100 Yellow Doors

6:00 p.m.

Iman hesitated. She knew it was not the time nor place to hesitate, not with Julien groveling on the floor, grinding his forehead into the tiles, not with Beck a few rooms away, oblivious. Think, think, think.

Iman stood and bumped the bathroom door shut with her hip. "How long?" she demanded, resting her back against the door.

Julien moaned and shook his head. His black hair was even blacker with sweat, the faintest tremors racking his shoulders. It was a pitiful, pitiful sight—enough to prick hot tears from Iman's eyes. Agony was the word that sprung to mind. It looked like he was in agony.

"Julien," Iman snapped. The risen volume of her voice finally seemed to catch his attention; he looked up, red eyes helpless. "How long?"

"The last time was...sixteen days ago," he said, and Iman let out a startled breath. "It was a squirrel."

"Jesus," she said. Then again: "Jesus! Jules—"

There was a knock on the bathroom door that jolted both of them. Julien groaned again and curled himself around the bathtub as Beck called from behind the door, "Hey, what's going on in there? Can I come in?"

Iman swiftly reached for the door's lock before remembering, belatedly, that the lock on the hall bathroom had been faulty for a few months now. Suddenly she wished she hadn't put off repairing it. Cursing under her breath, Iman grabbed for the toilet paper rack and jammed it beneath the knob. Beck jiggled again; Iman was relieved when it held. "Iman? Julien?"

"Just a second! He's just sick. Must have been something he ate!"

Beck sounded slightly less alarmed, but still alarmed. "Oh, really? Man, I'm sorry. I'll go get him some water."

"Yes! That'd be great!" Iman said, pressing her ear to the wood and listening for Beck's retreating footsteps. When he was gone, Iman crashed to the floor beside Julien, taking him by the shoulders. "Julien?"

His voice was a low growl, his face turned away from hers. He smelled like salt and earth. She kept expecting to feel a pulse beneath his skin, but he was utterly still. "What?"

"Drink..." Iman faltered a minute, but made up her mind. "Drink my blood, okay?"

Julien winced, cringing away from her like she'd struck him. "No! No. I'm not gonna do that, Iman, that's—"

"Shut up!" Iman snapped, taking him by the chin and turning his face towards hers. He stared at her, his lips trembling, fangs gleaming white underneath the bathroom lights. "It hurts. I know it hurts. This'll make it stop hurting. It's okay, Jules. It's okay."

He shook his head, wrenching away from her. "I don't know if—if I'll be able to stop once I start. God, your—your heartbeat's all I can fucking hear. It's sick. It's sick, Iman. I'm—sick."

"Julien," Iman said, dropping her voice to a whisper. He had always been strong for her. Every time she showed up at his doorstep, shivering, uncomfortable, unsure of where or when she was, he had always been strong for her. Now it was her turn to return to the favor. "Hey. Look at me."

Julien let out a shuddering breath, and lifted his gaze. His eyes were roses, a bleeding, thorny red. It was the worst sort of fear, too. The fear of himself. "I'm sorry," he exhaled, trembling. "I didn't plan for it to go on this long. I thought—"

"Shh," said Iman. She reached to move the collar of her shirt aside. "It's okay."

Julien opened his mouth, fangs bared, just as the bathroom door exploded inwards.

There was a brief moment of stunned silence as Iman whipped her head around.

Beck dropped the glass of water he'd retrieved; it was thankfully plastic. "Holy—um? Is that—" He paused, one hand on his hip. "I'm sorry, but what the fuck is happening?"