A Vampire's Promise (27 page)

T
here are some people who will tell you that if you fall in a dream it's a bad thing. I'm not talking about a fall because you've twisted your knee or turned your ankle. I mean taking a dive off a high-rise building, or stepping into an open elevator shaft on the twenty-fifth floor. The kind of descent that pretty much guarantees if you do reach the bottom, you're not going to walk away. Hell, you're not even going to get up. And when you step over that ledge you're filled with absolute terror, because there's no way you can change the outcome.

And these people, whoever they are, will tell you that if you actually do reach the bottom in your dream, then in the waking world, you're dead.

Really? How the fuck would anyone know?

I've had a few nightmares where I've fallen, and it's a truly horrible sensation. I always wake up just as I'm going into free fall, with my stomach now behind my rib cage and my heart in my throat. I feel helpless and panicky all at the same time, and my limbs tremble as I try to catch my breath. But I've never reached bottom.

At least not yet.

I can't say for sure that I was dreaming about falling, but I woke in the grip of the same kind of anxiety. Soaked in perspiration, my heart was pounding so hard I had to have internal bruising. Tendrils of hair stuck to my neck and cheek, and the hand I held against my mouth was shaking so hard I almost slapped myself. But at least I wasn't dead.

I wasn't alone either.

Sitting bolt upright in my bed, I took in a wild gasp of air, and stared at the wicker chair in the corner. Whatever I thought I saw was now gone, leaving behind an empty seat. The only immediate threat to my safety would be getting my foot tangled in the bed covers spilling on the floor.

I shook my head, which, given the sudden pounding behind my eyes, was a bad idea. Lying back down, I put an arm over my eyes. This had to be the worst hangover ever, easily a hundred times more awful than the one following the puke-fest my best friend Laycee put me through when I turned twenty-one. That particular episode had been bad enough to serve as a dire warning on the pitfalls of drinking tequila, especially when there was a worm in the bottle. Apparently I hadn't heeded my own advice. So much for good intentions. I'd gotten so drunk, I couldn't even remember drinking!

My tongue felt thick and fuzzy, and the nasty taste in my mouth said there was a good possibility I might have licked the living room carpet at some point. I swallowed, a tentative action that had my throat screaming and seemed to confirm the carpet-licking theory. Whatever I'd done, it was way worse than anything that had happened the night I celebrated my legal status.

Raising my arm, I opened my eyes a fraction and focused on the square of pale light dancing across the ceiling. It stretched almost to the far wall, which meant the sun was heading for the horizon, and I'd been asleep for most of the day. Of course that might not be so long, depending on when I'd actually made it to bed.

In an effort to minimize the sloshing of my brain against the inside of my skull, I checked the clock on the bedside table. The bright red display read 5:05, and the small dot in the upper corner said it was definitely p.m. Yep, I'd slept all day, which only partially explained why I felt like shit. The rest of the blame was going squarely on the shoulders of Jose Cuervo and whoever he'd brought with him.

Dear God, please don't let me have done anything embarrassing, but if I did, don't let it be posted on Facebook.

The haze fogging my brain started to lift, and in its wake I was bombarded with a series of weird, fragmented images. Any hope of being allowed to recall the events of the last twenty-four hours in a manageable dose was blown right out the water. Taking a page from the sink-or-swim school of accountability, I got shoved in the deep end as everything came rushing back. Ignoring the pain in my head, I bolted for the bathroom.

Somewhere between crossing the threshold of my bedroom and falling to my knees before the porcelain goddess, my cerebral cortex exploded into a B-horror movie nightmare. Kind of like
Twilight
on steroids, but without the generous budget or teenage cast. As I bent over the toilet, it took a little while for my brain to remember I'd already expelled the contents of my stomach several hours before. If I continued to dry-heave, I was going to rupture something.

Slowly I got to my feet and gripped the edge of the bathroom sink with both hands. The face looking back at me in the mirror almost had me falling down again.

Jesus H. Christ—was that me?

I'd aged ten years overnight. Forget about getting wasted on wormy tequila; I looked like I needed a hospital bed. And a machine that gave a reassuring beep so I would know I was still alive. My face was drained of all color. Even my sun-kissed freckles looked washed out. Dark circles ringed my eyes, and there was something white and crusty caked in the corner of my mouth.

The woman in the mirror stared back at me with accusing eyes.
How could you not have known?
she demanded in a shrill voice.

I wasn't ill, and I most definitely was not hung over. It was much worse than that. Panic now threaded through me. Like a wisp of smoke that turns into a flame that becomes a fire, it threatened to run out of control. I took a step back, hitting my heel on the base of the bathtub. A shower seemed like a good idea. Pulling back the curtain, I stepped into the tub and used both hands to turn the faucet on. With my face upturned, I let the water wash over me, sluicing away my panic. A numbness took its place, and leaning my forehead against the fiberglass wall, I gave my aching body over to the shower's pulsating spray. It wasn't until I tasted salt on my lips that I realized I was crying. I didn't fight it. Instead I shut down what remained of my rational thought process and let the tears flow. God knows I was overdue for a sob fest.

I have no idea how long I remained standing in the bathtub. I wasn't consciously aware that the water temperature had changed from warm to freezing until the sound of my chattering teeth forced common sense to prevail. I was pretty sure that, in all the years of its existence, this was the first time the hot water tank had ever been emptied. Wearily, I turned the faucet off and stepped out of the tub.

I was naked. I didn't remember taking off my underwear, but obviously I had because my bra and panties lay in a wet pile in the bottom of the tub. Just as well, really, because my fingers were now so cold I doubt I could have managed the intricacies involved in unhooking a bra. I wrapped a towel around me, tucking the end between my breasts. Dealing with my hair was going to take more effort than I currently possessed, so I simply ignored it. If I couldn't comb the tangles out later, then I'd cut them out. Satisfied with my problem-solving skills, I shambled back to my bedroom.

I was in shock. I knew this because my body's physical response was eerily reminiscent of my reaction on hearing my dad had died. The state trooper who'd been with me at the time had told me I was in shock. I had all the symptoms typical of a traumatized condition. Chills, erratic breathing, clammy skin. Who was I to argue with a state trooper?

My core temperature, already lowered by the cold shower, fell a little further, and I began to shake as if I was having a seizure. Curling up in a ball, I hugged my knees to my chest, and waited for the spasms to pass.

My boyfriend is a vampire.

Oh . . . fuck . . .

Carla Smith—Biography

 

 

Carla owes her love of literature to her mother, who, after catching her pre-teen daughter reading by flashlight beneath the bed covers, calmly replaced the romance book she had “borrowed” with one that was far less risqué and much more appropriate. Carla was encouraged to include different genres in her reading tastes, and romance—paranormal romance, in particular—has always been her first love.

 

Born and raised in England, she now makes her home in South Carolina, where she lives with her wonderfully supportive husband, awesome son, and a canine critique group (if tails aren't wagging, then the story isn't working). When not writing, she can usually be found in the kitchen trying out any recipe that calls for rhubarb, working on her latest tapestry project, or playing catch-up with her reading list.

eKENSINGTON BOOKS are published by

 

Kensington Publishing Corp.
119 West 40th Street
New York, NY 10018

 

Copyright © 2014 by Carla Susan Smith

 

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

 

eKensington and the K logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.

 

First Electronic Edition: June 2014

ISBN: 978-1-6018-3289-4

 

ISBN-13: 978-1-60183-290-0
ISBN-10: 1-60183-290-7