A bird was squawking, and after several minutes of attempting to ignore its
repetitive, shrill, bleating, I came to grips with the fact that it didn’t seem
inclined to stop on its own. I snapped open my eyes, prepared to reach out the
window and stop it myself, with my bare hands if necessary—I’d never heard such
an obnoxious bird in my life, not in the city, not on the west coast, not even
on my one excursion to visit Walker upstate—and froze. There was no window. And
if the vents Bex used to filter fresh air into her underground coven were any
indication, there was no bird. Despite the similarity of the vents to Bex’s
coven, however, I didn’t recognize the room as the inviting, well-decorated
step-back in time that Bex had created, either: no extra furniture for lounging,
no scented candles, no Gerbera daisies, and no kerosene lamps pulsing in a
hypnotic, romantic beat.
This room contained only sparse necessities: vents for underground air
filtration, a bare bulb for light, a door for privacy, and of course, a bed. I
was in a strange room in a stranger’s bed, its dimensions and décor familiar
only by its unfamiliarity, and suddenly, the last moments of my memory smashed
into my brain like a semi.
Jillian tearing out my throat. Dominic healing me. The blood and burning. The
transformation.
Someone was speaking in the room outside this bedroom’s door, and despite the
distance, the scarred door, the cement wall, and my disorientation, I could hear
every word being said, and I recognized the voice speaking: Ronnie Carmichael.
“Lysander said he would. There’s no reason to think he won’t, so I don’t
think—”
And following Ronnie’s voice was the squawking of that damn bird.
“Exactly. You don’t think,” Jeremy snapped.
“Lysander said that he would try,” Keagan said patiently, his voice nearly
drowned out by the bleat of that insufferable bird. “His priority is Cassidy and
our safety. He won’t take unnecessary risks, like remaining above ground, away
from Cassidy longer than absolutely necessary.”
“Yes, he said he would try,” Ronnie insisted, but her voice was faint now.
“Lysander doesn’t say anything lightly.”
The bird squawked even louder, in time with Jeremy’s audible groan,
triggering a memory of Ronnie’s little girl voice and something she had confided
in me: I never even knew he thought of my voice as grating. I never knew
someone’s annoyance had a sound let alone that it sounded like a squawking bird.
I was right about the bird not being underground, but unlike anything I’d
ever heard, the sound wasn’t a bird at all. The squawking was the sound of
Keagan’s annoyance at the grate of Ronnie’s whining voice. Unlike Jeremy, Keagan
was too well-mannered to audibly express his frustration with Ronnie, but among
other vampires, he could no longer hide his true feelings. His unspoken
annoyance had a sound—as loud, obnoxious and obvious as Jeremy’s audible
hostility—and Ronnie could no doubt hear it, too, despite the calm, reasonable
tone of his words.
I could hear it.
I could hear the sound of Keagan’s annoyance.
The weight of the sheets covering my body was suddenly suffocating. I raised
my hand to tear them from my body, but someone else’s hand whipped into the air.
I gasped at the skeleton-skinny joints of each finger, the knobby protrusion of
its wrist and the elongated talons sprouting from each fingertip instead of
nails. I ducked under the hand, trying to avoid its attack and swallow the
scream that tore up my throat, but the hand moved with me, moving with my
intensions, attached to my body. I froze again, for the second time in as many
seconds, and raised the hand in front of my face. It looked lethal. With one
wrong move, it could eviscerate me. As I ticked each finger, the long talons
swept the air as I counted—one, two, three, four, five—and each moved on my
command. Like the inevitability of a pending dawn with the rising sun, I
realized that the hand was mine. Fear of that hand turned to horror and then to
a kind of giddy resignation. Hysteria, more likely.
I had ducked against the attack of my own hand.
A swift peal of laughter burst from my mouth.
I stopped laughing just as abruptly. Even my voice was different: guttural
and sharp, like shards of glass scraping against asphalt.
