Wraith's Awakening (Para-Ops) (3 page)

“Oh, for pity's sake. We've already established I'm not going to hurt you. My name is Nicholas Coltrane St. Delacroix. I prefer Colt.”

Nicholas St. Delacroix. It sounds fancy. The name of someone who'd never be caught dead wearing dumpster trash or sleeping on a mattress on the floor, no matter how well appointed.

Colt's a bit more. . . down to earth, more cowboy, but this dude is no cowboy. No, he's a vampire. An arrogant, bossy one.

Determined to keep control of our little conversation, I say, “So you're a vampire. You look a little hungry. Why haven't you tried to take a bite out of me? Or are you on a diet?”

His expression wipes clean and suddenly all I see on his face is a detached coldness. “You might say that.”

Guilt is a heavy weight on my chest. Great, I think. I hurt his feelings. First, the old lady and now him. Maybe crazy goth girl was right. Maybe Jonah had been crazy to help me.

“Not crazy, simply idealistic. That'll change in time. He's young yet.”

The vamp is infuriating, but I don't see how I'm going to be able to shield my thoughts. “So youth is a requirement for idealism?”

“Most of the time.” He glances at the slim-faced watch on his wrist. The way he holds his arm and tilts his head strikes me as quite. . . . elegant. That's when I notice that his watch is a Movado and likely quite an expensive one. Despite his lack of padding, he reeks money. His clothes are pressed, and the material of his dress shirt and slacks shine a little. I remember the feel of those silk sheets back in that storage room.

Weirder and weirder.

“Are you rich?”

“Why, do you need a loan?”

Now that he mentioned it, I suppose I do, but we don't seem to have the type of relationship conducive to exchanging money.

He laughs. Laughs.

“Oh, please!” I snap. “Get your mind out of the gutter. That's not what I mean and you know it. Besides, I'd prefer you drink my blood.”

He stops laughing. “I bet you would. Unfortunately, that's impossible.”

Again, I am unreasonably insulted. Obviously, I'm the sensitive sort. “Why?”

Once more, he shrugs.

The gesture makes something inside me snap. I am sick of his dismissive behavior. I am tired of this. I want to wake up. I want to remember who I am and get on with my life.

I stand and plant my hands on my hips. “No, really. I mean, by the looks of you, it's not like you can afford to be picky. What, exactly, is wrong with my blood?”

He straightens, looking like he's lost his patience as well. Taking several slow, deliberate strides toward me, he gets so close that I flinch. I take several steps back, but freeze when he speaks.

“Nothing's wrong with your blood, exactly. You just don't happen to have any.”

CHAPTER THREE

“Yeah, right.”

“Sorry, but it's true.”

“I do so have blood.”

“You don't.”

“Do so!”

He glares at me but remains quiet, stopping our schoolyard banter in its tracks.

Panic is threatening to eat me alive. I can't deny it-Nicholas-or rather Colt-is the second person-well, third, really-who's implied that I'm not. Living and breathing, that is.

To prove them wrong, I take a deep breath, then look at him as if to say, See?

But he doesn't respond. Again, he's got that pitying look in his eyes.

“This is ridiculous.” Wildly, I spin around, searching for something sharp. My gaze lands on several rocks and I immediately crouch beside them, searching for one with a jagged edge. Finding one, I grab it and hold it up triumphantly.

No blood, huh?

I'll show him.

I hold the jagged tip of the rock over my forearm and pause.

Colt stares at me, then quietly says, “I'd do the same thing in your position, but. . .”

“But what?” I breathe.

He shakes his head. “Nothing.”

With a fierce frown, I shove the rock into my arm and pull.

It hurts, but not as much as I think it should.

I press harder when I don't see the telltale red I'm looking for.

Nothing.

I fairly slash at my wrists, vaguely thinking if I die in this dream I'll somehow wake up and things will be back to normal. Granted, who knows what normal is, but it's gotta be better than this.

Still nothing.

I glance up at him, remembering the big shard of glass in the alley. I'd stepped right on it with my bare foot. I should have bled.

But I hadn't.

A low whimper escapes my throat and I drop the rock. I run to Colt and hold my arm aloft. “Bite me,” I whisper.

He shakes his head.

