and just grabbed the pitcher, pouring liquid heated exactly to body temperature down my throat so fast
that some of it spil ed out of my mouth and down the front of my shirt. Blood and juices from rare,
nearly raw beef. No salt or seasoning. It should have made me gag.
It didn’t.
11
I had been right about the bathroom. Not only did he have one, but it was as oversized and as
luxuriously appointed as the rest of the office. Shining cream-colored marble with veins of gray,
caramel, and gold covered 90 percent of the surfaces. The ceiling was painted the color of California
sands. The throw rugs matched towels nearly the size of bedsheets, both a deep caramel gold that
exactly matched the veins in the marble. The wal behind the counter and oversized double sinks was a
single sheet mirror.
The reflection that stared back at me was the stuff of nightmares.
My skin glowed white. Not pure white, but pale grayish white with a greenish sepulchral undertone.
Was this what Emma had seen? My eyes cast a reddish gold light that was the only color other than
the stark stains that soaked my clothing. The cotton was stuck to me like a second skin and droplets of
reddish brown left a dark trail where I passed over that pale, beautiful stone. I’d pul ed my hair back
when I cleaned up at the office, so there was nothing to soften or distract from the primal ferocity of a
face that was both my face and not.
I stared at my reflection in horrified fascination, unable to look away.
I heard the creak of the door outside with unusual clarity, but it didn’t make me react the way I had
before. I could smel Dr. Scott on the other side, but now it was just his cologne and the lingering hint of
Irish Spring soap, instead of the scent of his blood flowing under thin skin. “Ms. Graves, I’m leaving a
stack of clothing and toiletries outside the door. When you’re done cleaning up, we need to talk.”
The sound of his voice brought me to my senses. I turned toward the door to answer him. “Thank
you.”
I was pretty sure there was a sigh of relief in his next words. “It’s no trouble.”
He sounded so … calm. It was uncanny. Of course, the danger was over. My bel y was ful , the
bloodlust sated, if only for the moment.
Stupid, stupid question. I knew what was happening. I just didn’t know what to do about it.
I stripped off my fouled clothes and let them fal in a pile on the floor, then padded, naked, to the door.
Keeping my body hidden by the bulk of the door, I opened it and grabbed the promised stack. Setting
the clothes onto the counter, I took the soap, shampoo, and conditioner with me and stepped into the
shower.
A long, hot shower could scour my body clean of the gore, but it couldn’t cleanse my mind of the
image in the mirror. I wasn’t human anymore. I might not be a vampire, but I wasn’t human, either. Stil , it
felt good to be clean, and hiding in the shower wasn’t going to accomplish anything. So I stepped out of
the stal and began toweling myself dry.
The clothes he provided were sweats. High-quality plain gray sweats with a sports bra and underwear
with the tags stil on. He’d guessed fairly accurately on the size. The bra fit wel . The panties were a
little loose, but I wasn’t about to argue.
I pul ed on the sweatpants, over legs that had already healed the bloody punctures I’d inflicted on
them. Using a drawstring, I tightened the waistband to fit.
I remembered Vicki talking about how, the first two weeks of their stay here, everyone was required
to wear the same plain sweats. No jewelry. No sign of status or prestige. She said it was a great
leveler, kept people from being distracted by trivialities and competitive attractiveness while they were
supposed to be concentrating on getting wel .
I felt another stab of loss at the memory. Dammit anyway.
“Ms. Graves?” The doctor’s voice came through the door. “Are you almost ready? We need to talk.”
My shoes were splattered but not soaked, so I put them back on and returned to the main office.
He sat behind the desk, the lamp providing dramatic lighting that cast the fine bones of his face in
harsh planes of light and shadow. He gestured wordlessly toward the seat across from him. I took it.
“I took the liberty of checking with Security. Our video from your visit yesterday shows you driving up
with the convertible top on your car down and no sign of your current … condition. Were you actual y
attacked less than twenty-four hours ago?”
“Yes, last night sometime. We don’t know exactly when.”
His dark eyes grew very wide. For a long moment he didn’t seem capable of speech. Stil , he
managed to col ect himself, and when he spoke his voice was admiring. “I have to admit, you surprise
me. I assumed that you’d had your condition for some time and were merely using il usion to cover the
more obvious effects. Otherwise I would never have been so careless, particularly at sunset. I
apologize.”
“You couldn’t have known. But why would you have thought that?”
“Because of the way you present yourself.” He leaned back in the chair, steepling his long fingers in
front of his face as he spoke. “In the course of my career I have met exactly one person with your
condition and read of two others. Even after weeks or months of treatment, none of them were as …
calm about it, or had a fraction of the control you’ve exhibited from the outset. Although …” He let the
sentence drag off unfinished, his expression thoughtful. “Are you currently in therapy with anyone?”
“I saw Dr. Talbert for several years when I was a teenager. But she retired recently for health
reasons. Since then, no.”
He gave me a long stare over his steepled fingertips. “Dr. Gwendolyn Talbert? She specialized in
childhood trauma, I believe?”
“Yes.” My voice sounded flat, inflectionless. If Dr. Scott wanted more information, he’d have to work
for it. And frankly, we didn’t have time to go into my “childhood trauma”—not if I was going to hunt my
sire or get to sanctuary.
A hint of a smile tugged at the corner of Dr. Scott’s mouth. “Don’t give away much, do you?”
“Not general y, no.”
“Good. That kind of self-control may wel be what pul s you through this.” He set his arms on the table
in front of him and reached for a notepad and pen. “I think you should consider checking yourself into a
facility.” He continued hurriedly, in response to the look I gave him, “It doesn’t have to be this one.
Although you are, of course, welcome here. You’ve gone through serious trauma before, so you know
how difficult it can be to adjust. Combining that with the physiological changes—”
“No.”
He held up a placating hand. “I’m not suggesting one of the state-run facilities.” He shuddered. “I
wouldn’t consign a rabid dog to one of those. But—”
“No. Not there. Not here.” I wouldn’t go. I’d literal y rather die than go to a “facility.” If even half of what
