In what seems like mere seconds, we stop and I'm placed on my feet and held steady by strong hands. Good thing, because the world is spinning and I can't focus my vision.
Slowly, objects settle into place and I realize I'm clutching Adam's arms as they hold me up. I look at him for a few seconds and then haul off and slap him so hard I want to cry. He doesn't stop me, and barely flinches. I expect to see a nasty red mark on his cheek, but there is none. That is seriously disappointing. My palm is still stinging, and my wrist is throbbing from the blow.
I look around and realize we're on the roof of a tall building. I grab his arms again because my head is spinning as I try to grasp how this could be. Did I pass out or something? How could we be on the street one minute and on the roof the next?
I let go, and step back when I realize I'm holding his arms again. "How did we get here?" My voice is shaky. I pull my collar up around my neck because the air is icy cold and the breeze is almost painful.
Looking at me he says, "I carried you here. It's important that you listen to what I'm about to tell you. I need to warn you—"
"How did we get up here so fast? Did you drug me?" I ask with growing disgust. I'm watching his eyes closely, trying desperately to figure out if he's a killer. My instincts tell me he isn't, but this would be a bad time to be wrong.
"You're in great danger, Samantha." He actually lowers his head a bit. "And I'm the reason you are now a target."
Does that mean he's going to kill me? He's going to kill me!
I start frantically looking around for an escape route, but I have no idea how we got up here in the first place. Talking my way out of this may be my only hope.
"How am I in danger, and by whom?" I ask.
That is a loaded question, and maybe I shouldn't be so direct. He moves closer and puts his hands on my arms. I flinch. He's in my space again. Why does he always do that?
"My name is Adam Blackwell. Don't bother searching, because the name died with the man many years go. I'm in this city hunting a killer. You've seen his handiwork in the news." He pauses. "I'm aware of the murder in your building. That was a warning to me," he says, giving it a moment to sink in.
He's talking in riddles. Crazy people do that sometimes.
"Who do you work for? Are you telling me you're FBI?" That would explain a few things if he isn't crazy. I'm leaning toward crazy.
"I don't work for an agency. I've been hunting this particular monster for a long time. I followed his trail here, and that is when our paths crossed." He hasn't taken his eyes off of me as though he's waiting for something.
"And why is this my problem?" I ask with as much anger as I can muster, but I think some of the wind has left my sails.
I hug myself, trying to stay warm. He notices, and takes his leather coat off, and places it on my shoulders. I'm instantly warmer. I want to throw it at him, but my teeth are about to start making noise, so I keep it.
"Somehow he has taken notice that I'm...interested in you."
"So now he wants to kill me? Because you are interested in me?"
"Yes."
"Then we need to go to the police. I know someone, and—"
"The police can't help you."
"What do you mean? It's their job. It's what they do." I'm swimming in his coat, but I put one hand on my hip in a show of frustration.
"He can't be stopped by guns, and a mere mortal would be no match for him. It would be a bloodbath. I don't think you want to be responsible for that."
Now he has his hands on his hips, and he looks a bit frustrated. Good, that makes two of us.
"What do you mean he can't be stopped by guns? Anyone can be stopped by a gun, including you." I'm pacing now.
Did he say something about a "mere mortal"?
"The killer isn't human. He can't be killed with a gun." He says this as if he's talking to a confused child.
"You're out of your mind. Do I look stupid? Stop wasting my time, Adam. Get to the point of why I'm here." I want off this freezing rooftop so badly, but I'd rather it not be in a body bag.
"Can we talk about this somewhere else? I'm going to get hypothermia, and so are you." He doesn't look cold, but he must be.
"I'm not crazy, but I can see you require more persuasion." He moves toward me again and I back up against a wall.
"What are you going to do?" I ask, as he takes my arm and starts pulling me to a door.
The door leads to a stairwell that must go all the way down. He still hasn't answered me, but he suddenly picks me up and throws me over his shoulder again. I let out a little involuntary squeak.
Once again we are moving faster than my brain can comprehend. This time I close my eyes. Just like that we are at the bottom of what must be fifteen plus floors. I hand him his coat and turn away to throw up in a trash can.
When there is no more in my stomach and the dry heaves have stopped, I realize he's holding my hair out of the way for me. That would be sweet if he wasn't the reason I was puking in a stairwell.
I don't know what happened, but I'm pretty sure I wasn't drugged, and that he's not normal. I look at him wide-eyed and ask, "How do you do that?" He looks at me for a few moments.
"I'm not human," he says with a straight face.
Well, what the heck do you say to that?
He leads me to my car, and insists on driving me home. I stay quiet for most of the ride, and so does he. Should I let him continue discussing this fantasy of his or try to get him to come clean about what happened?
