Letters From New York [Blood Magic, Book 2]

Chapter 2: Welcome to My Nightmare

When it swung open – in undoubtedly much less time than it felt like – I was face-to-face with someone I knew, and didn't particularly like: Boras, the previous Nosferatu king's right-hand man, and the primary warden of my imprisonment. My stomach lurched sickeningly, but Keel's appetite swallowed the sensation whole. It allowed me to hold onto my steadily rising fear, though, not that that was a particular kindness.

It's just a dream, I told myself. Breathe. Ride it out. You've lived through much worse than this.

Boras had a Chinese guy in tow: he was cute, if he'd still been topside he'd likely be in college, but judging from the menagerie of healed-over bite marks and his deadened eyes, the Nosferatu had captured him young. He was obviously one of the compound's cattle. It was the only way he would have walked into this little scenario willingly.

Are we actually going to do this? I thought. I knew Keel was, because blood-drinking was what the Nosferatu did, but me? Was I really going to stick around for breakfast? If pinching yourself to escape from a dream worked – and I had any control over our hands – I'd have done it a hundred times over, but no, I was stuck eating whatever my subconscious was serving, and apparently it was this guy.

As soon as the door swung shut, we made a dizzyingly fast pounce toward the man, but Boras thrust out an equally quick hand that landed square in the centre of our chest. It wasn't enough to stop us – the hunger demanded what the hunger demanded – yet we did. I couldn't hear Keel's thoughts any more now than I'd been able to during the loading dock part of the dream, but I knew this awkward, weighty hesitation was him fighting instinct, fighting the bestial nature of the transition itself and the feral, animalistic cravings it left in its wake. Cravings we were currently sharing.

Good, delay it. Maybe it'll buy me some time to figure out how to bail out of here.

The scent of the man's blood wafted towards us as if he were a fresh-baked pie left on a windowsill too cool, but a thousand times more mouth-watering.

Keel ran his tongue over the bottoms of his fangs and I wondered if he was thinking the same thing.

Boras gave us a sharp, reprimanding look, and we took a step backward, which was damned near impossible when every cell was screaming to be fed, NOW! A drawn-out moment later, we took two more, allowing Boras ample space to bring the man further into the room. I don't know how Keel was managing it: if I had had to fight these urges, I think I would have clawed the guy to pieces already. If only to find some satiation. If only to make them stop.

Please make it stop.

No one could hear me. Dream logic took a sharp turn into nightmare territory.

"Your Majesty," Boras said. "This restraint: you need to apply it to all your meals. You can't keep killing them. We did have some reserves after the–" he paused to seek out the word he wanted, "–incidents, but those are depleted and you know that harvesting more is always risky, especially multiples. It's time to rein in the hunger, to master it and take your throne – fully."

Keel grunted something unintelligible; Boras was losing his attention to the prey. The hunger had swollen and bloated inside of us, its mindless haze creeping into the edges of our vision: red like the sweet, life-sustaining blood that was so close. So very, very close. The man's steady heartbeat pounded all around us, silent yet louder than the cranked bass at a night club. Just like the smell, it was everywhere. It was excruciating, unbearable. It was...

...pouring into our mouth. My brain couldn't process Keel's vampire-fast movements, but it caught up as his jaw clenched down around the man's jugular and the most decadent substance I'd ever tasted slid down my esophagus, leaving a hot tingly after-burn in its wake.