The voices outside my door and the squawking bird had abruptly stopped, too,
and in the sudden silence following my outburst, an uncomfortable, aching vise
circled my chest. The pain wasn’t physical, but its presence triggered a dull
burn in the back of my throat. I had the immediate urge to destroy everything,
to pound the cement walls into crumbs with my fists and tear the sheets into
ribbons with my nails—my talons—and fight my way free from this prison. I held
myself motionless, resisting the urge, and I realized with a belated sort of
curiosity that the aching vise was panic. Without a beating heart to pound and
without a circulatory system to hyperventilate, I hadn’t recognized the emotion
without its physical symptoms, but even so, it felt the same in one way. It felt
horrible.
I took a deep breath to dispel the panic, purely from habit, but the action
wasn’t calming. My heart that wasn’t pounding didn’t slow, and I couldn’t catch
a breath that I hadn’t lost. The vise around my chest tightened. I squeezed my
hands into fists, trembling from the force of my will to remain still and
silent. Something sharp pierced my hands, and I gasped, the raging panic
stuttering until I looked down at my bleeding fists. My talons were imbedded in
my own palms.
A door slammed somewhere outside this room, further away than the voices
directly behind the door, but I didn’t hear it slam with my ears. I felt it slam
from its flat slap against my skin. Never mind that the door wasn’t near enough
for me to see, nor in this room, nor the impossibility that I could feel its
sound waves, my entire body felt its sting as if I’d been smacked from all
sides.
“Why are you just staring?” Despite the impatience and aggravation in those
words, hearing his voice made the aching around my chest both loosen and worsen.
The clip of his tread across the cement floor stung like the warning barbs of
a wasp. I knew the physical pain on my skin was only the tactile manifestation
of sounds— first, the door slam, and now, his walking—but that didn’t change the
fact that the sounds really did hurt my skin. I tried to rub away the lingering
sting and realized my hands were still fisted, my talons still imbedded in my
palms, so I just sat on the bed, motionless and bleeding, like someone trapped
without an EpiPen, waiting for the inevitable swelling, choking and death:
trapped within a body that had betrayed me.
“Did you have time to—” Ronnie began, but her voice was too small and too
fragile not to crumble under the weight of his will.
“You heard her waken,” he accused. “Don’t you smell the blood?”
I could actually taste the pungent, freshly sliced, onion musk of their
silence.
The door swung open, and suddenly, inevitably, Dominic entered the room. He
didn’t need permission to cross my threshold, not anymore, and he didn’t bother
with the perfunctory acts of knocking or requesting my consent to enter. He
simply strode inside and slammed the door behind him with a final, fatal bee
sting.
He’d recently fed. I could tell, as I’d always been able to tell, by the
bloom of health on his cheeks, his strong, sculpted figure, and the careful calm
of his countenance, but my heightened senses could now also smell the lingering
spice of blood on his breath and hear the crackle of it nourishing his muscles.
From the top of his carefully tousled black hair to the soles of his
wing-tipped, dress shoes, Dominic was insatiably sexy, but his physique was an
illusion of his last meal. I knew his true form. Upon waking, before feeding, he
appeared more monster than man. Although not many people look their best in the
morning, Dominic by far looked his worst.
The way I looked now.
That thought made my fists tighten, embedding my talons deeper into my own
flesh.
Despite his grievance with Ronnie, Keagan, and Jeremy for their inaction, he
too just stared, immobile after entering the room, but his gaze absorbed
everything. I felt the slash of his eyes slice across my face, down my body, and
eventually, settle with dark finality on my fisted palms.
He didn’t move, and that I could tell by the stillness of his throat, he
didn’t make a sound, but despite his still, silent stare, I heard the
unmistakable rush of wind. There were no windows underground, and in the
stagnant stillness of the room—the tension between our bodies like an electric
current stretching to complete its circuit—no relief from the heat of his
presence. The sound wasn’t wind, it only sounded like wind, but whatever it was
the sound of, it was emanating from the only other person in the room.
I blinked and Dominic was suddenly, but no longer impossibly, beside the bed.
