My prayers were answered in the form of a blonde haired monster with a voice smoother than velvet.
They said not to go out at night, they said it was dangerous, but did I listen? No, of course not. I didn’t care that eight girls went missing here this past month alone. But then again neither did my mom; she moved us here only two days ago, claiming that the job she was offered was too good to turn down. That the girls were only a coincidence, that nothing bad would happen to us – but here I am running for my life from some creature, with razor sharp teeth and glowing red eyes.
I tripped over a tree stump, but got up and continued to run, ignoring the searing pain of my newly twisted ankle, I had to keep running. I heard a chuckle from behind me -- it was a game for this monster. I kept running, wondering if the others ran. Should I continue with my fleeing, or end his fun? I’ll die either way, is sooner better then later?
I kept running, with the blind hope that just maybe I’ll live, someone just might save me. I prayed to every god I could think of that they would keep me alive, keep my heart beating.
Soon all I could think of was trying to get one foot farther, to go just a little faster, to run just a bit harder. I kept running, for god knows how long. Praying, hoping, wishing that help would come.
My prayers were answered in the form of a blonde haired monster -- different somehow though, then the others.
“Larkin, you know she’s off limits, we have orders,” the blond haired man told the other -- the one that was chasing me. I stopped running letting myself collapse on the forest floor. I didn’t care anymore.
I awoke in a room with dark black floors and walls-- void of any windows or furniture, there was a door in the far corner. The blond haired monster, my savoir was standing by it. The he stood watching me carefully his red eyes watching my every movement not that I was making many.
My whole body hurt, and I knew I was bloody and bruised all over. It hurt to breathe.
My savior still said nothing, but I remembered his voice; it soothed me even through my pain. It was smoother then velvet but harsh as he reprimanded the man. I longed to hear the voice again. I recognized that he was now not only my savior but now also either my jailer or protector -- I couldn’t figure out if he was keeping others out or keeping me in this small, dark, black cell.
I wish I could talk to him, but my mouth could not form the words. I wanted to know his name. I wanted to hear his velvet voice again.
“Jeremiah,” he answered my unspoken question, with a smile. I wanted him to talk more. I wanted to hear his voice.
“I’m going to give you some more morphine, for the wound,” his voice was smoother now, not harsh as it was before. I made sure to focus on his face and not the needle as he approached me.
What wound? I thought briefly before I realized that one part of me did hurt just a bit more then all the other parts -- my neck. I slowly, brought one hand to my neck, hardly feeling strong enough to do just that. I felt a gapping hole, or perhaps tear, there - I then realized I was weak from blood loss, not exhaustion as I had previously thought.
Jeremiah moved my hand away from my neck before he pushed the needle into my arm. His hand was icy cold and hard -- he felt like a corpse.
I tried to focus on his face as I slipped into a drug-induced haze. Most of the pain went away, leaving only a dull ache, just a shadow of the pain I felt early. He said something but I couldn’t focus enough to decipher what it was.
I drifted off into unconsciousness a short while later.
I awoke again, this time in a room with jet-black carpet and dark gold walls. I was on a large bed under a deep red sheet. The morphine had long since worn off, but the pain had lessened.
I took a survey of the room around me. There were still no windows, but this room obviously was furnished. The room, I could tell, was quite large. The king sized bed I was on didn’t even take up a fourth of the space around me.
There were three dark brown wooden doors in the room, on three different walls. There was a nightstand of the same wooden color on each side of the bed, and a lamp placed on the one on the left. A small black sleek looking alarm clock sat on the other - ‘5:30 p.m. 4-8-08’ it read.
The date startled me -- March 31 was the night I was ‘kidnapped’. I had been unconscious for over a week.
“We kept you on morphine -- otherwise you would have already woken up,” a voice smoother then velvet informed me from the other side of the room, I turned my head, and spotted my blond haired savior, sitting on a blood red couch on the left side of the room. The couch was facing the wall on which a large TV screen was mounted. He was turned facing me, almost sitting backwards on the couch in a fashion that would make anyone else look awkward, but not him, he looked perfect, his bright red orbs watching my expression turn from surprised to confused in a matter of seconds -- he had a amused expression on his face.
“How?” I asked my voice rough and dry. He was at my bedside in seconds, with a glass of water in hand. I again asked how.
“I have enhanced powers so to speak -- we all do, it comes with the package,” He answered.
“We?” I inquired. “What package?”
“We, being my coven and everyone like us, and the package, vampirism,” he explained waiting for my reaction.
“Vampirism—“I started then realizing something, and I asked, now petrified, “my neck, I’m not going to turn into a vampire am I?”
He shook his head, “Sadly no, I would love to have your lovely self walk among the earth for the rest of its existence, but you have to exchange blood to be turned and the master merely fed from you, he did not give you any of his blood.”
“The mast—“he interrupted me before I could finish.
“He is the leader or king of our group. We’re all surprised you lived, the other girls didn’t, as I’m sure you know. They should be finding their bodies soon,” he explained and sat down on the bed beside me.
“Why aren’t I dead?” I asked, confused to why he just didn’t drink just a little bit more of my blood.
“Well,” he hesitated, his velvet voice taking a tone I hadn’t yet heard, “as a gift for making sure Larkin didn’t kill you he gave you to me, to do as I like.”
“As you like?” I questioned, suddenly wary of his alluring velvet voice.
“I own you, Delilah,” he said. I focused on his voice, not his words -- his voice could never betray me, but his words -- they could.
“Own me?” I repeated, and trying to dispel the meaning of his dooming words out of my mind, I focused on the voice smoother then velvet, and his vibrant red eyes.
“You. Are. Mine.” He emphasized each individual word. Against my will, the meaning clicked in my mind. I tried to get back to his voice, but all that was left was the words, and their meanings.
For seven long years, I was a slave to my blond haired savior, with a voice smoother then velvet. I endured his torture, his cold touch, his words. I spent seven years listening to his velvet voice, focusing on it not the words. Until he decided I was too fragile. That I could break too easily, that I was aging.
So he fed from me on the eve of the anniversary of the first time I heard his velvet voice. But this time unlike the others, he dragged one of his long sharp nails against the icy hard skin on his wrist and put it to my mouth. All my pledges I made to myself about not drinking it disappeared as he whispered to me, told me to drink, to be with him forever - I listened to the velvet voice and the words it spoke.
For three short years I waited, until I could help chase the girls, bring them to my master, so he can have his ten, the ten girls he needs every ten years so he can survive and protect us.
I smiled as she panted, as she ran into the forest outside of the town small town she lived in. The branches tore at her skin, and the rough forest floor destroyed her feet, but she kept running. The blood smelt intoxicating.
If only she had listened - we told her not to go out at night. It was too dangerous we told her. She didn’t care that eight girls were already taken this month. But then again neither did her mother. Her mother moved them there only two days ago claiming the job we offered was to good to turn down, that the deaths were only a coincidence, that nothing bad would happen to them. But here she was running from me, a monster with razor sharp teeth and glowing red eyes.
I chuckled when I heard her prayers -- to every god she could think of, that they would just keep her alive, keeps her heart beating.
Her prayers were answered in the form of a blond haired monster -- somehow different then the others. “Delilah, you know she’s off limits, we have orders,” the blond haired savior spoke, his voice smoother then velvet.