“Bite me!” I scream. “I need to know for sure. Please!”

My arm is shaking like a vibrator between us. I stare at it. At the pale, pale bluish flesh covering it. I still feel cold, I realize, even though the sun is beating down on me. I raise my hand to my throat, placing my fingers just under my jaw. I search for a pulse.

I don't find one.

Shaking my head, I wait for tears to form. They don't.

I'm empty, I realize. A hollow shell.

But part of me still wants to deny it's true.

I step closer to Colt just before I stumble and fall to my knees. My awful white hair hangs limply, covering my face until I push it back. Once more, I raise my arm. “Bite me,” I plead.

He falls to his knees in front of me, careless of the dirt that will ruin his slacks. His eyes remain fixed on mine. Slowly, he reaches out with both hands and touches my arm. The pain is slight but instantaneous.

It zips through my fingers, up my arms and into every fiber of my being. I flinch back, as if he'd shocked me with electricity. The first thing I think is,

What. The. Fuck. Was. That?

He pulls away from me, an odd look on his face, but I shake my head and gesture for him to come back to me. “Do it again. Touch me.”

“But-”

“Just do it!” I can't keep the urgency from my voice.

Slowly, he grasps my arms again. This time, the pain explodes in a flash of white light behind my eyeballs. This time, I'm ready for it. I want it.

I cling to it.

I tell myself that if I can still feel pain, then there is hope.

I am alive.

I have nerve-endings that feel sensation and therefore I have veins that are filled with blood. I have a heart beat. A life force. A soul.

Please, God, let me have a soul.

But why does his touch hurt me now, when it didn't before?

I shake the thought away and urge, “Bite me. Now.”

When Colt bends his head and sinks his fangs into my arm, I feel the pain surge. When he pulls his head back in order to tear my flesh, just a little, I'm unable to stop my instinctive cry.

And when he lifts his head, with no trace of blood on his fangs or my arm, I moan, a low, agonized sound. I stare at my arm.

I feel as if I'm dying, but of course that's impossible. I'm already dead.

*****

After what feels like several hours but is probably closer to ten minutes, I raise my head and look at Colt. He's backed up to the same boulder I'd earlier perched on, only he hasn't sat down. He's standing, his head bowed, his eyes closed.

“The sun doesn't bother you?” I ask, my voice halting and scratchy as if I haven't spoken is a long time.

His head lifts and he opens his eyes. The inky wells should look scary, yawning voids of nothingness, but they comfort me. “I'm a vampire with a trace of human ancestry. I'm not a full dharmire, but my human blood-it lets me walk in the sun, even if it doesn't help my diet. And I'm wearing an appropriate sun block.”

Dharmire? Sun block? Where does he get it? The local VampMart?

I struggle to get to my feet. Colt moves as if to help me and I quickly shake my head. “No, please. I've had enough pain for the moment and for some reason your touch has become a tad dangerous.”

With a grimace, he nods his head. “Of course. I'm sorry.”

Wearily, I walk towards him, then once more settle myself on the boulder, this time with far less aplomb. “Why? Because you hurt me before or because I'm dead?”

“Both.”

“Thanks,” I manage to choke out. I drop my face into my hands, then rub at my eyes. They feel gritty and briefly lose focus before clearing. After raising my head, I stare to my right, through the trees at a burst of color in the distance. Lavender, perhaps? But the longer I look, the color seems to gray.

I remember Jonah's words. No, you're human. Sort of. “So, what am I exactly?”

“You're what we call a wraith.”

A wraith. A ghost. A corporeal entity. _God, this woo-woo shit is something else.

“How come I can't remember who I am?”

“I don't know. None of your kind does.”

I jerk around. “My kind? You mean there are more of me?”

Even as I ask, I feel a surge of hope. Of course. Them. That's what Candy had said.

“There are a few. Not huge numbers, but there have been occasional sightings.”

I bite my lip, wanting to ask more about my kind, but needing to get some perspective first.

“What about vampires? Are there many of you?”

He hesitates, then nods. “Used to be thousands, but now we're in the hundreds, at least in the United States. Most of us congregate here and in Oregon.”

“So, you live together?”

“Yes.”

“In the open?”