My head is starting to hurt. "What do you mean, you're not human?" I finally ask, breaking the silence between us.
"You would call me a vampire." He says this without taking his eyes off the road. I don't even know how to respond to him. This night keeps getting freakier by the minute.
I look out the window and lay my head against the cool glass. It feels odd to be in the passenger seat. I remember being fifteen and riding with my dad. We would roll the windows down, and my hair would blow in the wind. He would turn on my favorite radio station and blast it, even though he didn't care for my music.
I miss him.
***
We arrive at my condo and I tell him he's not coming up. "I don't trust you, and I'm pretty sure you're off your medications. We'll have to finish this conversation tomorrow in a public place of my choosing."
"I understand." He hands me my keys and leaves the parking garage.
I'm a bit dumbfounded. I figured he'd put up a bigger fight than that. I realize too late that I'm still wearing his coat, and I still don't have a way to contact him.
I wave at Harold, who barely waves back because he's on his iPad again. Signs of the police investigation are apparent, but the people have all gone.
Once inside, I lock my door and hang his coat in the hall closet. It smells like him, and I remember that I like the smell. I ignore poor Wilbur and head right for the shower, peeling off clothing as I go. After a long hot shower, I brush my teeth, and feel better. I towel dry my hair and dress for bed. Wearing a black tank top and pink panties, I head into the kitchen to feed my neglected kitty.
I stop dead in my tracks. I feel the breeze even before I see the patio doors are wide open. With my heart in my mouth I turn to run, and collide with Adam's solid chest. His hand muffles my scream before I can make a sound. His other arm wraps around my waist, pulling me tightly against him. I continue screaming behind his hand—unable to stop myself.
"You and I have more to discuss," he says into my ear.
A shiver goes through my entire body. He tightens his hold on my waist and drops his head to my neck and shoulder.
"You must stop doing that," he breathes against my neck. He takes a deep breath before saying, "I will not harm you, but you must know the truth, if you want to live."
Oh God, this is how I die. I played with fire, and now I'm going to burn. He is going to kill me.
With little effort he has my hands and mouth bound in duct tape—my duct tape. I know because it has a cute pink and green plaid pattern.
Every horrific scenario is racing through my head. Even so, I'm cursing like a sailor from behind the duct tape, and I'm pretty sure he knows what I'm saying. My poor mother would be horrified by my language, but my father would be more upset that his bright little girl managed to get herself into such a stupid situation in the first place.
I'm scared, but I'm also pissed off that I may die this way because of my own poor choices.
He sits me in a living room chair while he sits on the edge of the coffee table. I am beyond exposed, sitting here bound, in nothing more than my t-shirt and panties. My legs are between his knees, and his hands are on my thighs. I'm hyperaware of his intimate touch and my own vulnerability in the moment. My body is shaking uncontrollably and I can't stop it. I need to be angry because that's the only thing holding back my total surrender to mind-numbing fear.
We stare at one another—I glare, he watches.
"It's imperative that you understand what you are dealing with. It's time for you to become enlightened to the fact—monsters are real." He looks at me like he's still trying to decide something, and I hold the key to what his answer will be.
I'm not sure what he wants me to do so I sit and watch him—his captive audience, literally. Yes, anger keeps my fear in check. Anger is my friend. I want to wrap myself in it like a blanket.
He has one of my dish towels on his lap. Is he planning to suffocate me? Never taking his eyes from mine, he raises his wrist in front of his mouth, and bares his teeth.
What am I seeing?
His canines are remarkably sharp, and I don't know how I never noticed before. Pausing for only a few seconds, he bites into his own wrist.
My eyes threaten to pop out of my head as I watch, horrified. The sound of his flesh tearing fills my ears, and my stomach wants to heave. Bright red blood runs freely down his arm and mouth.
He watches me closely. I couldn't look away from him if I tried. Our gazes are locked on one another.
I begin screaming behind the tape on my mouth, and I can't get enough air. He grabs the towel, wipes away most of the blood from his arm, and I watch horrified as the mangled gash starts to heal before my eyes. Flesh is kneading and growing back into place in a matter of seconds. It's like watching a film in fast motion. I stop screaming. I can't fathom what I'm seeing. I pull my gaze away from his almost healed wrist and look into his eyes again.
His eyes. They have a preternatural glow about them. There is a drop of blood at the corner of his mouth. He notices me staring at it and wipes it away with the edge of the towel.
My heart is a loud pounding drum inside my head and my breathing is too fast. Tiny pinpricks explode all over my body. Blackness starts at the edges of my eyes until it consumes me completely. I float away into peaceful dreamless darkness.