His movements were just as inhumanly fast as ever, but with my enhanced vision,
I could track his movement, see his grace and fluidity. I heard the slide of air
molecules parting for him, felt the electric snap of his muscles flexing, and
smelled an emotion he wouldn’t allow me to interpret on his carefully neutral
expression. Whatever he was feeling was spiced, sweet, strong, and dangerous
with overuse, like ginger.
He reached out and carefully wrapped his palms around mine to cup my fists.
His voice was steady when he spoke, but I knew better. The rush of wind
emanating from him heightened, the smell of ginger became chokingly poignant,
and his heart that didn’t need to beat to keep him alive, contracted just once.
I could both hear the swoosh of his blood being pumped through each chamber and
taste the silky spice of that sound.
My hands were injured yet his trembled.
“Relax,” Dominic murmured. “I’m here. I should have been here when you first
awakened, but I’m here now.”
I blinked at him. With him here, everything was somehow simultaneous better
and horribly worse.
“Mirror,” I growled. I tried to form a complete sentence, to demand, Get me a
mirror, so I can see the horror of a face that matches these hands! but my
throat was too dry. Even that one word rattled from my vocal cords like flint
scraping across steel, and the resulting sparks flamed the back of my throat. I
sounded dangerous and angry and monstrous. If I had stumbled upon me in an
alley, I would have run.
Then again, I’d stumbled upon Dominic in an alley, and look how that had
played out.
Whether Dominic saw my anger or thought me a dangerous monster now wasn’t
revealed by his carefully masked countenance. He stroked the back of my hand
with the soft pad of his human-feeling thumb. “You need to calm down.”
Calm down? I thought. I jerked my hands free from his gentle hold and shook
my fists between us, in front of his face. All things considered, this is calm!
Dominic sighed. “I can’t see your claws from inside your palms, but did you
happen to notice their color before stabbing yourself with them?”
I frowned. I had claws, for Christ sake. Claws. No, I didn’t take note of
their color.
“I’ll take that as a no,” he said, still gentle, still careful, and so
fucking infuriating.
A comforting flood of hot anger blast-dried my shock and sorrow. I spread my
fingers, tearing said claws from my palms and ripping wide my self inflicted
wounds, but I didn’t take the time to note their color. I swiped at Dominic.
My movements were lightning. Dominic’s movements were just as fast; he leapt
back, dodging my claws. I lunged off the bed after him. A familiar sound rattled
from deep inside my chest, a sound I’d heard emanate from Ronnie, Jillian,
Kaden, and Dominic, a sound that coming from them had raised the fine hairs on
the back of my neck. Now, that sound came from my throat. I was growling.
Dominic summersaulted out of reach. I watched his movements, fascinated by
the strength of his muscles as he leapt into the air, his coordination as his
legs tucked and his arms caught his knees, and his athleticism as he stuck the
landing and raised his hands to block my advance. He was the epitome of power
and grace under pressure, and with the enhanced ability of my heightened senses,
I could actually see it. He wasn’t just a blur of movement but a perfectly
choreographed symphony of muscle, control, and honed skill. I watched, and
unlike the jaw-dropping awe of impossibility that Dominic’s physical feats would
normally inspire in me, I was just inspired.
I attempted to mimic Dominic’s movements with a matching forward summersault
of my own, but instead of landing on my feet, like I’d intended, like Dominic
had stuck so effortlessly, I landed in an awkward, bone-jarring, heap, flat on
my back.
Dominic leaned over me, his mouth opened with concern, surely about to ask me
if I was all right. My pride was more injured than my body, and the hot
embarrassment fueled my anger, as every strong emotion could fuel my easily
provoked temper. Taking advantage of his concern and close proximity, I raked my
claws down the front of his shirt.
Buttons severed from their threads, but before the pops of their little
plastic heads hit the floor, Dominic was airborne again, back flipping away from
me before my claws could do any real damage. I lunged after his leaps and twists
and rolls, milliseconds behind his acrobatics, but even without the advantage of
his fancy gymnastics, my body’s newfound abilities were astonishing. Each muscle
contraction burned beneath my skin, but not like human muscles burning with
fatigue. Mine sparked to life, twitching with power and reveling in unleashed
speed and strength.