His mouth twists. “Not so much anymore. But we did for a while. We had. . . hope.”

Had hope. As in: no longer did. My stomach clenches, which only results in me feeling more confused.

“If I'm dead, how come I can feel? Why can I think? Talk? Why can I remember things-the color my hair should be, what movies I've seen, who the first President was-but not who I am?”

“I can't tell you that. I don't know. I'm sorry.”

And he is. I can hear it in his voice. I can see it in his eyes. This man-this vampire-is something I should fear, but no more than I fear myself.

He glances at his watch, then back at me. “I need to get back. The police should be gone by now and I need to check on Jonah. . . .”

His voice trails off and it's as if I can read his mind. He's wondering what to do with me, I realize, and suddenly I want to throw myself at his feet and beg him not to leave me. He's all I have. The only person who can answer my questions and who, as a vampire, just might have any chance of relating to me. But once again, I learn something about myself.

I'm a proud creature and begging isn't something I'm willing to do. Not even if it means being left utterly alone. _

Raising my chin, I stand, refusing to let my gaze waver from his. “Before you go, would you please answer a few more questions?” I'm thankful for the steadiness in my voice.

“Are you sure you want to know?” he responds quietly.

My shoulders slump. Of course. I'd forgotten he could read my mind. Given that, pride seems to be a useless commodity.

Even so, I raise my chin once more. “Yes,” I say, bracing myself.

He hesitates, then nods. “Okay. Then I'll tell you. I'm a vampire. You're a wraith. We're known to humans as Otherborn, as are werewolves, felines, mages, shape shifters, and probably a few other sundry creatures that I'm not yet acquainted with. For the past three years, Otherborn have been trying to live peacefully with humans but that time has come to an end. Our nation is experiencing its second civil war. The question you need to ask yourself is whose side you'll be fighting on.”

*****

The vampire is looking at me expectantly. Maybe he thinks I'm going to deny what he said or protest the idea of fighting anyone. I'm past denial at this point and I'm obviously not a pacifist. Apparently, the idea of fighting is a given when my survival is involved. As to whose side I'll be on? That's easy.

Mine.

“Where do you want me to take you?”

I look up at him, hoping I manage to hide my sudden panic. “What are my choices?” Maybe he can blip me overseas. That would be one way to avoid fighting, wouldn't it? After all, while I'll do what I have to in order to survive, I need to regroup. To find out exactly what and who I'm dealing with, and that includes myself.

“Unfortunately, your choices are limited. I don't have the strength to 'blip' you overseas even if I could.”

His gaunt appearance had ceased to impact me, but I look him over again. He would have been handsome at one time. “You're sick?”

“To a degree.”

Can I catch it? The thought briefly flashes through my mind, but I quickly dismiss it. I'm dead. I feel terrible pain whenever someone touches me. What could be worse than that? “If you weren't sick, why couldn't you take me overseas?”

“Because I've never been there. I can only teleport someplace I've been before. Since I need my strength to get back to Charleston, I can take you someplace close. Anyplace along the Western coast. You like the beach? You look like you could use a tan.”

I lift a hand to my jacked-up hair and smile slightly, surprised it's even possible. Talk about the pot and kettle.

“Yes,” Colt murmurs. “Well, unlike you, I still require sustenance. A couple of pints of pure blood would bring back my rosy glow but it's a little rare at the moment.”

I frown, suddenly focusing on the hollow feeling in my stomach that hadn't gone away but didn't seem to be getting any worse either. “So I can't eat?”

Watching her closely, he shrugs. “You can eat. There's just no point. It won't curb the gnaw of hunger in your belly and it won't even taste good. You might as well eat dirt.”

“How do you know? Is it that way for you?”

He shakes his head. “No. Even though I don't get much nutrition from food, I get some and thankfully I still enjoy its flavor.”

For the first time since he teleported me here, I feel more outrage than despair. Just what kind of fucked up situation have I landed myself in? I feel the urge to pee but can't. I feel hungry but can't eat? As if being dead wasn't bad enough, I don't get the comfort of food? No pizza? No chocolate? Lack of memory or not, I know I love these things and will definitely be more cranky without them. I'm obviously not one for deprivation. But maybe. . . I stiffen as a thought occurs.