After picking through my clothes in the closet, I'm dismayed to find the duffel nearly full. I wrap my laptop in my favorite purple sweater and shove it in. I raid through the drawers trying to pack practical but a striped stuffed animal distracts me from the essentials.
Out of sentiment I reach for the stuffed tiger, a gift from my dad when I was little. I give his matted fur a pat.
I'm my Dad's ferocious, little tiger baby. He'd say there was no challenge too tough for me to handle. I sigh, wishing it were true. Lately, it seems all I do is fail. I don't feel like the victor he always makes me out to be.
This is no time to get emotional. I clear the rising lump in my throat and take the tiger, placing him with care inside the pack.
Having shunned Sam for long enough, I cross the room to open the front door. I'm met with an icy stare through thick, black hair. His arms folded as he leans against the stucco wall.
"That wasn't very nice, you know."
I palm out a flippant shrug, then continue scouring the room for anything else worth taking.
"So, will I get locked out of open doors too?" I ask, purposely leaving a few clothes hanging out of drawers to give off a ransacked impression.
"It's doubtful, I don't think we're from the same bloodline."
"What is that anyway, a bloodline?"
"Well…" he pauses thoughtfully, running fingers through that mess of hair, "I'm no expert, but I was told it's based on who turns you. When turned, you inherit the strengths and weaknesses of the person who brought you back to life and your maker would have inherited their maker's traits and so on. I'd almost compare it to genetics other than the fact it's guaranteed."
"You make it sound like a family tree," I say, thinking about his mention of 'ingesting Derek's blood'. Though fascinating, it makes me uneasy.
"Something along those lines," he says, shifting his weight, "There are myths about the heads of each bloodline – if you're Christian think supernatural Adams and Eves. It's said they made a physical exchange or sacrifice for their individual power and immortality. Hence the strengths and weaknesses that are passed down."
"You're Christian?" I ask and want to roll my eyes at myself. *Of course* that's the first question that comes out of my mouth.
"My mother was Catholic."
I sit on my bed, engrossed in all the new information.
"So these 'Supernatural Adams and Eves'," Ifingerquote, "are immortal...meaning they're still alive and kicking? Wait! Are we immortal?"
He snorts at my sudden enthusiasm, "In a sense, more quasi-immortal. You and I no longer age but we're not invincible, we can still die."
The corners of his mouth turn down briefly as he glances at the floor.
"And yes, it's rumored the First are still around somewhere," he says, then mutters in distaste, "Being closely tied to a First is a Thorn's claim to fame…"
"Who or what is a Thorn?"
"Eh," he sneers, crinkling his nose with a dismissive wave, "I can fill you in on those over glorified pricks later. Are you almost done? How long are you planning on keeping me waiting out here?"
I open my mouth to tell him no one is forcing him to stay and he can go if he doesn't like it, but Sam's actually being quite helpful. I don't want to chance him leaving just yet.
"Yeah, yeah, almost done. Let me grab my bathroom stuff."
I push my way to the only other room of my dinky studio, noticing I have no need for the light even though it's a windowless bathroom. Out of habit, I flick the lights on anyway.
Snatching the toothbrush off the sink, I reach up to the mirrored cabinet and gasp. The toothbrush drops and bounces around the basin. My reflection...I thought someone was hiding out in here for a second.
Though I'm still recognizable, everything is sharper, tighter, more defined. The varied shades of my hazel eyes stand out, brighter and saturated behind dark lashes. My skin is utterly flawless though notably paler, the milky color flows as if painted on. No unsightly blemishes. And did that run for my life do me wonders, cause it looks like I live at the gym.
Even my hair looks amazing, shouldn't it be a rat's nest from all the falling and dying I did yesterday? Juniper must have cleaned me up a bit – Other than the deer blood, all prior filth and makeup is gone. And with my enhanced looks, I don't need the makeup anymore. I stare flabbergasted and mesmerized by the disappearance of all imperfections.
"Everything good?" Sam calls out.
"Give me a minute," I shout back and lean away, feeling silly and vain.
Just then my reflection grins at me, *unprompted*. I suck in air again. 'What the hell!'
I try to pull back but the reflecting gaze seems to draw me in. The smile widens and those eyes become wild. Am I losing my mind?
All other senses dominate my sight as the volume ramps up to a hundred. I hear the AC blowing like a raging wind storm, the water swirling around in the clinking pipes behind drywall, a cricket blaring in my ears like a fire alarm. And the smells, they all assault me all at once. The stale Chinese in my fridge, the mildewing corners of the bathroom from years of humidity and even Sam – I can smell him and where he's been, a clean breezy scent like a fingerprint trail for my nose.
Then the forgotten room reappears but it's twisted and warped. I can feel beyond the walls, everything is pulsating with energy. I see Sam, or rather, detect him. There's a bizarre green aura that I can somehow sense. But he's not the energy I'm seeking. I ache for that particular undulating power and know exactly what that is.
I ache for blood.