I’d never been particularly athletic; my entire life, even before being shot
in the hip, my skills were better served in an intellectual
capacity—interviewing witnesses and writing articles. After being shot, my
physical abilities had shriveled to the point where I could barely walk. Now, I
could not only walk, I had the potential to fly. I was a force in both body and
mind, and the limitlessness of those abilities after being physically limited
for so long was intoxicating.
Time suspended. Our battle raged in the timespan of a blink, but within that
blink, we fought and danced and completely trashed the little utilitarian room
in what felt like years—a lifetime of limitations revealed and obliterated with
every movement and newly discovered capability. Our movements were lighting, the
evidence of our devastation scattered across the room—Dominic’s torn clothing,
upended and smashed furniture, pillows gutted and their insides fluffed over the
rumpled comforter and upended mattress—the cause unseen.
I made a move of my own instead of following Dominic, cutting him mid-leap
and smashing him face-down into the box spring. He was vulnerable for the split
of a millisecond, me at his back, my razor claws splayed across his shoulder
blades, his neck bared as he craned to look over his shoulder at me, and I had
him. If I chose to, with a swipe of my hand, I could sever his head from his
body. My claws were sharp, his skin was soft, and unlike any other physical
battle I’d waged in my life, I had the advantage.
My body’s speed and strength were new to me, but the feelings of rage and
intoxicating addiction were not. I knew those emotions intimately; they had been
the very core of my personality and shaped a person who, despite my former
physical limitations, had unbeatable mental strength, evidenced by my winning
battle against Percocet addition and an ability to entrance vampires as a night
blood. Memories of addiction and the bone-deep reasons I’d fought to overcome
it, kept me grounded when I would have taken advantage of Dominic’s weakness. I
nearly let the strength and power overwhelm reason, but I knew when to stop. I
knew when the need and heat felt too good to be good. The rage reminded me that
despite the claws sprouting from each fingertip, despite the fact that I might
look like the devil and have the strength of God, I was the same flawed person
I’d always been.
I was still me, and despite his flaws, I loved Dominic.
I jerked my hand from his back, ripping fabric with my movement but not skin,
and fell to my knees.
Dominic summersaulted over me. He landed at my back, but I didn’t turn to
face him. He knew I’d resisted the opportunity to kill him. Our battle was over,
but mine had just begun.
He fell to his knees behind me, wrapped his arms around me, holding my hands,
cradling my body, and it was only then, with the steady press of his cheek
against mine, that I realized by the solid stillness of his arms holding me that
I was shaking.
I burst out weeping. The sobs wracked my body and bathed my cheeks.
Dominic’s arms tightened. He stroked my hands and murmured promises into my
ear that I knew better than to believe, promises that no one could keep, but
having him hold me, his lips moving against my ear and the familiar tone of his
voice resonating like a blanket cocooned around my body, was comforting anyway.
I sobbed harder at first, relieved that he was here, that I wasn’t alone, that
he’d experienced this, too, and had survived and eventually thrived. Buoyed by
the knowledge that I, too, could survive and eventually thrive, I calmed. My
weeping slowed, the sobs wracking my body lessoned, and my tears eventually
dried.
I relaxed into Dominic’s embrace—my back flush against his chest, his arms
cradling my arms, our fingers entwined. His breath fluttering my hair wasn’t
winded, and I noted with a detached sort of astonishment, that neither was mine.
I was suddenly struck by a wary sort of certainty that my new, debatably
improved physical form would continue to astonish for a very long time. I stared
at our entwined fingers—his perfectly formed human hands still larger than my
emaciated fingers but not nearly longer than my elongated claws—and I pulled
into myself, embarrassed that he was touching them.
