Elle Jasper - Everdark

He closed his eyes and drew in a lungful of air, then looked at me. “I can barely smell your blood,” he said, stepping closer and inhaling deeply again. “Your dark brothers must have changed the drugs they use to mask your scent.” Light reflected in his deep brown eyes, and they studied me closely, intensely. “I’m glad. I had to see you.”

A car turned up the street, and the headlights flashed toward us. In the blink of an eye, Victorian stepped in front of me, pushing me backward through the thick, damp grass, and into the shadows of an aged brick historic house that dominated nearly an entire block. The car passed; the headlight beams swept above our heads, and then left us in total darkness. Victorian, who stood at least six feet tall, moved slowly, crowding me and forcing me to back up. I stopped when the brick pressed into my back. I felt completely powerless, as though I possessed zero control of my actions, my thoughts, my new tendencies—almost as if I’d had a stroke. The younger Arcos took full advantage.

He stared down at me, desire radiating off his body in heady waves. “You torture me, Riley,” he said, his Romanian accent making his words seductive, erotic. “I think of nothing else but you”—he leaned close, his mouth brushing my jaw—“and of what I want to do to you.” His soft lips grazed the skin at my neck, where he lingered, and a flash of fear mixed with an uncontrolled shiver rushed through me. “Of what I dream of you doing to me,” he said at my ear. “It causes me physical pain to stay away, Riley Poe.” His mouth moved to my jaw, dragging his lips to my chin, close to my mouth. “I want you now,” he whispered. “I want to keep you forever.”

I was shaking, my mind numb, my limbs paralyzed, and sensations tingled across the skin where his lips moved so erotically. I didn’t want this, or his touch. I couldn’t help but crave it. I breathed, squeezed my eyes shut, opened them, gathered my strength—God only knew where it came from—lifted my hands to his chest and pushed. Hard. Victorian flew backward and landed on his back several feet away. He lay there, staring at me and smiling.

When next I blinked, he stood in front of me, close, crowding me once more, his hands grasping my wrists and grating my knuckles against the brick wall at my back. He lowered his head, his lips whispering against mine.

“Your tendencies do nothing more than fascinate me”—his mouth moved against mine—“and excite me even more.” He pulled back and looked at me. “What other tricks do you possess that I might enjoy?” His alluring scent surrounded me as his mouth covered mine—

“Riley?” A hand grasped my shoulder and shook—hard. “Riley, wake up, dammit.”

I gasped; my eyes fluttered open and I stared, confused, into Eli’s questioning gaze. Behind him, early-morning sun streamed in through my bedroom window, casting a hazy glow on his face. He frowned. “You’ve been dreaming of him again,” he said, his eyes hard and accusing. “Haven’t you?”

I glanced down. I still wore the same black yoga pants and sports bra I’d gone for a run in the night before. I’d encountered Victorian on that run. Hadn’t I? Or had it all really been a dream? I looked at my knuckles; the skin across them was scraped raw.

Inside my head,Victorian’s seductive laugh resonated.

Now, either that little fucker was messing with me, or I was losing my goddamn mind.

By the time I’d closed Inksomnia’s doors a few nights later, I’d realized with complete lucidity that our lives—all of our lives—would never be the same again. There were no rose-colored glasses here. Nope. My goggles were scratch free and squeaky-clean, and, to be honest, I suppose I’d rather it be that way. Better to know what’s coming than to ignorantly stand around with your thumb up your butt, waiting for junk to happen.

For instance, Preacher and Estelle no longer had to what the Gullah referred to as “fix” me. Let’s face it. My DNA was royally screwed up, so I no longer needed that particular concoction of God-Knows-What from Preacher’s special behind-the-haint-blue-curtain herb collection. I still had to have something—I mean, I was still human after all—but not such a heavy dose, and my Gullah grandparents no longer had to trick me daily into drinking my protective tea. I willingly did so and kept a mammoth canister of it on my kitchen counter. Gilles said that because I had the venom of two strigoi vampires’ mixed with my DNA, my blood would slowly start morphing into something unique, and soon I wouldn’t even need the tea. I’m not sure if I should have been happy or freaked about that. Lucky for my brother, he had the venom of only one strigoi mixed with his DNA. We’re both pretty messed up, though, I guess you could say. Messed up, but not stupid.

Another thing I’ve noticed, and this just since getting back home, is my senses. They’re changing. I mean, I’d known about the whole werewolf/Arcos bit, but damn—I didn’t realize it’d get so intense. Or that it’d continue to alter as it has. My hearing is ridiculously acute. I’m starting to hear the most insane sounds, like the nuns over at the Cathedral of St. John the Baptist (aka Cinderella’s Castle by Seth and me), and that’s all the way over on East Harris Street. I can literally hear them praying. At first, it was nothing more than a cluster of hushed murmuring whispers; but, by the second day, the whispers were totally clear and I could understand every word being muttered—every single word. It made me feel like some freaky eavesdropping voyeur or something. Weird. Even weirder was that I could now pick up heartbeats, and only God knew how far away they were. I heard them everywhere, and after a while it began to seriously grate on the nerves. Thump thump thump thump thump thump. Thump freaking thump. Eli promised to teach me how to channel it, tune it out, or make use of it. I was looking forward to learning those tricks and hopefully soon, because I felt as if I’ were constantly holed up in a crowded bar with some drunken idiot banging a set of drums. The softer the sound, the louder it was inside my head. It was driving me frickin’ nuts.

And my sense of smell was almost just as crazy. I could detect everything from a joint being toked three blocks away in an upstairs apartment, to some nasty drunk dude farting batter-fried onion rings in the corner booth at Spanky’s.

I was standing in my kitchen, steeping strong Gullah tea, when the first terror-vision hit me. I wished to God it was my last. It wasn’t. I remember glancing at the time on my Kit-Cat Klock—8:44 a.m.

A paralyzing grip suddenly snatched control of my body; I dropped the spoon I was using to stir sugar into my tea, and it clattered against the granite countertop, then hit the floor. I couldn’t feel my fingers or toes, and, at first, I couldn’t breathe. The insides of my eyes, behind the sockets, turned boiling hot, then frigidly cold. A loud ringing in my ears drowned out any and all noises, including the ones I heard blocks away. Then everything went pitch-black. I tried to speak, but my vocal cords were paralyzed, too. Panic, mixed with anger, seized me.