Page 11 of Bitten Vampire (The Bitten Chronicles #2)

Chapter Eleven

When night falls and I become… whatever I am now, I stand in the kitchen with a peach in my hand and stare at it.

What will it taste like? Sweet? Cardboard? Will it make me sick?

Will my fangs even work properly? Are they… straws? They snap out when I think of them, when I’m hungry or mad. I have prodded them with my tongue, even examined them with a hand mirror. There is nothing elegant or magical, just sharp teeth that extend like an overachieving canine.

I know vampire saliva is an anticoagulant; victims don’t bleed out unless a vampire wants them to, and it seals punctures. Gross. Convenient. Both.

My fingers drift to my neck. Memory pricks. No .

Unless I absolutely must, I don’t want to drink blood. But I can’t deny I’m fascinated by the fangs and what else they can do.

Could I just… bite? My jaw feels stronger. I feel stronger.

Certain tests are essential after suddenly becoming undead. A peach seems a sensible start, even if fuzzy trichomes aren’t exactly human skin.

I raise the peach and bite.

The peel yields with a soft pop . The taste is…

dreadful. Dry, chalky ash, like a healthy-eating advert gone horribly wrong.

Chewing feels like gnawing on a rubber stress ball.

I make sure not to swallow. Horrified, I check the fruit, expecting grey rot, but the flesh is perfect—light yellow, glistening.

Still vile.

I bite again just to practise the fang action and lodge my right fang in the stone. After an undignified wriggle, I wrench free.

I carefully rinse out my mouth. Twice.

To distract myself from the lingering taste, I move to Experiment Two: strength. I eye the cast-iron oven. House probably doesn’t cook , food simply appears. Still, it’s hefty.

I crouch, hook my fingers under the lip, and lift.

It moves.

I raise it a few centimetres off the tiles.

What are you doing? House asks, voice cool but amused. Put my oven down.

“Sorry.” I lower it gently, careful not to chip the floor, and rub my hands on my jeans. My fingertips look dented from the strain. Seconds later, the skin smooths, perfect again.

Interesting.

“Do we have any garlic?”

Why?

“Experiment Three: garlic.”

You do know that’s a myth, don’t you? Same for holy water. Neither will hurt you. But if you must test your limits…

A clove appears in my palm.

“Thanks.” I roll it between my fingers, then toss it in my mouth and give it an experimental chew. It’s worse than the peach. I think anything I put in my mouth as a vampire is going to taste vile.

I clutch my throat, stagger dramatically, and gurgle.

Oh my gosh, Fred! Fred! Oh my gosh! House screams.

I crack and laugh. “Ugh, garlic’s awful,” I say, as House swears at me.

I turn on the tap again—nothing.

“Come on, that was funny.”

Not remotely. I thought you were dying! I have put the water on timeout for lying.

“It wasn’t a lie,” I protest, grinning. “It was theatre.”

Then take a bow.

“Please? It tastes horrific.” I deploy my best puppy-dog eyes, stolen from Baylor, who is probably digging holes in the garden.

Water grudgingly flows. I rinse and spit.

“Thank you. Right, Experiment Four: chin-ups. I’ve always wanted to do proper ones. Like a soldier. Can you…? ”

I can put a bar in the doorway.

“That would be perfect, thank you.” A bar appears high enough that I have to stretch. I haul myself up. Easily. My chest clears the bar without effort.

“Yes! This is brilliant.” After a hundred reps, I drop to the floor. Not hot. Not sweaty. I could get used to that.

What next? House asks, surprisingly patient.

“Experiment Five: skin. I want to cut my finger to see how strong my epidermis is.”

You want to deliberately cut yourself?

“Yes.”

A balanced throwing knife shimmers into existence. “Nice. Ooh, can I throw it after this?”

Experiment Six? Certainly. I’ll prep a target.

“That’s awesome, thank you.” First, I press the blade to my fingertip. It’s like trying to nick Kevlar or what I imagine Kevlar feels like. The edge barely dimples the skin.

If someone really tried, they could cut you, House notes.

I lean harder. A bead of blood wells—ruby bright—and seals again in two seconds.

“Handy,” I murmur. “Now, the throwing knives.”

The garage is set up.

I trot to the pedestrian door. The garage has become a miniature range, racks of knives gleaming under soft lights.

“This is great. Thank you. Don’t judge me. I was rubbish at throwing as a kid.” I flick my wrist. The knife spins, misses, and clatters. “Hm.” Again. And again. Holding by the blade (probably stupid, but Kevlar fingers) gets me a stick… and a slow fall.

“Guess I need more force.”

More force just bounces .

Throwing knives in real life is stupid, House says dryly. The best way to lose a weapon. If it does not stick, someone throws it back.

“Point taken.” I tidy the knives.

I should try eating something else, but the peach and garlic have ruined me. Vampires boast they do not eat, claiming derivative superiority—so efficient, so tidy, unlike shifters and their meat mountain. Vampires can twist anything into a virtue.

Somewhere outside, Baylor yodels triumph at a freshly excavated hole. I smile despite myself.

“All right, Experiments Seven through Ten can wait.”

Thank heavens, House mutters.