Page 42 of Tainted Souls
He frowns, as if taking inventory of his body. “Strange. Everything’s loud, and bright.” His gaze shifts to the window, where the late afternoon sun filters through the blinds,its rays harmless to those within.
I reach over and close the blinds completely, plunging the room into shadow. “Better?”
He nods, then draws up short, his expression morphing into horror as awareness kicks in. His hand flies to his neck, his fingers probing the healed puncture wounds.
“It wasn’t a nightmare,” he whispers.
“No,” I admit, unable to soften the truth. “You’re a vampire now, Max.” The words feel strange on my tongue.
He pulls his hand from mine, recoiling as if burned. “This can’t be happening. Are you serious?”
“I know it’s a lot to process.”
“Process?” His laugh is spasmodic, bordering on hysterical. “I died, Seraph. And now I’m… this.” He gestures to himself with disgust.
“You’re still you,” I say, reaching for him again.
He shrinks back against the pillows. “Am I? Because I can hear conversations three rooms away. I can smell actual blood in the hallway and it’s making me…” He swallows hard, looking nauseous, his new fangs visibly extending as he speaks. “God, I’m hungry.”
“That’s normal,” I reassure him. “All of this is normal. The medical staff will bring you blood soon.”
“Blood,” he repeats, shivering at the thought. “I have to drink blood now.”
I watch helplessly as the reality of his situation slowly settles in. His eyes dart around the room, taking in details that human vision would miss. His nostrils flare at scents that weren’t perceptible to him before. His hands repeatedly clench and unclench, testing newfound strength.
“I prosecuted a vampire last month for bloodsucking,” he suddenly says. “He claimed he couldn’t control his impulse. That it was like an addiction.” His eyes, filled with unease, meet mine. “Is that what I’m becoming? An addict?”
“No,” I say firmly. “That’s why we have blood rations and keepers. To protect us from worst case scenarios. Because that’s what they are.”
The door opens and the same nurse from before enters, carrying a tray with several bags of blood. She sets down the tray and attaches a bag to a specialized IV line. Max’s reaction is immediate. His pupils dilate, his breathing quickens, and a low growl escapes his throat.
“This is synthesized AB negative,” the nurse explains. “We find it causes the fewest adverse reactions in new vampires.”
Max watches with horrified fascination as the liquid begins flowing through the tube toward his arm.
“Wait,” he says, voice strained. “I’m not ready.”
The nurse pauses. “Your body needs this to complete the transition properly, Mr. Sinclair. Without it, you’ll experience severe withdrawal symptoms. They are not pleasant.”
“Just give me a minute,” he pleads.
She glances at me uncertainly.
“It’s okay,” I tell her. “I’ll help him through it.”
Once she leaves, Max turns to me with distress in his eyes. “I can’t do this, Seraph. I can’t be this… monster.”
“You’re not a monster,” I sit on the edge of his bed, carefully placing my hand on the blanket between us to steady myself. “You’re just different now.”
For someone who’s always fit in perfectly, I can understand why he’s having so much trouble adjusting.
“Different? I’m an undead corpse,” he blurts out. “My heart isn’t beating. I crave blood. What part of that isn’t monstrous?”
I try to not take it personally. To not make this about me.
Max doesn’t think that I’m a monster, or even partially. He’s just not used to being something he wasn’t born to be.
I take his face in my hands, forcing him to look at me. “Listen to me—being a vampire doesn’t make you a monster. You hear me? Your choices do. And you, Max Sinclair, have always made good choices.”
