So I'm a Vampire... Now What? - Book 2 (Original Version)

Chapter 12 - The Chosen Ones

I tottered out of the elevator on legs that didn't feel like they belonged to me. The suit that the concierge had brought for me definitely wasn't mine, but now that I was wearing it and seeing how perfectly tailored for me it had been, it felt like it belonged to me more than my own legs did. Weird feeling I know, but I was in a state of shock, where I hadn't quite figured out what I should be feeling at that moment, or even if I wanted to feel.

If you're wondering what I have to be in shock about, then either you've not been paying attention or you're some kind of psychopath. My body and brain were still trying to come to terms with the trauma that was Beatrice, my brain dealing with the fact that I had actually survived that onslaught, that all of this was real and yes, all of my limbs were still attached.

"Sir, are you going to be okay?"

I turned to look behind me, still trying to convince my body that these were, in fact, my legs, trying to play it cool. The concierge was still in the elevator, a very concerned look on his face. Apparently, we had ridden down together and I had completely forgotten about his existence.

I fought back the wave of laughter that almost engulfed me then. There was nothing funny about the situation and I knew that the laughter was the precursor of my old friends ordinary panic and his good buddy absolute fucking panic. My mind was trying to process my emotions and it was failing badly.

"Great," I answered the concierge and noticed for the first time that my hands were filthy, still covered in dried blood and sweat. My own blood, I thought, and there came the laughter again, bubbling up and popping out of my mouth in a loud barking sound that surprised the fuck out of me and the concierge.

I held up my hand in what I assumed was a reassuring manner. "I'm fine, really I am," I insisted. "It's my own blood and it looks worse than it is."

"It looks pretty bad from over here," the concierge called out, but I had already convinced my legs that yes, we were getting out of Dodge, and right now would be perfect. I turned and lurched away toward the entrance, away from awkward questions and one particular fucking psychotic girlfriend who took pleasure in fucking my shit up, and oh my god, suppose she changed her mind about letting me go?

My lurch turned into a run, the panic finally rising up, adrenaline rushing through my body. I felt my incisors click into place, for all of the good that they would do, more a response to the adrenaline than anything else; for just a moment I felt my muscles respond and luxuriated in the pure power that it brought. Even that feeling of power could not override the panic, the sheer pants-shitting terror that had taken over me.

I ran, and I ran fast.

There was nothing considered in how I ran, no direction in mind. I got the fuck out of there, and then I just kept on going, running for the sake of running, running, because stopping would mean having to deal with the emotions and the memories. It was snowing again, small pellets of snow that instantly melted as soon as they hit your face, but were also the kind that stuck to the ground and formed a layer of slush and ice that made walking difficult. I ran through that snow, ignoring the sting on my face as I weaved through pedestrians who all moved in slow motion through the city streets; I may have jostled more than a couple of people, possibly leaving bruises at the speed I was going, but I'm not going to admit that. The last thing I need is a bunch of people who suffered mysterious bruises on Bay Street to come looking for me if you know what I mean.

I suppose I could have just run across the street to Claude's place, gone to where it was safe, but like I said: I didn't think: I just ran.

It was the first time I had ever fun like that, feeling the flex of my muscles, the pure strength that flowed through me and kept me going. My reflexes were sharper than I had ever felt them, and for a while, I felt like a badass, felt what it really was to be a vampire. It wasn't about getting high from drinking blood, the ability to influence people's minds or knowing that when you die, it's not going to be permanent. All of those things had a solid cost, sometimes painfully. This feeling that came from running was all about the power and the ability to be stronger and better.

While running, I didn't have to think. I didn't have to feel, and that was the greatest thing of all.

It felt like I could outrun anything, even fear.

If I had known that the street, the snow and my own cockiness had been conspiring against me, I would have been a lot more careful. All it took was one wrong step onto a hidden patch of ice to send me skidding and slipping, my momentum carrying me forward and completely out of control, arms flailing and ultimately pinwheeling as I hurtled towards the street—

"Oh fuck me—"

I hit the embankment at full speed and flew into the air, ass-over-head as if I wanted to give Simone Biles a run for her money. There is quite nothing like a disgraceful flight through the air to make someone feel less like the badass vampire they had felt like only seconds before.

I landed hard on the other side of the embankment, coming down hard on what felt like ice and concrete. The wind was knocked out of me and I could only lay there, wondering just how bad my concussion was, after all, I had been going really damn fast.

A car stopped nearby and I would have turned my head to look and tell them to go on and leave me, that I was just fine, really, but instead, all of the emotion caught up with me and I just started laughing. It wasn't good laughter, just those sharp barks of desperation verging closer to insanity than was strictly comfortable. Anyone listening would have assumed that I was either losing my mind or losing my shit. Or both. Lying there in the snow in my new suit, knowing that the rest of me was covered in blood and bruises, I must have looked like quite the madman.

"Well you look like shit," a woman said, and I gave her a thumbs-up without looking to see who it was. I giggled to myself and then just burst out laughing again. I thought about what Beatrice had done to me with her knives, the glee in her eyes only outshone by the utter insanity I had seen there, and only laughed harder, feeling the tears that were coming and fighting them hard.

The woman came into view now, and she looked vaguely familiar, although I could honestly say that I had no fucking clue who she was. She looked like what Wednesday Addam's cousin would have looked like if Wednesday Addams had a cousin was also a vampire, complete with clothes that had a Victorian-era flair to it without the annoyingly impractical skirts.

Something in my memory clicked and all of a sudden I knew that she spoke French, but—

"Where the hell do I know you from?" I asked between giggles, glad for a distraction from the memory of Beatrice slamming her huge knife into my shoulder and pinning me to the wall.

A man came into view, his blue vampire eyes blazing with insanity, and he looked more than familiar. He was also dressed as if he had escaped a Victorian-era theatre that specialized in vampire stage plays. I knew his face well, but the lines of scars across his face were relatively new. They were scars that I knew intimately since I had helped put them there with a blade that had been wiped with garlic.

"Didn't I already kill you?" I asked, and Daemien only smiled a black toothed grin.