“Don’t,” he murmured, tightening his hold. “Some aspects of the
transformation might take some getting used to. You’re already becoming
accustomed to your heightened senses and increased strength, which is
impressive. In a few days, you’ll land that summersault, I assure you. And
eventually, you’ll look into a mirror and recognize yourself, but for tonight,
let me be your mirror.” He raised his hand and urged my face to the side to meet
his gaze. “Let me show you how beautiful you are.”
My physical appearance wasn’t the only aspect of the transformation that
shook me, but when he cupped my cheek in his palm and ducked his head, pressing
his lips to mine, I kissed him back. My lips felt foreign against the long
protrusions of my fangs, but his lips were soft and the texture of his scar
familiar. His Christmas pine scent enveloped us, and with my enhanced senses, I
felt its chilled effervescence simultaneous heat and create goose bumps over my
body. I turned in his arms, angling for more access, and a rush of blood filled
my mouth.
Dominic stiffened.
I jerked back, startled by the blood coating my tongue, a taste which wasn’t
entirely unpleasant, was in fact, not unpleasant at all. The blood was
absolutely delicious, which was also startling, not to mention disturbing.
Dominic had a gash across his lower lip, and I realized that I’d cut him.
I swallowed the blood in my haste to apologize and choked.
Dominic covered my lips with a finger and shook his head. His thumb swiped
back and forth over my cheekbone as we stared at each other, and before my very
acute eyes, I watched the intricacy of Dominic’s body heal. The split sides of
his lip filled with blood, and that blood pooled in the crevice of his cut,
coagulated, scabbed, and flaked to reveal new, shiny, pink skin. That skin
darkened to a faint thread, and if he’d still been human, the healing might have
stopped there, but his body healed the scar, too, until his lips bore not one
sliver of evidence of my clumsy lust. What had once seemed to occur
instantaneously and magically was now a simple bodily function, but I suppose,
that in itself was a kind of magic.
I touched his lips, grazing my fingertips carefully over the perfection of
his newly healed skin to the divots and pucker of the permanent scar gouging
through the other side of his lower lip and chin, a reminder of his human
lifetime, and for me, a reminder of the few things we had in common. Although
looking at the skeletal, talon-tipped hand touching him—the hand that I
controlled but didn’t resemble anything I recognized as mine—we had much more in
common now than I’d ever anticipated having.
He touched my lips with his fingertips, mimicking my movements with the
human-looking version of his hand, and I couldn’t help it. Despite the
impossibility of this situation and the state of my hands and what I could only
imagine was the state of my face, I smiled.
“Sorry,” I murmured. Dominic’s blood had moistened the scratch in my throat,
so it didn’t feel like my vocal chords were raking my esophagus with razor
blades anymore. “I’m not myself this morning.”
Dominic grinned—full and genuine and lopsided from the pull of his scar—and
the warmth and affection in his expression widened my own smile. I let that
warmth soak into me, filling my unfamiliar body with hope, reminding me that I
could survive. That I wanted to survive.
“No one looks or acts their best upon waking, not even you when you were
human.” Dominic reminded me. “Not even me.”
I sighed. “I will miss working on my tan though,” I said, only half-jokingly.
The feel of the sun’s warmth on my skin had become a safe haven after
discovering the existence of vampires. Having become one, I supposed the
necessity was moot, but that didn’t mean I wouldn’t miss it.
Dominic grunted. “Many things about you will never change despite the
transformation, including your ability to enjoy the sun and your stubbornness it
seems.”
I raised my eyebrows. “My stubbornness won’t cure a fatal sun allergy.”
“Look at the color of your claws,” Dominic said dryly.
Despite my said stubbornness and the urge to resist looking at my claws just
to defy him, I looked. The skeletal appendages coming from my body were long and
knobby and honestly grotesque, a monster’s hands with four-inch, lethal talons
sprouting from their tips.
And those talons were silver.
Dominic was right, as per usual, and unfortunately, so was our dear friend,
High Lord Henry. I was a vampire, but I wasn’t allergic to the sun.
I was a Day Reaper.
Dark Queen
