Page 9 of Kentucky Nights
I didn’t bury her right away. I couldn’t. Fifty-ish years of us being together, and all I had left was her shell. She was mine in that lifetime. I just wish the world weren’t so cruel and could have given her to me for all my lifetimes.
The locket is fisted in my hand when the scent of blood infiltrates the air, ruining my morning routine. With tears still wetting my cheeks, my vision turns a predatory shade of red, and my fangs breach my gums.
I reach for my 1847 Colt Walker Revolver hanging on my hip. Blurring out the front door to see who my intruder is.
That blood doesn’t belong here, and no one is allowed on my property but me.
Even if the scent of this blood is the best I have ever smelled in all my years of living.
The jolt of my head bobbing down awakens me. My vision blurs, struggling to focus on my surroundings. Parts of my body ache that I didn’t know could. I groan, squeezing my eyes shut from the pain throbbing in my cheek.
I blink a few times to clear my vision. I sway left and right as I continue to get my bearings. Sunlight pours in through the window, causing me to wince. Dust particles come to view first before my blurred environment finally makes itself known.
An aged leather couch is to the left, flush against the living room wall. The TV is on, but the volume is so low, I can’t hear what the actor is saying. Not that it matters, but I wouldn’t mind a little trash TV under the circumstances.
The wooden plank floors are old. Wide gaps between each slab allow me to see the dirt the cabin is built on. To the left is asmall kitchen, and to the right is a hallway that I assume leads to my kidnapper’s bedroom.
“Fuck,” I whisper to myself when I notice I’m naked.
I wiggle in the seat, blowing out a relieved breath when I realize I’m not sore between my legs. The relief is short-lived when I notice large bite marks on my inner thighs.
“What…” The simple word dies from my dry lips.
Confusion adds to the throb on the side of my head. I try to follow the dried blood on my body, noticing more bite marks.
Deep wounds decorate my torso and arms. When I move my neck, I hiss from the sharp stings radiating from either side. Warmth drips down my throat from the movement. I’m very aware of the slight tickle of the rivulet sliding down until it stops at my right breast.
“You’re awake.”
The unexpected voice has me looking left, then right, but no one is there.
“That’s good, Druscilla. I like that you have so much life in you after I took so much of it last night.”
I don’t say a word. I’m not stupid. The more I say, the more he can twist my words and use them against me. My entire body trembles with fear. Tears threaten to break free, but I can’t let them fall. Men like him enjoy that too much.
“You can pretend all you want, Druscilla—pretty name, by the way—that you are brave and strong.” He grips my shoulders from behind me, bends down, and inhales so deeply, he moans. “But I can smell your fear, and you smell so fucking good.” His finger swipes the fresh blood drip, following the trail up my chest.
His other hand slides across my shoulders as he walks with heavy steps to stand in front of me.
He sucks his finger into his mouth, groaning when he tastes my blood.
“There’s just something about you. I can’t put my finger on it. You aren’t my mate or anything like that.” A chaotic, mad laugh fills the dusty space. “Wouldn’t that be terrible?”
“I don’t know what drugs you are on, but I won’t tell anyone what happened here. Just let me go, and you can go back to whatever drug-induced stupor you enjoy.”
He bends down, gripping each arm of the chair I’m sitting in. I smell the metallic taste of my blood on his breath. A maniacal smile spreads across his face, and I gasp as a new wave of terror quakes my body.
Blood tints his teeth. The red sinks into the nooks and crevices, painting a predatory picture that I will not be able to forget. He will be the reason for my nightmares, but I will be the reason I overcome them.
Two sharp cuspids protruding from his mouth can only be one thing.
Fangs.
I’ve heard stories like everyone else. Vampires, werewolves, elves, fairies, and whatever else parents tell their children growing up. They can’t be real, but the logical part of me is wondering where the stories started.
Isn’t there truth to everything, even if it seems unbelievable?
My intrusive thoughts turn to cannibalism. I’m not sure why, because being drank dry is just as terrifying as getting eaten, but I’d rather have a vampire drink my blood than a cannibal add me to his ingredients list for his stew.