I'm horrified but I don't see my horrified face in the mirror, I see a monstrous face. Shining yellow irises and a jagged semi-fanged mouth furrowed into a murderous expression, mocking me with harsh cackles.
'Where am I – Is that me? I need to get out of here!'
"Ashlen! Hey, answer me, are you ok?"
I can't move, can't speak, paralyzed as the evil twin in the glass pulls me closer with those hypnotic eyes. Her canines lengthen into defined points.
"Ahhh!"
A loud crash breaks my trance. I feel the mirror shatter around my fist in the surge of panic. Glass pieces scatter, jingling against the floor and sink.
"What the hell is going on?" Sam shouts, "Invite me in, damn it!"
I back up into the wall and slide down to the tile with a full exhale. 'What was that?'
The noise in my head settles when I hear a voice of uncertainty.
"Ash? Please say something."
Poor guy, he sounds stressed out.
"I'm ok," I reassure him, closing my eyes and letting the wall support my weight, "Just give me a second."
"What happened? Will you let me in?"
"Oh nice try! I'm not letting a stranger in my house," I tease, but quickly remember that it's no joke. Sam *is* a stranger, a potentially dangerous person I shouldn't be warming up to like I have.
"Did you get in a fight with the shower curtain and lose? Seriously, what could have possibly gotten the jump on you in that tiny bathroom of yours?"
"Just hold on, let me catch my breath."
"Catch your breath? You realize you don't need to breathe anymore."
"Seriously?"
"Yeah, it'll limit your senses and it's not exactly comfortable, but you don't have to."
'Is he kidding?' I pick myself off the ground and experiment, consciously holding my breath. It appears to be true.
"Woah! You're right, that's really weird."
It's more than weird and I don't like it at all. It feels flat out unnatural.
I shake it off, hastily plucking the items I need so I can get the hell out of here. A large broken piece of mirror is still hanging in the cabinet. I shield my face with my hair to avoid the temptation of a second glance. While averting my eyes, I notice circular dents in the wood just beneath the ceramic countertop. I trace over the holes, my fingertips perfectly fill the spots.
'I did this…I *did* that!'
I jerk my hand away, afraid to trigger that thing again. I hurry into the open, relieved to be out of that room. Sam's rigid form is darkening the doorway. His shoulders relax upon seeing me. Not only did he appear concerned, he looked ready to beat someone senseless. Was he actually worried about me? He doesn't bombard me with questions, instead just stands scanning my face with his brows knitted.
"Why are you staring at me like that?"
As I crouch down to throw the rest of the supplies in the duffel, I catch him biting the inside of his cheek. He seems to be peering through me now.
"Hello? Earth to Sam?"
"So you're going to pretend like nothing happened in there?" he says promptly, not distracted like I originally assumed. His eyes narrow a fraction when he gathers that I'm going to do exactly that, "Alright, then."
'What, he expects me to tell him I had a terrifying moment of stress induced schizophrenia?' I knee the bloated bag to prevent snags as I zip it up, 'I think not. Best this little incident be forgotten.'
With that I turn to Sam, who continues staring blankly.
"That shirt doesn't belong to you, does it?"
"What?" My eyebrows shoot up at the random observation and I glance down at the top.
'Oh yeah, my "soiled" blouse.' He's right, this isn't my shirt. It must belong to Juniper since mine was torn to ribbons. I feel incredibly unobservant.
He nods to himself silently. I stare at him, trying to decipher his expression. This guy seems complex. 'Great...more complicated people – that's exactly what I need.' So stoic yet I can't deny how alarmingly handsome Sam is. He looks to be my age but those eyes are too shrewd, much too experienced.
"You need blood," he says coolly.
He tosses his head to the side, gesturing for me to follow. I bite my lip, looking away.
"Just leave your stuff for now, let's find something to quench your thirst."
I grab the collar of my shirt, twisting it between my fingers.
"Something as in a person, right?"
I'm scared, I don't want to lose control again. If I screw up people could *die*, I don't want to do this.
He looks me over with pursed lips, "It'll get worse the longer you wait, I know first hand."
I dig my foot into the carpet, still unsure.
"I'm going to help you," he says, the somber line of his mouth abruptly replaced with a soft smile, I stiffen from almost melting at the sight of it, "It'll be ok, I promise."
He holds out a hand to me.
I simper back, comforted but not willing to be suckered by his charm – not completely anyway. As I step out and shut the door behind, I don't take his hand, instead giving him a grateful touch on the arm. His brilliant eyes follow me as I make my way around him.
He climbs the steps after me and falls into lockstep. I steal the occasional glance as we walk together. I never imagined speaking to this man or, dare I say, getting along with him after what happened, but here we are. Paradoxically enough, I feel...safe with him.
I clasp my hand in the other, surprised by the lingering sensation after one simple touch. I sneak one more stare while he's preoccupied, shaking that fringe of thick hair from his eyes.
'I hope you're not a bad guy, Sam, because I find myself unable to hate you. Not even a little.'