Chapter 3
Vampire. That one word awoke something in Eric, and a skin tingling chill rolled over his shoulders. Vampire. The word sounded strange—fake. Eric laughed. He couldn’t stop it. It bubbled up and burst out of his mouth. But then something shifted in him, something dark, cold, and oddly exhilarating, and his laughter clogged in his throat. He jumped from the bed, landing nimbly on the balls of his feet, and ripped off his shirt, running his fingers over his hard abdomen, searching for any trace of damage.
Nothing. Absolutely nothing.
Impossible, a scared, little voice in his head whispered. All of this was impossible. He should be dead; Eric was certain of it. But as he examined his body, there wasn’t even a scratch from where Sterling had landed, and his muscles were firmer, and more defined. “I’m not a vampire,” Eric gaffed, still staring at his unmarked stomach. “They do not exist.”
“They do and you are.” There was amusement in Mitchell’s deep voice as he spoke, but there was also an air of confidence. Eric couldn’t just hear it; he could smell it, thick in the air. It was cool and assured, and it made Eric feel like a mad man. He listened to the demon’s heartbeat, drumming in regular thumps; it did not quicken, and he was certain it would if Mitchell was lying.
“Is this some kind of joke?” Eric questioned. His voice quivered slightly, and he wasn’t sure if it was from fear or blinding anger. Both emotions were swirling together, binding as one. He narrowed his eyes, his jaw twitched, and heat rushed up his neck and settled in his cheeks.
“No,” Mitchell replied, simply, as if that was enough of an answer. He sat on the edge of the bed motionless, staring at him intently, with his hands folded in his lap.
“The girl, Angelle, is she …?” Eric couldn’t finish the question, but the demon understood and nodded in confirmation. “Are there more?” he demanded, and Mitchell nodded again. The nods were maddening. Eric clenched his fists and began pacing the floor. The muscles along his neck and back went into a fit of spasms, rolling under his skin, and tensing as his anger rose to white-hot rage. “How long have I been sleeping?” Eric growled.
“An hour,” he answered.
Eric stopped pacing and spun towards Mitchell. “Why did you do this to me?” he shouted. He had never felt anger like this before. It raged through him, like an angry bull. It was terrifying and invigorating, and it consumed him.
“I am not a monster, Mr. Carter,” Mitchell said tightly. His lips were thin and his eyes, hard. He sat up straighter, and he rolled his shoulders back, making them look even larger. “You were dying, and I did what I could to make sure that did not happen. And if you recall, you did tell me that you did not want to die.” He enunciated every syllable, with clipped precision, and the way he was looking at Eric was anything but amused.
“But you … the myths … you drink …” his head felt as if it would explode. All the legends, all the tales, it was like waking from a dream only to find himself in a nightmare. And the persistent burning in his throat was driving him over the edge.
“Blood,” Mitchell said with a nod, confirming the statement, and his features softened a little.
Blood. The word made Eric’s heart skip a beat, and his throat constricted. His gums began to pulsate, and he felt a pinch, a small tearing sensation, at the top of his mouth. He felt something slide down and then poke at his bottom lip, and he raised his hand to his mouth. He gasped when his fingers found two sharp fangs protruding from his gums. They were smooth, pointed, and Eric was certain they looked exactly like Mitchell’s—deadly and intriguing.
Eric shuddered, and dropped down on the bed in shock. “What were you doing in my field?” he whispered, even though he was sure he already knew the answer.
Mitchell sighed, a gusty sound, and for a moment, Eric thought he wasn’t going to answer, but then Mitchell said softly, “Hunting.”
“Me?” Eric asked.
“Yes,” Mitchell replied directly and plainly.
Eric looked at him then, searching his bright blue eyes for any hint of humanity. Mitchell’s one word answer sounded cold, and callous, as if it were fact, or common even, to hunt humans, and Eric couldn’t believe that anyone, demon or not, could be that cruel. But all he found in Mitchell’s expression was confirmation, and his blood boiled. “So you did plan on killing me,” Eric snarled savagely.
“No, I would only have taken what I needed to survive,” Mitchell said. He reached over and patted Eric’s knee. “You were not meant to die.”
Eric batted the hand away, cringing at Mitchell’s touch. Not meant to die! a voice in his head growled. Clearly, that was a lie. The demon had just openly admitted to hunting him. And hunting resulted in death. His skin buzzed, and his muscles coiled tightly. A growl, something savage and purely animalistic, rumbled in his throat, and his jaw ached from clenching it. Red flared all around him, fogging his vision, and washing everything his eyes touched in scarlet. “Christ, what’s wrong with my eyes!” Eric shouted. It wasn’t a question, but Mitchell answered it anyway.
Mitchell smiled a little. “Nothing is wrong with them, Son. It’s normal for them to change when you are angry.” His calm demeanor was infuriating, and Eric struggled to breathe through the constricting wrath building within his chest. “In time you will learn to control it.”
“I’m not angry!” he shouted. He didn’t know why he said it. Rage was coursing through him, smothering his senses, and coating his brain in a red-hot fog.
“I’m not sure I believe that this is your happy face,” Mitchell said with a chuckle, and his eyes danced with humor.
The laughter was maddening, mocking, and it unlocked something in Eric. Heat rushed to his face, and he snarled. He launched at Mitchell, with a power and speed that he had not known was possible, and tackled him to the floor. Mitchell laughed again. It was a burst of velvety sound that died as quickly as it came out when Eric landed a punch squarely on his jaw. He felt the bone snap under his fist.
Mitchell’s laughing eyes hardened, and suddenly they were cold and dangerous. With what seemed like nothing more than a flick of the wrist, he flung Eric off of him, and before Eric could really process what was happening, Mitchell’s big hand was wrapped around his throat, pinning him against the wall. “Lesson number one, the older you are, the stronger you get,” Mitchell said with barely contained fury. “Never pick a fight with an older vampire, because you will not win.”