry—”

You’resorry?

She came closer. I tried to draw myself tighter into a ball—not out of fear, but to prevent myself from lunging at her. She stopped a few feet away and put something down on the floor with a clink of glass.

“Here. This will help, I think. If you need—” The well-mannered hostess’s line seemed wildly inappropriate, somehow. She didn’t finish it. When I looked up, Sylvia straightened and backed toward the door. She was the one who’d been in the shower, obviously; her hair was damp and straight, pushed back over her fleece-robed shoulders.

“Where’s Adam?” I asked, not even glancing at the bottle she’d put on the floor between us. My voice worked. That was an improvement, too.

“He had business to attend to. He’ll be back soon.” I wondered if her nervous addition was for my benefit or her own. Sylvia forced a smile. “Your eyes. They’re red.”

She didn’t mean bloodshot, I guessed. I remembered how disturbing Adam’s eyes were when he was enraged, and lowered my gaze to the hardwood floor.

“I don’t know—”

“I know,” she interrupted. “Adam told me not to underestimate you. I just didn’t listen. It was hardly your fault. Drink-drink and you’ll feel better.”

Drink your blood like a good boy, she meant. My lips peeled back from my teeth in a snarl of anger, but I didn’t look up. Sylvia’s warm, living presence backed away, and the lock clicked shut behind her.

The scent of her hung in the room like the afterimage of a bright flash. I reached out for the bottle she’d left me and lifted it to the dim light, tilting it from one side to another and watching the liquid slosh slowly. It reminded me of lava lamps and bachelor pads, but I ripped it open and drank like a man dying of thirst.

It tasted sweet and gagging. I drank it all. I broke the bottle in my invulnerable fingers and licked the red film off the glass fragments, sickened and amazed by my hunger. I gathered up the pieces and threw them in the trash, then looked around the room again.

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