In slow motion, he looked down.
Nope, not his blond hair.
His skin.
Lash turned around to the mirror and heard himself shout. His reflection was incomprehensible, the patch of flesh that had let loose revealing a black oozing undercoat over his white skull. With his fingernail, he tested the edge of what was still attached and found that it was all slack; every square inch over his face was nothing but a sheet draped over the bone.
"No!" he screamed, trying to pat the shit back in place--
His hands . . . oh, God, not them, too. Flaps of skin were hanging off the backs of them, and as he yanked up the sleeves of his button-down, he wished he'd been more gentle, because his dermis came along with the fine silk.
What was happening to him?
Behind him, in the mirror, he saw the whore flash by at a dead run, looking like Sissy Spacek's Carrie only without the prom dress.
With a surge of strength, he went after her, his body moving with none of the power and grace he was used to. As he pounded after his prey, he could feel the friction of his clothes against himself and could only imagine the tearing that was happening over every inch of him.
He caught the prostitute just as she got to the rear door and started fighting with the locks. Slamming into her from behind, he grabbed her hair, yanked her head back, and bit hard, drawing her black blood into him.
He polished her off, drained her until his sucking pulls got him a whole lot of nothing in his mouth, and when he was done, he just let her go so that she crumpled down right on the carpet.
In a drunken shamble, he went back to the bathroom and turned on the lights that ran along both sides of the mirror.
With each piece of clothing he removed, he revealed more of the horror that was already showing on his face: His bones and muscles glistened with a black, oily sheen under the bulbs' illumination.
He was a cadaver. An upright, walking, breathing cadaver, the eyes of which rolled around in their sockets without lid or lash, the mouth of which showed nothing but fangs and teeth.
The last of his skin was that which anchored his beautiful blond hair to his head, but even that was sliding off the back, like a wig that had lost its glue.
He took off the final piece and, with his skeletal hands, stroked that which he'd taken such pride in. Of course, he fucked the shit up that way, the black ooze congealing on the locks, staining them, matting them . . . so that they were no better than what was still attached to that whore's head out by the door.
He let his scalp fall to the floor and stared at himself.
Through the cage of his ribs, he watched his own heart beat and wondered in numb horror what else was going to rot off him . . . and what he was going to be left with when this transformation was finished.
"Oh, God . . ." he said, his voice no longer sounding right, a displaced echo fleshing out the words in a way that was chillingly familiar.
Blay stood with his closet door open, his hanging clothes all on display. Absurdly, he wanted to call his mother for advice. Which was what he'd always done before when it came to getting dressed up.
But that wasn't a conversation he was in a hurry to have. She'd assume it was a female and get all excited about the fact that he was going on a date and he'd be forced to lie to her . . . or come out of the closet.
His parents had never been judgmental. . . . But he was their only son and no female meant not only no grandbabies, but a hit from the aristocracy. Unsurprisingly, the glymera was okay with homosexuality provided you were mated to a female and you never, ever spoke about it or did anything overtly to confirm the way you were born. Appearances. All about appearances. And if you did come out? You got shut out.
And so did your family.
On some level, he couldn't believe he was about to go meet up with a male. At a restaurant. And then head off to an after-hours bar with the guy.
His date was going to look amazing. Always did.
So Blay took out a Zegna suit that was gray with the palest pink pinstripe. A fine cotton button-down from Burberry was next, the shirt's body a faint blush, with its French cuffs and collar a bright white. Shoes . . . shoes . . . shoes . . .
Bam, bam, bam on the door. "Yo, Blay."
Shit. He'd already laid the suit out on the bed and he was newly showered, in his bathrobe, with gel in his hair.
Gel: Dead frickin' giveaway.
Going to the door, he cracked the sucker only an inch or two. Out in the hall, Qhuinn was ready for fighting, his chest holster of daggers hanging from his hand, his leathers on, his New Rocks buckled up.
Funny, though, the warrior routine didn't make much of an impression. Blay was too busy remembering what the guy had looked like stretched out on the bed the night before, his eyes on Layla's mouth.
Bad call to have had that feeding done in his own room, Blay thought. Because now he was stuck wondering how far things had gone on his mattress between those two.