Page 3 of House of Pawns
ILOOK UP WHEN I hear the garage door open again, five hours later. I stand up, wipe my face clean, and watch Rath with conflicted feelings as he walks down the hall toward me.
In his right hand is a bag, a big, insulated one.
“What is that?” I ask with trepidation.
“Blood,” he responds as he sets it on the floor right next to the door. “Your father stopped feeding on anyone who was unwilling in 1875, and modern medicine accommodated that more easily in the past seventy years.”
Rath presses his hand on the door, seemingly in the same way that I did, and it opens without any fuss or bruised shoulders.
I shove him aside, knowing I am only able to do so because he let me. “Ian?” I call down into the darkness. My eyes take a moment to adjust.
He’s there, sitting with his back propped against the well wall. His head rests against it, his face tilted up at me. His hands clutch and hug around his arms, and his entire bodyshakes with violent tremors. The stake no longer pokes through his wrist, though it remains a bloody slick.
“Li…Liv,” he manages.
He’s a mess. Black, angry veins cover his face. They stretch down his neck. His eyes are brilliant. But his skin is ashen, his lips cracked and dry.
“Give me one of those,” I demand of Rath. If I’m feeling conflicted about this impossible situation, it’s nothing compared to the look on Rath’s face.
He slaps a blood bag down in my opened hand.
I look down at it for a moment. This came from someone. Some mother, or brother, or daughter who volunteered to give of their self with the intent to save lives. The cool liquid slides over my hand inside the plastic bag.
Someday, I’m going to crave this. I’ll rip open a bag like this and I’ll down it without a second’s hesitation. It will be all I can think about some days.
This is my future.
“Try not to think about it,” Rath says softly. My eyes rise to meet his. His expression has softened. There’s that protective loyalty I’ve grown used to in the past few months. “Circumstances have changed. You have a choice. For the time being.”
I take a deep breath, roll my shoulder back, and lift my chin.
I do have control.
I grip the blood bag tight and turn back to the opening.
“I have blood for you, Ian,” I call down to him. He slowly opens his eyes to look at me again. “I think it will help if you drink. Are you ready?”
He gives a tormented grunt or growl—I’m not sure which it is. “No, I’m nowhere near damn ready.” He smacks his headback against the stone wall and I hear a crack. I hope it wasn’t his skull. The speed of his breathing increases, though, and a feral sound builds inside of his chest. I’m waiting for a ferocious howl to escape from him.
“Ian,” I say, my voice hardening. “I know how much you must hate what is happening right now. But you’re only making things worse for yourself. Drink it.”
I toss the blood bag down and it lands in the water right next to him.
I expected him to get pissy about it—for him to fight me and say he’ll never drink it. He’d rather die again than be likethem.
I didn’t expect him grab the bag with a speed so inhuman. I didn’t expect him to rip into the bag with his instantly extended fangs. I didn’t expect the blood that dripped down his face or the satisfied moan that echoed throughout the well.
“More,” he growls without looking up at me.
Rath hands me another blood bag and I toss it down to him.
One after the other, Ian asks for another. Ten. Twelve. Fourteen bags.
I toss him the fifteenth. We’re all quiet now.
It’s nearly morning.
When he finishes the bag, Ian tosses it aside with the others. But this time, instead of begging for more, he hangs his head. He rests his forearms over his knees and lets his head hang between his arms.
