I pulled Phaedra close. I smoothed her hair. It was moist with perspiration and cool, too cool.
“Don’t die, sweetheart. Not after all that. Please.”
Her aura flickered again, like a loose wire had moved into place. Her eyes struggled to open and a weak breath pulled through her nostrils.
I set her back into the seat. “Good. We’re safe.” I glanced south to make sure.
Her aura remained weak and her breathing shallow. What could I do to keep her from dying? I ran through the scenarios. Stop a police car and ask for help? Say, Mister Cop, I’ve got this underage girl here and we were attacked by zombies.
Fatigue weighed upon me. My body felt weak.
Phaedra drew a breath and it caught in her throat as if her body didn’t want the air. Her aura brightened—not by much, going from dim to less dim. Limp tendrils grew from her penumbra, waving like soggy reeds in a sluggish current.
I cupped her neck and stroked her hair. “Stay with me.”
The tendrils from her aura trailed into smoky wisps and disappeared.
I clenched my fists in anger and desperation. Not her.
A familiar panic and dread returned. I found myself spiraling down a funnel of despair. As a young boy, I couldn’t help my mother in her struggles with my alcoholic father and the abuse of the in-laws who blamed her for the family troubles. He wasn’t an alcoholic before he married you. I couldn’t help her when we were evicted and lived like vagabonds on the charity of our cousins. When we studied about the homeless in school, I realized we were talking about my family.
I fooled myself into thinking that as a man I’d never again lose control of my life. Then in Iraq, despite all the might and money of the United States of America, my men and I found ourselves alone in the havoc of urban combat.
We fought in the chaos, mindful of the one misstep or the instant of hesitation that could mean going home upright and whole or on our backs in body bags. One terrible night I led my squad in an ambush and we didn’t hesitate to annihilate the enemy. When the firing stopped, we had instead massacred a family of Iraqi civilians.
I went insane with despair and ran into the lair of an Iraqi vampire who, as punishment for my sins, turned me into one of the undead, a vampire.
Then as a supernatural I learned that it was my nature to fight injustice.
Now, once more, I was bound by conscience to rescue Phaedra.
The last bit of her aura danced from her head to a spot over her heart.
I had to save her. I couldn’t let her go. I would do the one thing I swore not to.
My fangs sprouted and I drew close to her throat.
Phaedra wouldn’t die but she wouldn’t live either, not as a human.
I opened my mouth and let my fangs probe for the choicest spot to penetrate. Biting quickly, I guided my fangs through the skin and deep into her vein.
My nose sifted through the many smells: sweat, dust, and the fragrances of her blood, adrenaline, the rich cocktail of a young woman’s potent estrogen, and the bitterness of her medications.
Blood gushed into my mouth. A liquid banquet of pleasure flooded across my tongue, down my throat, and to every crevasse in my body. My belly felt the heft of the blood and my limbs flushed with viscous warmth.
I pumped recuperative enzymes into Phaedra, hoping that the sudden healing of her flesh would pull her from the brink.
I pulled my mouth away. Thick drops of blood clung to my lips and teeth.
Phaedra’s aura returned, the penumbra glowing cherry red.
Now to cheat death.
“Phaedra,” I whispered as if we were lovers sharing a pillow. “Open your mouth.”
Those young pale lips parted and her fingers hunted for my face.
Phaedra was my first human that I would turn. We were both virgins at this.
I wanted to deny the arousal but I couldn’t, no more than I could deny how much I relished savoring her succulent blood.
Lust pounded through me in a drumbeat of sexual conquest. I wanted to rip Phaedra’s blouse and bra apart and press my body against hers.
My hands fumbled for her belt and I had the image of me spreading her legs and thrusting into her while blood streamed from her throat, between her breasts, and over her belly.
I gripped the upholstery and my talons tore into the fabric.
No.
I would only turn Phaedra, no more.
My hands trembled from the struggle. I clasped the back of Phaedra’s neck and brought my mouth to hers.
I sealed our lips together. I pushed her blood back into her mouth and licked her teeth.
A fountain of energy rose from deep inside. The fountain gathered force, as if propelled upward by an explosion.
The energy flowed from my mouth into Phaedra’s. Our heads fused as one and a current of psychic force surged from me directly into her.
The current was a lightning bolt fixed between us. The energy crackled in my head.
Slowly, the crackling weakened. The lightning bolt dimmed, turned into a weak spark, and disappeared.
The force receded from me and I pulled my mouth from Phaedra.
Her aura blazed neon orange. Her eyes were open to the point of popping from their sockets, straining with horror and pain as if she’d awakened in a raging volcano.
Phaedra gasped and lurched in the Jeep. She gagged and retched, spewing bloody vomit on her clothes and the interior.
She raised her hands, gawking with terror as if her flesh was on fire.
The scene mirrored what had happened to me in Iraq, though now I was on the other side of the experience.
The words of the ancient ekimmu who had turned me echoed through the years:
I’ve given you what you want.
Immortality.
As a vampire.