He was six feet tall, with wavy blond hair and a clean-shaven, handsome face, still boyish but filling out nicely. He had a shy smile and laughing eyes.
“Where’ve you been? I haven’t seen you in weeks. The registrar’s office said you took a leave of absence.”
She had her story all figured out. It wasn’t even a lie, really.
“I’ve been sick,” she said.
“You couldn’t even call?”
“Really sick.” She pressed her lips in a thin smile, hoping she sounded sad.
“Yeah, I guess.” He took the cue not to press the question further. He brightened. “But you look great now. Really great.”
There it was, a spark in his eye, a flush in his cheek. She’d always wondered if he liked her. She’d never been sure. Now, she had tools. She had senses. And she looked great. It wasn’t her, a bitter voice sounded inside her. It was this thing riding her, this creature inside her. It was a lure, a trap.
Looking great made men like Chris blush. Now, she could use it. She knew how to respond. She’d always been uncertain before.
She lowered her gaze, smiled, then looked at him warmly, searching. “Thanks.”
“I—I guess you already have a drink.”
The others had moved off to claim one of the pool tables. Chris remained, leaning on the bar beside her, nervously tapping his foot.
Compared to him, Emma had no trouble radiating calm. She was in control here.
“Let me get you something,” she said.
For a moment—for a long, lingering, blissful moment—it felt like old times. They only talked, but the conversation was long and heartfelt. He really listened to her. So she kept talking—so much so that she almost got to the truth.
“I’ve had to reassess everything. What am I going to do with my life, what’s the point of it all.” She shrugged, letting the implications settle.
“You must have been really sick,” he said, his gaze intent.
“I thought I was going to die,” she said, and it wasn’t a lie. She didn’t remember much of it—the man, the monster’s hand on her face, on her arms, pinning her to the bed. She wanted to scream, but the sound caught in her throat. However frightened she’d been, her body responded to his touch, flushed, and this made her ashamed. She hoped that he would kill her rather than turn her. But she awoke again and the world was different.
“You make it sound like you’re not coming back.”
“Hm?” she murmured, startled out of her memory.
“To school. You aren’t coming back, are you?”
“I don’t know,” she said, wanting to be honest, knowing she couldn’t tell him everything. “It’d be hard, after what’s happened. I just don’t know.” This felt so casual, so normal, that she almost forgot she had a purpose here. That she was supposed to be guiding this conversation. She surprised herself by knowing what to say next. “This is going to sound really cliché, but when you think you aren’t going to make it like that, it really does change how you look at things. You really do try to live for the moment. You don’t have time to screw around anymore.”
Which was ironic, because really, she had all the time in the world.
Chris hung on her words. “No, it doesn’t sound cliché at all. It sounds real.”
“I just don’t think I have time anymore for school. I’d rather, you know—live.”
This sounded awful—so false and ironic.
When he spoke, he sounded uncertain. “Do—do you want to get out of here? Go to my place maybe?”
Her shy smile widened. She’d wanted him to say that. She wanted him to think this was his idea. She rounded her shoulders, aware of her posture, her body language, wanting to send a message that she was open, willing, and ready.
“Yeah,” she said, touching his hand as she stood.
His skin felt like fire.
Chris took her back to his place. He lived within walking distance, in a garden-level unit in a block of apartments. A nice place, small but functional, and very student. It felt like a foreign country.
Emma watched Chris unlock the door and felt some trepidation. Nerves, that was all. Anticipation. Unknown territory—to be expected, going home with a new guy for the first time.
Chris fumbled with the key.
There was more to this than the unknown, or the thrill of anticipation. She stood on the threshold, literally, and felt something: a force outside of herself. Nothing solid, rather a feeling that made her want to turn away. Like a voice whispering,
She couldn’t ignore it. The voice fogged her senses. If she turned away, even just a little—stepped back, tilted her head away—her mind cleared. She didn’t notice when Chris finally unlocked the door and pushed his way inside.
She didn’t know how long he’d been standing on the other side of the threshold, looking back at her expectantly. She simply couldn’t move forward.
“Come on in,” he said, giving a reassuring smile.
The feeling, fog, and voice disappeared. The unseen resistance fell away, the barrier was gone. She’d been invited.
Returning his smile, she went in.
Inside was what she’d expected from a male college student: The front room had a ripe, well-lived-in smell of dirty laundry and pizza boxes. Mostly, though, it smelled like him. In a moment, she took it all in, the walls and the carpet. Despite how many times the former had been repainted and the later replaced, the sense that generations of college students had passed through here lingered.
The years of life pressed against her skin, and she closed her eyes to take it all in, to feel it eddy around her.
“Do you want something to drink?” Chris was sweating, just a little.
Seduction wasn’t a quick thing. Though she supposed, if she wanted, she could just take him. She could feel in her bones and muscles that she could. He wouldn’t know what hit him. It would be easy, use the currents of the room, slow down the world, move in the blink of an eye—
No. No speed, no fear, no mess. Better to do it cleanly. Nicer, for everyone. Now that they were alone, away from the crowd, her purpose became so very clear. Her need became crystalline. She planned it out: a brief touch on his arm, press her body close, and let him do the rest.
Fake. It was fake, manipulative.… She liked him. She really did. She wished she’d done this months ago, she wished she’d had the nerve to say something, to touch his hand—before she’d been attacked and turned. Then, she hadn’t had the courage, and now she wanted something else from him. It felt like deception.
This was why Alette had wanted her to find a stranger. She wouldn’t be wishing that it had all turned out different. Maybe she wouldn’t care. She wanted to like Chris—she didn’t want to need him like this. Didn’t want to hurt him. And she didn’t know if she’d have been so happy to go home with anyone else. That was why she was here. That was why she’d gone to that particular bar and waited for him.
That doesn’t matter, her instincts—new instincts, like static across her skin, like the heat of blood drawing her—told her. The emotion is a by-product of need.
She reached out—she could feel him without looking, by sensing the way the air folded around his body—and brushed her fingers across the back of his hand. He reacted instantly, curling his hand around hers, squeezing, pulling himself toward her, and kissing her—half on cheek, half on lip.
He pulled back, waiting for a reaction, his breath coming fast and brushing her cheek. She didn’t breathe at
