Page 3 of Bite Back

DELILAH

It’s been ten days. Ten days of this living hell. Or technically, I guess, undead hell.

Hunger gnaws at me, and my gums ache as I pick my way around the blood bags, long since squeezed dry, that litter the floor of our apartment. My apartment—I need to change the locks. Luka never paid rent anyways.

My skin crawls as I take in the space around me.

Everywhere I turn there’s another reminder of him.

Cufflinks on the counter. A photo strip on the fridge from last time we went to Coney Island.

The empty bottle of champagne on the bar cart that we kept as a souvenir from the night we got engaged.

Scratch changing the locks, I need to get out of here, away from everything that happened. As soon as possible.

As the transformation wracked my body, my pain-addled mind clung to the hope that there was some understandable explanation for Luka’s actions. Maybe he lost control? Maybe he couldn’t face the fact that he hurt me? But then why would he take the ring?

And there it is. These are the facts: he hurt—possibly tried to kill—me, he left, and he hasn’t come back. Fuck him.

I grab my bag from the kitchen counter and skirt around the large, rusty stain by the door, floorboards creaking underfoot, and wince when my toes edge into the sticky residue.

I squeeze out the front door, and it thuds shut behind me as I slide down, sinking to the floor.

My breaths come out in rapid pants. Technically, I don’t need to breathe anymore, but old habits die hard.

My blood on the toe of my sneaker taunts me.

The stale sweetness calls to me, enticing, tempting even now.

I reach down, scraping a fingernail through the rusty smudge.

My mouth waters, and I draw my shaking finger towards my lips, catching myself the moment before it touches, stomach curdling.

My eyes squeeze shut as though I can block out the images etched into my vision even as the scent draws the memories to the surface.

Luka’s white shirt, splashed red. Fabric wrinkled in my fists. The burning of my aching throat as I screamed. Black spots dancing across my vision. The thud of the door as he walked out.

Nope, nope, nope. I shake my head as though I can shake it all off.

Gingerly, I push myself to my feet, legs and arms unsteady like I’m drunk. I glance at the closed doors lining the shadowy hallway. Please, please stay shut. I don’t need anyone to witness me like this.

I make my way to the stairs as quickly as my wobbly legs allow.

Pain consumed my life for the last week and a half, pulling me in and out of consciousness as I completed my transition.

I’ve hardly moved, much less walked until now.

But my fever’s finally broken. Which means I can leave and escape the memories of Luka’s betrayal. Fucking finally.

Each footstep echoes down the empty hallway, hollow, just like Luka’s promises.

Luka promised me we’d be together forever.

He promised he’d help me through the transition, help me adjust to my new body.

That’s why I stuffed the fridge full of the blood bags I’d need for my transition.

Because he claimed he didn’t want to leave me for one moment of the transformation, not even to step out to the store.

My hand curls into a fist. What’s the point of promises if you don’t keep them? Why build a life with someone only to tear it down? Was what we had not enough?

A tear runs down my cheek, wet and hot, and I brush it away with my arm. I didn’t want to do this alone. What the fuck do I do now?

I reach the end of the hall, arm extending for the elevator button and pausing when I read the large Out of Order sign—written in chicken scratch—taped up on the elevator doors.

Shit. Unsurprising though. Most buildings zoned for dual human-vampire use are absolute shit, and this one’s no exception.

I suppress a groan and shuffle towards the stairwell.

The heavy metal door jerks towards me with a squeal, causing me to flinch.

Noted. Less force necessary in my new, stronger body.

Each footfall clatters and reverberates down the stairwell.

I ease open the door at the bottom of the stairs and shrink back when brightness and noise assaults me, sending me fumbling in my bag for sunglasses.

Even with them plastered on, my eyes protest the meager rays of afterglow that slip between the buildings looming overhead.

According to my conversations with Luka and the pamphlets I picked up at the library to prepare, most new vamps wait until dusk turns into night proper.

It takes a while to acclimate to the daylight, to learn to tolerate the sun’s harsh rays. I grit my teeth and start to walk.

A couple blocks from my apartment, the blue awning of an NYPD station beckons to me.

Neon blue and red letters bathe the sidewalk in their soft glow.

I hesitate as I pass by the glass double doors.

My reflection stares back at me. Dark hair spills into my face, messy and oily, unkempt, and my pale skin looks ghostly.

No point in going in, especially looking like this.

Officially, the NYPD protects all citizens of New York City, supernatural and human.

Unofficially, they shy away from the messiness surrounding all things supernatural, shuffling responsibility to bounty hunters like vampire slayers, witch hunters, and parapsychologists.

And, honestly, even taking the supernatural element out of the equation, we all know who comes out on top in he said, she said situations. Him.

I square my shoulders and walk past. I know where to go.

Blaring car horns and chittering pigeons grate my ears.

Overhead, the moon grins like a Cheshire cat in the fading sunlight.

My canines itch as they stretch and elongate to full length, the sharp points poking my lip and tongue.

New vampire fangs come and go with the moon, and my mouth feels wrong. Too full.

The hunger crashes over me like a wave, and I count each step across the cracked sidewalk, one foot after the other. The pungent scent of a hot dog cart hits my nostrils, and I gag, veering to the side and dodging a stray passerby as my arm scrapes along the brick of a building.

Almost there.

My knees tremble and a sticky sensation coats my mouth by the time I catch sight of Hector’s.

The red sign calls to me like a beacon, drawing me forward with shuffling steps.

Already, the chatter inside fills my ears, along with the clink of beer glasses and the clatter of pool balls.

I haul myself over the threshold, pushing open the worn door, decorated in layers of peeling paint.

It gives an almost psychedelic effect, reds and green and blue swimming in front of my eyes.

Huh. It doesn’t usually do that.

How long has it been since the last blood bag? Sixteen hours? Twenty-four? Clearly too long for my newborn body. Black spills across the bar, and everything fades out.