Page 1 of Fight for Us

1

THEO

The Captive

Can I die, if I’m already dead?

Well, I guess I’m undead, technically. Not dead in the usual sense of the word. There’s a particular numbness that comes with being smothered in darkness. It’s eerily silent, as if everything around me has been muted. The cuffs burn my skin. My clothes are wet. From blood?

My mind races. Blinking slowly, I peer around me, but even with my superior night vision, I can’t see a thing. It appears I might be in some sort of van with the windows blacked out. The door opens. Blinding light pierces through my lids even after I’ve snapped them closed. Rough hands wrench my body, and my useless limbs collapse into a sprawl onto what feels like gravel. Something is shoved over my head. A bag? Two hands clamp over my arms, two on my legs, and I’m hoisted ungracefully into the air, my head lolling backward, the position making my neck feel as though it’s about to snap in half.

I lose track of time as the heavy footsteps crunch against the ground, and there is grunting and puffing as they grow more out of breath – not vampires then. Two human males, I suspect. A door clangs open and shut and I’m thrust onto the ground moments later. Footsteps thunder away from me.

Unable to move, I stay where I am, my throat feeling tight and restricted, my limbs like dead weight.

This has to be one of the worst kinds of torture. An active mind but a restrained body. Unable to see where I am or do anything to change that fact.

The footsteps return a moment later.

There’s the ear-piercing screech of the door opening. Someone rolls me onto my back. The bag is wrenched off my head, and I stiffen – unable to do anything else – when a white mask with blacked out eyes looks back at me, the mask ending just above the man’s upper lip.

‘Theo Coleman,’ the man grunts, his lip curling into a sinister sneer. ‘Welcome to your new home.’

Withdrawing a syringe that looks as if it was used as a medieval torture device, he prods my arm for a second then stabs me with it. A sound climbs up my throat but barely escapes as my eyes roll back into my head.

Everything goes dark.

2

TARA

The Host

I’m not where I was when I fell asleep.

I reel into a seated position, the dim lighting making my eyes ache momentarily as they adjust. Exhaling, I push to my feet and stare around me. I’m in the living room at the back of the house. It’s deathly quiet, with the sun only just starting to show. Sleepwalking, yet again. A childhood habit that has snuck back up on me.

Padding down the hallway and climbing the stairs to the bathroom, I quickly shower, brush my teeth, and dress for the day. A wave of dizziness hits me and I stumble into the wall, bracing myself against it for a moment. I always seem to feel fatigued and a little out of it when I’ve been sleepwalking. It’s happening more often now. I’m almost tempted to start tying myself to my bed at night, if the thought of that didn’t terrify me so much. Maybe I’d feel safer to do so if I wasn’t living in a world where bloodthirsty monsters walk around like everyday people.

The house creaks, the sound like it is breathing. The doors close themselves when they feel like it and the floors groan at weird hours of the night. It’s been in the family for centuries. Ivy climbs the walls outside as if it’s trying to strangle the brick beneath it. It’s beautiful in a twisted kind of way. It’s also incredibly cold and quiet, lacking a lived-in feeling, despite lots of people coming and going from the house.

I’ve been here for years and still don’t know how many rooms it has. Every time I think I’ve seen them all, I find another hallway, or another door that doesn’t open. Some rooms are always locked. Then there’s the East Wing, which I’ve never been allowed to go to.

I wanted to love it here. I’ve tried to pretend it’s home. Sometimes, when everyone is together, there’s a fire crackling, and Kayleigh is cooking her hearty, home-cooked meals, I can almost convince myself that I belong here.

By the time I head back downstairs, someone is awake. I gravitate toward the kitchen, where my adoptive sister is preparing breakfast. Looking over her shoulder, she offers me a warm smile.

Kayleigh has soft, honey-coloured eyes and mousy brown hair, and legs much longer than mine. Although we aren’t blood-related, she has always been family. She’s the one person who always makes time for me. We’ve always been close.

‘Hey,’ she says. ‘How’d you sleep?’

‘Morning,’ I reply, rubbing my eyes. ‘Not the best.’

She frowns, looking concerned. ‘Are you stressed about something?’

I shake my head. ‘Not really, no. I just feel tired all the time.’

‘Sit down, I’ll make you breakfast.’ She gestures to the bench.