YOU AGAIN?

Chapter 2

Daemon

The bedroom curtains were pulled shut, obscuring the time of day from my view. Giving up on my futile attempts to make sense of what had happened, I swung my legs over the edge of the bed and slowly sat up.

My body refused to cooperate. Every muscle ached as though I had been run over by a steamroller several times, and then, apparently impressed by the results, it had decided to make another pass.

“Good evening, Sleeping Beauty.”

Seymour appeared in the doorway, a cup in his hand. As soon as the pungent scent of coffee filled the room, my stomach lurched.

“What happened?” I rasped, swallowing back the nausea rising into my throat.

Seymour walked into the bedroom and dropped into the armchair.

“What happened was the most humiliating experience of my entire life, and one I’m going to carry to my grave.”

As usual, he remained true to form, turning even situations that would have left any normal person speechless into a joke. I stared at him in silence.

“All right, all right. I’ll remind you,” Seymour said, graciously taking it upon himself to explain. “First, I had to carry you in my arms like a princess. Then I stripped you down and put you to bed. The funny thing is that was exactly what I had planned to do last night, but definitely not with you.”

I gave a weak smile.

“Let’s keep that between us.”

“Too late. The doctor saw everything, so now, as a true gentleman, you’re legally obligated to marry me.”

I immediately tensed.

“What doctor?”

“Our doctor. A regular one would’ve taken one look at you and run for the hills, and then I’d have had to go after him. You were running a fever, so we had to give you a horse-sized dose of sedatives. You’ve been out for almost twenty-four hours.” Seymour took another sip of coffee. “Now tell me what the hell that was.”

I leant back against the pillows and stared at the ceiling.

“I have no idea…”

“The doctor couldn’t figure it out either. Who was the girl?”

Gradually, the image of the dark-haired girl in the flowing turquoise dress surfaced in my memory.

She was standing in the middle of the street, oblivious to everything around her, stroking a stray cat. At that moment, the whole world seemed to disappear, leaving only her and that impossibly intoxicating scent.

“Diana,” I finally breathed.

Her name settled somewhere inside me with a strange, almost painful weight.

“You know her?” Seymour asked, astonished.

“I did,” I replied after a brief pause. “She’s my ex.”

I could smell it again, even though its source was nowhere near me. It was as though the scent had become permanently embedded in my memory, fused so tightly with the memory of her that one could no longer exist without the other.

“Talk,” my friend demanded.

And I told him, leaving out certain details.

It was my fault that things ended that way. No one else’s. Just mine.

For a long time, I convinced myself that time healed all wounds. A couple of months after the breakup, I stopped looking for familiar features in every brunette who crossed my path. Six months later, Diana stopped appearing in my dreams.

I deliberately buried my memories of her in some remote corner of my mind and stubbornly avoided it, as though I might stumble across something I wasn’t ready to face.

Then there were other women. My bed was rarely empty, and I tried hard to convince myself that this was precisely what I desired. No commitments. No promises. No feelings that could ever make me dependent on another person again. I was very good at playing a man who needed nothing from anyone. At least I was until I was turned.

“You really are an arsehole," Seymour concluded when I fell silent, making it clear that I had no intention of going into any more detail.

“And you said there was no diagnosis,” I said dryly. “I don’t know what it was, but the moment I caught that scent, there was no resisting it.”

Silence settled between us. It seemed I could almost hear Seymour turning everything I had told him over in his mind, searching for an explanation for something neither of us understood yet. As for me, I suddenly felt utterly hollow, as though something important had been ripped out of me and replaced with a single thought that refused to leave.

“Are you sure it’s the scent?” Seymour asked.

“Yes.”

The beast inside me immediately made itself known. It clawed somewhere beneath my ribs and let out a long, mournful whine. The pain made me grip the mattress with both hands and clench my teeth.

Seymour rose and studied my face carefully.

“All right,” he said once my breathing had steadied somewhat. “We can’t keep you drugged up on sedatives forever, no matter how adorable you look when you’re asleep. Besides, there’s always the chance that one of these days I’ll lose my self-control and start kissing you.”

I grimaced in disgust and shoved Seymour away when he leant over me, puckering his lips theatrically.

“You didn’t complain last time.”

He bit his lower lip and waggled his brows in an over-the-top manner.

“Just admit it already. I’m your destiny.”

“Sorry, pal. You’re barking up the wrong tree,” I snapped, forcing myself out of bed and heading for the shower.

“Aw, you’re grumpy because you like me,” he sighed dreamily, sprawling across the bed like a starfish.

I turned my face toward the stream of cold water and let it run over me until my thoughts settled. My head was slowly clearing, but with that clarity came an unsettling realisation: I had to see her again. Not because I wanted to dig into the past — I needed to know whether yesterday’s madness really had something to do with Diana, or whether it was some side effect of being turned, which was something neither the doctor nor I understood yet. But somewhere deep down, I already knew the answer.

When I came out of the bathroom, the table had been set. One look at the food made another wave of nausea rise in my stomach. I took a bottle of ice-cold water from the refrigerator and drained it in one go.

Seymour frowned upon seeing the untouched meal.

“I think it’s time we ran a little field experiment.”

“I’m not sure she still lives at the same address,” I said, realising exactly what he meant.

Once he had made sure I was fit to drive, Seymour tossed me the keys to his car.

I hoped Diana was still living in the apartment we had rented together. At the same time, some part of me desperately prayed that the real cause of my condition was something else entirely.

After our breakup, I had gone out of my way to avoid that neighbourhood. As it turned out, with good reason.

The moment we drove into the courtyard, the memories from the past overwhelmed me with their full force. There I was, coming home from work and texting Diana to ask what I should pick up from the store. There I was again, climbing the stairs, opening the door, and finding her in the dim light, wearing incredibly seductive lingerie and stockings. I loved those little surprises of hers. Back then, they seemed like the most natural part of our life together. And then I had destroyed it all.

What an arsehole…

We stopped beneath the windows of the apartment I had called home for more than two years. The lights were off.

I could find Diana wherever she was. After being turned, my abilities had changed considerably, and so had my understanding of what “unlimited resources” really meant. But finding her would still take time. Time I didn’t have.

“We wait,” Seymour said, dragging me toward the central walkway across from the building.

We settled onto a bench. My beast paced restlessly inside me, unable to settle, and I understood him perfectly. I wanted to get up and start pacing the path myself, if only to burn off some of the tension. The longer we waited, the more panic tightened its grip on me. Thoughts crowded my mind, tripping over one another in their haste.

What am I supposed to do when I see her? Walk up and say hello? What am I supposed to say? “Hey. Long time no see?"

At that moment, my logical thinking failed, so I turned to the individual who had more practical wisdom than me.

“What do I do if she actually shows up?”

Seymour took a long look at my miserable expression.

“Nothing. First, we need to make sure this really is about her. Then we’ll figure out what the hell is happening to you.”

Easy for him to say. If what happened yesterday happens again, I’m not sure I’ll be able to stop myself from running straight to her.

“Don’t even think about it,” Seymour said sharply.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You don’t have to. Your face says it all.”