Page 72 of Missing Piece
Vincent’s back began burning as he realized he was looking at the same pattern that had been carved into him when he was still human. The same pattern that was painted in blood at the Whitman’s house.Have I really blocked all of that out?
“It was you—” A strange fear shot through Vincent he hadn’t felt in years. A fear of death. Of himself. Dying. “You were in the cage next to me.”
The memory hit him like ice water. Richard hadn’t just been in the next cage—he’d been Vincent’s first feeding, his first kill. Except Vincent had been too new, too hungry, too desperate to do it right. Instead of draining him, he’d…
Richard smiled as blood began to soak into the front of hisjeans, giving Vincent a condescending golf clap. “Yes! There you go. Now you’re figuring it out. I guess I wasn’t important enough for you to make space in your little head for me after all this time, but I can forgive that. Being a new vampire is hard, especially when you’re hungry,” he said, taking a step towards Vincent. “And you made me, Mr. Bellenger. That kind of gift allows me to permit you a certain amount of, oh, let’s call it wiggle room, for forgiveness.”
He’s lying. This is a dream. This is all some sick game my mind has come up with.Vincent took another step back, trying to put distance between himself and Richard. He grabbed at his chest, his chest becoming tighter as the thumping became harder. It was his heart. His human heart. The heart that had died a hundred years ago.He’s lying. I’ve never made a vampire. I swore I never would.
But the pain in his chest told him otherwise. In those early days, before he knew any better, before Solomon deemed him worthy to take under his wing, he had tried to help someone, hadn’t he? A man from the south who broke in a matter of days…a man Solomon delighted in making scream for hours on end just because he thought it was fun. A man Solomon had left alone with Vincent after turning him, scared and ravenously hungry, willing to do anything to quiet the beast screaming in his head.
“You survived?” Vincent gasped, still clutching his chest.
He looked back to Richard, but the bleeding man was gone. The only thing left in the room was the man on the ground, his body slumped against the wall as his chest barely moved, each labored breath accompanied by a disturbing gurgle. He was dying, but Vincent couldn’t hear a heartbeat from him. He could just barely smell blood. All of his senses were dullagain. Like a human. He took a cautious step towards the man, the dread and fear rising up his neck and making his scalp tingle.
“Which ghost are you?” Vincent asked, trying to look at the face that was obscured by stringy hair dried with blood.
The man let out a weak groan, his hand drifting to his bruised side.I know him too.He looked down at the man’s shoes. Dirty sneakers, covered with blood and what looked like vomit, his jeans torn and ripped up one side, exposing a metal joint where an ankle should have been. A wave of nausea and dizziness dropped Vincent to his knees. “Adam!” His teeth shifted, forming into fangs, his eyes vibrating as they turned black.
The thumping in his chest ceased, suddenly making him feel breathless and hollow as an untenable grief burned away the remnants of his human heart. He dug his fingers into his sternum, as though that would stop the molten grief from bursting out of him.I can’t lose another one. I need him.“Adam, please, hold on,” Vincent gritted out, reaching out to touch him.
Adam whimpered, flinching away from Vincent’s touch. He slowly lifted his head, revealing his quivering blue-tinted lips, his face even more battered than the last time Vincent saw him. His eyes were half-lidded, frightened and filled with terror, like he didn’t recognize Vincent.
He’s dying.
“I’m going to get you help.”
Adam’s expression didn’t change. He slowly opened his mouth, moving his blue lips silently. Vincent leaned forward, desperate to hear what he was saying. Yellowish liquid began to pour from his mouth, spilling down his bloody and brokenbody and pooling beneath him as he continued to stare at Vincent like the monster he was.
Vincent recoiled as the smell hit him. Gasoline.No. No, not again. Not like this again. This is a dream. A fucked up dream. Wake up, Vincent. Wake the fuck up!
Adam closed his mouth, his fright fading as he stared at Vincent, waiting for him to do something.
Everything in Vincent’s body told him to keep moving, to get away from the man covered in flammable liquid, but he was frozen as he continued to stare at the face he had suddenly become too fond of too quickly.He’s mine. He said he was mine. I can’t leave him like this. Even in a stupid dream.The thought was almost laughable. It would have been laughable just a few years ago. But he couldn’t do it. He couldn’t leave Adam. Not in real life, not in fever-dream, not ever.
Not even if he was covered in something that would kill them both.
Vincent leaned forward again, wrapping his arms around Adam’s limp body, fighting his instinct to run, choking on the scent of gasoline that burned his nose and eyes and throat. “I’m here. I’m not letting go,” he whispered, pressing his forehead to Adam’s. His skin was so cold. Too cold…like he was already dead.
“Then you both die,” Richard’s ghostly voice said from behind him.
Vincent smiled to himself as Adam’s arms weakly wrapped around him.That’s fine,he thought as he heard the click of a lighter.
Then the flames began to burn.
Chapter Twenty-Seven - Vincent
Ican’t see. I’m blind.Vincent gasped as he sat up, slapping at his arms as the feeling of the flames stuck to his skin, his nerve endings still alight. He could hear the sound of a chair being pushed out near him, and he could smell Petrov in the room, but he couldn’t see him. Vincent clawed at his face, trying to see if he even still had eyes, but his fingers found thick fabric instead, covering his entire face.I don’t have time for this game.
He found the bottom of the face cover and ripped it off, looking around bewildered at the room. Wood paneling. Ugly carpet. A chain still pooled at the end of the bed with an open cuff. Some of the panic subsided as he realized he was in the downstairs guest room, with Petrov standing near a metal folding chair by the door, his face stoic as he watched Vincent throw back the covers on the bed. “Why the fuck was there a bag over my head?” Vincent demanded as he stood up, rolling his neck, the muscles tight as he did.
Waking up from an ‘involuntary nap’, as the brothers often jokingly called it, was always unpleasant. Torn muscles and cracked bones snapping themselves into place sometimes had strange results, like resulting in a bone healing a few millimeters off from where it needed to be. The only way tofix it was to either wait it out or re-break the bones and hope for a better alignment.
“It is how you calm down bird when they get into house,” Petrov shrugged as if it were the most commonsense solution.
“Do I look like a damn bird?” Vincent asked incredulously as he removed his suit vest and tossed it on the bed.
“Last night, yes. A angry bird. Like the red one,” Petrov said, squinting as he spoke the words carefully and then nodded in approval of his own statement.
