Page 4 of Chain Me
I barely managed to clear my head from the mattress before copious amounts of liquid expelled from my throat and pooled on the floor. Then I turned into the safety of my pillow, but squeezing my eyes shut didn’t erase the image of it. Thick.Red.
No bother. I already knew the CliffsNotes version of what was transpiring. I wasmaybedying again. My body was collapsing upon itself,yada yada yada. The doctor’s diagnosis would soon confirm it, and then I could commence with the drafting of a will and whatnot.
I’d done it all before, so no harm no foul. Only something told me that a mysterious benefactor wouldn’t step from the shadows to offer a solution this time. He had every reason to want me dead, after all, considering I owned ten years’ worth of his soul…
I was on my own—a fact that didn’t make much of a damn difference in the grand scheme.
I was Eleanor Gray. The only thing on Earth I excelled at was being alone.
Silence
At least there was one person who wouldn’t leave me just because I demanded it. Well, acreature, but he’s no less valid. Mr. Tinkles, my dearest Siamese rescue cat, served as the second-to-last living creature dwelling within Gray Manor.
The fact that he only had three limbs might have contributed to why he remained behind at all, but that was beside the point.
The moment I opened the door to his suite, he lunged from the shadows, claws drawn in his typical greeting. A bell hanging from his collar—a custom light-blue velvet one with sterling-silver hardware—jiggled manically, tracking his advance. He lunged toward me, his eyes flashing with murderous intent. By sheer luck, the back wheels of his makeshift wheelchair caught on a bump in the carpet, and I jerked out of range unscathed.
Until the room began spinning.
My stomach crawled up my throat as the wallpaper bled into the carpet. White on red, like fresh blood on pale flesh. Gagging, I slumped forward, and I had only enough time to aim opposite the direction of my cat before I ruined a priceless antique carpet with a stream of vomit. Quite the feat, considering I had nothing left in my stomach to bring up. Just more of that unsettling liquid. Red and vibrant, the puddle resisted cleaning no matter how hard I tried to mop up the mess with the end of my skirt.
It wasn’t like I needed a maid. I didn’t…
Luckily, I didn’t need to guard from Tinkles, either. The blatant destruction of his private suite startled the poor darling into ceasing his attack. Eyes wide, he slunk toward his favorite corner. A haughty meow came a heartbeat later, demanding more food instead of my flesh for once. After I’d fulfilled his request, he watched me, swishing his tail through the air. Then he approached.
So much for his brief ceasefire. I tensed, throwing my hands out before me—but he didn’t lunge. In fact, his hackles weren’t even raised.
The moment he finally reached my side and curled up against my leg—withoutattacking—I knew then and there that something was horribly, terribly wrong.
Fear so raw that it packed a punch rendered me spineless. I sank to my knees, curling up against the invaluable carpet. And my devious, hateful feline didn’t hiss at me once. In fact, I swore I felt the silken brush of his fur settling right against my abdomen.
Hours later, I escaped into the bath and made a game out of ignoring the multitude of changes I hadn’t reported to the good doctor Goodfellow.
Because they didn’t matter.
Like how pale my skin had become: tissue paper over the bluish veins snaking underneath, carrying my newly “healed” blood. Brittle bones stood out like exposed scaffolding, propping up my gaunt features.
One symptom, however, triggered the most alarm. It was a feeling lurking beneath the water’s surface and infecting my skin. Itching. In my muscles. In my bones. Food didn’t soothe the irritation. Water, either. It felt deeper.
Perhaps the manifestation of some festering tumor?
Oh joy.
Looking on the bright side, I toweled off and hunched beneath a terrycloth robe. Why all the worry? I had no terminal diagnosis.
In fact, I was supposedly cured, thanks to a vampire whogave me his magic necklace. I eyed the jewelry in question, holding it up for inspection. Some women might have cherished the expertly crafted silver cross. If I squinted, I could have called it beautiful.
Or hideous. It didn’t suit me, standing out gaudily as I approached the mirror and tried to salvage my appearance.
If my health continued to decline, at least I already looked the part: dead. My frown was the liveliest thing about me. It remained as I ran a brush through my hair and dressed in an old skirt and a sweater. In the end, I put the sweater on backward and only had enough energy to sweep the worst tangles back from my face before my stomach roiled again.
The Eleanor from yesterday would have written the symptom off.At least it wasn’t hemorrhaging to death, no bother.
But now… The little detail of my vomit seemed harder to ignore. Remnants of it still speckled the corner of my mouth. Red. Salty. When I swiped at a smear with my thumb, the liquid spread, painting my cheek.
Dr. Goodfellow had noticed it too—a fact that suggested Iwasn’tmaking it up out of paranoia. Perhaps another scenario, other than a psychotic break, could explain the past few weeks?
Like the prospect that, despite his sudden disappearance, Dublin Helos wasn’t done with me yet.
