Kissed by Darkness(57)

I walked a little faster. My flat would be nice and warm and an evening of sci-fi and crime shows sounded fantastic. I could spot the red and white brick of my building through the bushes. Just a couple of minutes and I’d be home. I picked up the pace, fumbling for my keys which had managed to lose themselves once again inside the depths of my handbag.

Something heavy slammed into my left side. I flew through the air, smashing into my neighbor’s stonework wall. I actually heard my own ribs snap. The pain made me gag.

I never even saw him coming, and my mind struggled to make sense of the fact that I was now lying on the freezing cold ground feeling like I’d been rammed by a truck. Making a little mewling sound in my throat, I groped for my handbag. Everything had spilled out across the pavement. My fingers skittered through lipstick tubes and pens. My phone. Where was it? I needed to call … someone.

I saw my phone lying about a foot away. I tried reaching for it, but the pain in my side was overwhelming. I couldn’t even cry I hurt so badly.

I glanced up and down the street, looking for help, and realized my vision had gone a bit fuzzy and I tasted blood in my mouth. I reached up and touched my right temple and cheek where I’d hit the wall. My fingers came away sticky with my own blood. My stomach pitched.

God, what had hit me? A car maybe? But all the cars along the street were parked and empty.

“Help.” It was hardly more than a whisper. I tried again. “Help!” It didn’t come out much louder, but someone heard me because there was a low laugh in response. My blood ran cold. Fear clawed at my insides screaming at me to get up and run!

“No one gonna help you, bitch. No one gonna hear you.”

I blinked to clear my vision and wished I hadn’t. Nightmares were prettier. I must have hit my head harder than I thought. I tried to push myself to my feet, but the pain kept me on the ground. I cried out as another wave of pain hit me.

Him? Well, he laughed and when he did, long yellowish fangs flashed in the amber light of the street lamp. If it weren’t for the pain, I would have thought I was dreaming. They didn’t exist. Vampires weren’t real.

I felt the fangs go right into the jugular. It hurt more than anything. The pain ripped through me worse than the broken ribs or the head trauma. I would have screamed, but I had no breath. My hands fluttered against him, trying to beat him off, but I had no strength. His clawed hands squeezed my throat shut, and he slammed my head into the wall again.

The world went black and there was no more pain and no more blood and no more fear. There was only the sound of my heart beating slower and slower and slower. Then it stopped.







I woke up to a world of hard, bright white. The sheets beneath my fingertips felt cool and smooth and smelled faintly of bleach. The light sent pain stabbing though my head, lodging itself behind my eyes.

It was obvious I wasn’t dead. No one could mistake the antiseptic stench of a hospital for the world beyond the pearly gates. Plus I was pretty sure you weren’t supposed to feel pain in heaven. If there was a heaven. I’d never been entirely sure about the afterlife. I should probably check into that at some point.

I ran a quick mental check. Other than the headache nothing hurt, which could be a good sign or a very bad one. I subtly started flexing muscles, bending joints. Mostly everything worked, though my arm was in a cast. One problem: I was strapped down to the bed. That baffled me. I was the victim here. Didn’t they know that? Why was I tied down?

I must have made a noise because a face came into view, hovering over my bed. Dark eyes and honey kissed cinnamon skin, a mark of her Indian descent, an expression far too serious for a face meant to smile at the world. “How are you feeling?” Her voice held an accent that wasn’t quite British, but close.

“Um, OK, I think. How long have I been out?”

“Three days. You were banged up pretty bad.” Her voice was cool, detached, her eyes watchful.

My mouth tasted of road kill and felt stuffed full of cotton. “No. I was dead. Wasn’t I? I died.”

Her smile was grim. “Yeah,” she said softly. Then her expression turned strangely tender. Sympathy or empathy? “You did. You died.”

“I don’t understand.” My voice came out a raspy whisper. I really didn’t. I didn’t understand how I could be alive. Not after what happened to me. I should be lying dead in the street, not cuffed to a hospital bed. “Why am I tied up?”

“Just in case,” she pulled a chair up next to my bed. The sun streaming in the window turned her dark hair almost blue black. It hung around her face in thick waves, framing high, broad cheekbones and full lips. Definitely at least part Indian, though her accent wasn’t Indian at all.