“Good.” He released me and turned away. “Be sure to feed once more before dawn and as soon as you wake.”
“When will I see you again?” I meekly asked.
“When I’m in the mood.”
Which turned out to not be at all for the next week.
Chapter Six
Living in the lap of luxury quickly bored. Every day, I followed the same routine.
At sunset, or thereabouts, my eyes would pop open as if an internal alarm clock went off. A good thing someone kept leaving a warmed pitcher of blood on my dresser because I woke absolutely rabidly hungry. All it took was for me to smell it, and I guzzled that shit down so fast, frat boys would have applauded.
After I handled my initial thirst, I showered. Don’t know why I bothered, though. It wasn’t as if I did anything to get dirty or had anywhere to go. At least I had my own clothes to wear, brought over from my apartment along with some personal items. Photo albums, my record collection, which resulted in a turntable appearing in my sitting room. I did appreciate that, since I’d not been able to listen to any of my vinyl since my machine broke years ago.
Once I’d bathed and dressed—and ignored the fact my cheap garments looked woefully out of place—I headed down to the main level, attempting to look casual as I wandered room to room while in reality, I sought my host and never found him. Cillian seemed to be avoiding me, but I’d met all his staff, which included the built like a brickhouse Randy, Gwen, the woman I’d met at my apartment, and Lou, an always scowling man who, unlike the others, dressed in a suit. All tough as nails, and none very talkative, at least when it came to chatting with me. If I asked a direct question, I got the most succinct answers you could imagine.
Is Cillian here? No.
Where is he? Shrug.
Do you like your job? Yes.
Ever worry your boss will eat you? Flat stare.
Despite being someone who had few, as in, almost no friends—blame our changing interests, some getting married and popping out crotch goblins, relocating, etcetera—I acutely felt the loneliness of my new situation.
I ended up watching television—a lot. The cable package offered up everything I could ever want to visually devour, plus some shows and movies I’m pretty sure the public had never seen. When the boob tube bored, I switched to reading on the internet. I’d been left a tablet hooked up to the house wi-fi. I used it to seek out information on vampires, the problem being discerning fact from fiction. Cillian had already pointed out much of what tended to be treated as truth was actually bogus and I feared his ridicule if I asked about some other possible myths like, could he transform into a bat? Did he need an invitation to enter a home? Could he mesmerize people? Did his saliva heal? Did he give me his blood when he turned me? So many questions, and I had no one to give me answers.
By the third day of my stay, I was ready to scream and break things. Much as I should have enjoyed being housed and fed for free, living a life of indulgent luxury, I couldn’t help feeling unwanted and bored.
So bored.
Bored enough when I found a gym during my snooping through the house, I actually got on the treadmill to walk. When that proved too easy, I started to run. Then lifting weights. And you know what? It felt good, not something I’d ever thought I’d say about exercise. Even better, I started noticing a difference in my body. Flabby flesh began to firm up, and before anyone comes at me saying it takes more than a few days, tell that to the disappearing cellulite.
The mirror also showed a changing image. The creases bracketing my mouth began tightening. The fine lines by my eyes faded as did the perpetual circles under my eyes. Most astonishing of all, my hair turned from gray back to red.
Reverse aging had to be the coolest thing about being a vampire, but at the same time, what was the point of becoming young and hot again if no one ever saw it? That, combined with the fact I craved actual conversation, was why, on the tenth day of waking up in the mansion alone, I decided to leave the premises. I knew where to find car keys—in the garage, hung on a hook. Would it be considered stealing if I borrowed one of the parked cars for a few hours?
I no sooner stepped into the garage than someone confronted me.
“Going somewhere?” Randy asked in that gravelly voice of his.
I whirled to see him framed in the doorway I’d just passed through. “Yeah. I was going to swing by my place and get some of my things.”
“No.”
“Why not? Am I a prisoner?” I huffed.
“You’re not a prisoner, however, you can’t return to your apartment.”
The most words he’d ever said in one go, and, of course, they weren’t what I wanted to hear. “Why not?”
“Because your previous abode is a crime scene.”
I blinked at him. “Er, why?”
“Because of the fire.”
