Roxanne Fosch Files Collection

Chapter 2

“Master,” whispered a voice in my head.

“Master.” My lips moved, forming the word.

Then an image of him feeding from my neck, my eyes blank as he took his fill filled my mind. As if it were a reminder, my leg gave a painful throb.

No. Nooooooooooo! Screamed that tiny voice. Louder and louder it screamed. Until—until…

My rage peaked, ready to explode like an active volcano. For the tiniest fraction of a second his control wavered with surprise.

It was all I needed.

I embraced that raging otherness inside me.

And I let the explosion take over.

I started slowly gaining on him, and once I got going, I didn"t stop. I gained speed and momentum like a free-falling object. Once I reached the limit—once I had pushed him all the way out of my head—instead of impacting and bouncing, I wanted to keep going. So I followed him and pushed into his mind, through the mud-like molasses trying to impede my forward progress. I roared with rage and triumph to the other side, to the maze of hundreds and thousands and millions of cobwebbed lights—the network of thoughts and memories.

My rage had the control seat. For a timeless moment, I moved neither forward nor backward.

The mind was a beautiful thing. A sea of lights, contrasting everywhere with shadows and colors, some like a dot on a map—barely significant, others shining as brilliant as the sun.

I didn"t go for his memories, his thoughts, his knowledge. I ignored the lights, the darkness, the shadows and colors. As I traversed through, I caught glimpses of the memories I came closest, of a beautiful brunette with blue eyes the color of a summer day sky, dressed in a midnight blue gown with bell sleeves. Of a man with green eyes and long dark hair, dressed in another era"s clothes. I felt the love he felt for her—Angelina Hawthorn of Bond Street, daughter to a diplomat—then the horror, the pain and fear when Angelina turned into a nightmare with fangs and struck, such a delicate thing, sharper than a rapier. I watched as the woman struck, needle-sharp fangs pierced the delicate part of his throat like hot knife on butter; as his green eyes widened in shock, as his life force began to drain away. Regardless of how much I wanted to stay and pry—intrude into his private moments—my raging otherness didn"t. I moved straight to the end, to what the roaring otherness sought, to the middle back where there was a strange glowing red point with a brilliant net surrounding it, keeping it apart from all the others. The vamp"s will pushed at me, trying to get me out of his mind. He was strong, with centuries of accumulated knowledge and power, learnt and built throughout the years. It was like being scraped from inside with forked claws.

I screamed, either literally or mentally, I didn"t know, but he heard me and responded with a roar of his own. I believe it was his arrogance and sense of superiority, combined with my fear of being recaptured and sent back to the dungeons—or of losing my freewill to a vampire who had god-knew-what in mind—along with the raging otherness inside of me that gave me the strength I needed to keep pushing and gaining ground.

The net looked thick—cable-like and pulsing with a dark substance that seemed to emit its own throbbing hum, which I could hear even above the roaring. It gave even my raging otherness pause. But not for long. It coiled to spring like a snake, and then slammed into it.

This time when I screamed, it was from the agonizing pain searing inside my head. It went on and on. Like being electrocuted from inside out.

Then… silence. Nothing.

The roaring was gone. The screaming was gone. The humming was gone. The cobweb of light was gone. The thick, cable-like net was gone. Nothing but a blob-like red ball that no longer glowed like a beacon.

I reached for it.

And began squeezing, squishing, compressing it from all sides as if I had encased it inside a diminishing box of metal sheets.

Some part of me was horrified with what I was doing, the part that understood what this meant, but was quickly shut down by the otherness inside.

It was either him or me. My freedom or his life.

An excruciating pain began building between my eyes, but it didn"t stop or diminish the hold that otherness had of me. I was aware of the warm trickle of blood running down my nose, my eyes. Concern that I wouldn"t be able to wrestle control back from that otherness began to make a presence.

The blob decreased in size, giving way to nothing, until … there was no more.

There was an explosive pressure inside my head that terrified me, before everything became black.

When I awoke, dawn was already approaching. I had the mother of all headaches. My right leg was on fire. The dim light coming from the edge of the drapes was like acid in my eyes. The murmur of early birds like knives inside my head. I closed my eyes again and I remembered at once what had happened.

I needed to get the hell out of there. I took a deep, aching breath and opened my eyes again.

When I was able to focus my watering eyes, the first thing I saw was the mummified figure beside me.

The faint smell of rotten meat permeated the air, along with the metallic scent of blood. I got up slowly, mindful of the mangled leg, and supported myself with a hand on the dresser. The pain I felt was unbelievable, and I did sway once when the room tilted, but a couple of deep breaths had the world, and my nervous stomach, settling again. And just like that, I packed all my belongings into my duffle bag and limped out of there. I was locking the door when I remembered my rent. I still had the envelope with the week"s paycheck inside my coat pocket. It would cover the rent, plus whatever troubles and cleaning expenses would be needed to scrape the blood and mummified corpse. I took the check out, placed it on the dresser along with the room key, and limped my way outside to the back of the building where Thunder—the ancient truck a guy had sold me over a year ago—was parked. I took the I-84 to head south, hoping and praying the PSS would give up on me.