"This," she says, "is very special. It is my own invention. A drug that immobilizes muscle but enhances the senses. Pleasure. Pain. Exquisitely enhanced. Your body will not be able to respond, but you will feel every cut of the razor, be aware of the blood draining from your body, experience life slowly slipping away. And when you are dead, we will do the same to Max. But his suffering will be greater because he will have watched his beloved die in unspeakable agony and have been powerless to help."
Max stirs and tries to push himself off the cot. "You have me," he says. "Let Anna go. She had nothing to do with this."
Martinez shoves him back, places a hand on his broken ankle and leans into it.
Max groans, writhing with the pain, sweat beads on his face.
His agony unleashes the beast. Martinez is oblivious to the change. He is completely focused on the pain he sees in Max's face. He is drinking it in, smiling in satisfaction. He turns only at the sound, the howl that comes from an unknown place deep inside me. This much rage, this much pure hatred, is more than I can control. It overwhelms me, pushes the human Anna down into a place so deep, she's gone. Utterly.
I spring at Martinez before he has a chance to react. I throw him to the floor, clawing at his face, ripping at his neck with my teeth. Blood sprays from torn arteries, soaking us both. I hear Marta scream, but it's from far, far away. I feel a sharp prick. Marta is beside me. I swat her hand away, pull the syringe from my arm, lunge again at Martinez. I lock him against my body and use teeth and hands to tear at his flesh. I'm beyond wanting to drink. I want to rip his head off his body. My jaw locks on his neck. His mouth is open, his lips move, but if he's screaming, the sound is blocked by the roar of my own blood. It boils in my veins, colors the whole world crimson. It's all I feel, all I taste. Blood. Hot. Red.
His blood.
My blood.
Then.
Nothing.
CHAPTER 43
AT FIRST, I THINK I'M ASLEEP. A DEEP SLEEP. ONE from which I'm not ready to awaken.
But something is crawling into my consciousness, willing me, commanding me, to come back.
My senses respond slowly. Taste and smell are first. I'm assailed by the rich, metallic scent of fresh blood. I taste it, too, in the back of my throat.
I lick my lips.
I don't open my eyes. I'm not ready. I listen, though. It's quiet. Beyond quiet. No sound at all. No insect or animal noises. No human stirrings.
Deadly quiet.
I try to move. My body is heavy and unresponsive. I'm lying down. Whatever I'm lying on is rough textured and smells of—what? The outdoors. Slightly gamy. Like a camping blanket that's been stored unwashed in a musty attic.
How do I know that smell?
A memory flashes. My brother and I on a camping trip. Too many years ago to count. Another lifetime.
Where am I?
Open your eyes.
I think the command comes from inside my head. But I don't want to open my eyes. I'm not ready. I'm afraid.
What am I afraid of?
"Anna, open your eyes."
The voice makes me jump. I cringe away and raise my hand to cover my eyes.
Another's hand snatches it away.
"Open your eyes, vampire."
A female voice. Cold. Unsympathetic.
"Very well. This will bring you back."
A sharp prick. Pressure as a plunger is depressed. Something snakes into my bloodstream, trailing an icy finger. I feel it move, invade my system, awaken every nerve ending, reach into my brain and gnaw at me until I can't fight it anymore.
I'm yanked screaming back into consciousness.
CHAPTER 44
A WOMAN IS LOOKING DOWN AT ME. She's smiling.
She'd be pleasant looking if it weren't for the blood that mats her hair and streaks her face.
Blood? Whose blood?
Why can't I remember?
A memory cuts like a strobe light into my head. It pulses in black-and-white relief. A body. Ravaged. Torn. Blood everywhere.
Instinctively, I raise my hands. They are flaked with dried blood. My nails are embedded with tissue.
The groan starts deep in my gut and spews forth in a wail of despair.
What have I done?
Why can't I remember?
CHAPTER 45
WHEN I OPEN MY EYES AGAIN, I REMEMBER. Everything.
Marta is no longer standing over me.
I look around.
I'm in a room identical to Max's. I'm on a cot, lying on a torn, rough-textured blanket. A sheet has been thrown over me. I'm naked beneath it.
I don't know where I am in the house. I thought there were only two rooms on the landing. But I'm alone here. And there is no blood on the white tile walls, none on the cement floor. After what I did to Martinez, there would be blood.
Unless.
I pull myself into a sitting position, groaning with the effort. My limbs are in revolt.
But I have to sit up to look around. There is a drain in the middle of the floor. And from it wafts the scent of pine and bleach. And underlying it all, blood.
The sheet falls away, and I see that the room is not the only thing that has been cleaned. There is no blood on my body, on my hands. My nails have been scrubbed. The same slightly antiseptic smell of soap wafts up when I raise my hands to rub at my eyes. The wound on my arm from Marta's blade has a dressing covering it. I rip it off. There is only a flush of color where the knife penetrated my flesh.
Confusion clouds my thoughts.
If this is the same room, where is Max?
Max.
A tremor passes through me.
Where is he? What have they done to him? Why did I let this happen? I should have attacked Martinez the moment I saw him at the door. I should have had a plan. I let the fact that I am vampire lull me into thinking I could handle anything a human could throw at me. I was wrong. It may have cost Max his life.
I swing my legs over the side of the cot and push myself off. Marta has left me nothing to cover my nakedness. I tear the sheet into two pieces and knot the smaller portion around my body. It falls just to my knees allowing me the freedom to move without tripping over the ends.
I'll need to be able to move.
I start for the door. I expect I'll have to break it down, and I'm surprised when the knob turns in my hand. Cautiously, I let it swing open.
The corridor is dark and empty. And quiet. I pull the door shut behind me.
I cross to the other side and put an ear to that door to see if I detect any sound. There is none. Again, the knob turns in my hand and the door opens.
The cots are lined up as before. But the bodies of Martinez' family are gone. Three other bodies are laid out.
I tiptoe from one to the other.
Foley.
Martinez.
Max.
I touch Max's face, too full of anguish to do anything else. When my fingers brush his lips, I realize with a jolt that he is warm. I rub the tears out of my eyes to examine him more closely. His color is good, flushed even. I push my ears against his chest. There is a heartbeat. Slow. Regular. His chest rises and falls in measured, controlled breaths. He is asleep. Drugged again?
But alive.
It sparks my resolve.
I move to Martinez. There is no doubt that he is dead. His throat has been torn open. His head is cocked back at an unusual angle, shattered vertebrae visible through the wound. Delicate streamers of shredded skin are all that hold skull to shoulders. The connection is tenuous. I don't know how anyone managed to lift him onto this cot without the connection being severed. His skin is pale, his eyes closed, his mouth open in a silent scream.