I couldn’t blink; my vision blurred as my eyes began to burn. My healing abilities were struggling against a tidal wave of injury, and they were losing.
I had to do something. I tried desperately to think around the agony that was spreading over me. Telepathy was my best bet. I tried to focus my thoughts, to use my desperation to boost my meager talent’s range and power. I put every ounce of strength I could muster into a psychic call to Alex, and Dom Rizzoli at the FBI, and any and all of my friends.
Nothing.
Despair, rage, and overwhelming pain swept over me.
Sirens are attracted to water, and vice versa. Even my little bit of siren power was enough to call the ocean; spray splattered over me. The tiny, wet drops of cool water felt wonderful—until the instant after they struck, when the salt in the water hit my wounds and sent me into more spasms.
I was going to die, alone and in torment, burning to death, if I didn’t think of something.
Then I heard the flap of nearby wings, felt the faintest of breezes against my face, and it struck me.
The gulls. They’re always around me, whether or not I want them. Well, I wanted them now—needed them. I concentrated on summoning them. Dozens, maybe hundreds of birds were likely to be in range of this thin strip of abandoned beach. They couldn’t understand words, but they understood intent. I needed them to shade me, to cover me. I heard the rush of hundreds of wings. The cawing of angry birds overwhelmed the sound of the surf. At my mental urging, some birds landed on me, shielding me beneath their wings as others flew in waves above me, blocking the burning sunlight. The birds’ sharp claws and their weight were a new misery, but the shade they created was a blissful relief. I could actually feel my body trying to heal the hideous damage that had been done to it.
But better even than the respite from torture was the surge of hope. I was going to survive.
Pain and rage had driven the human part of my consciousness into a small corner of my mind. Far more powerful were the aggression and naked hunger of the vampire. The binding spell had eased a little, though not enough to allow full movement. Now that I could, I closed my eyes, letting my body heal them as I used my other senses to search for prey.
There, in the distance. Faint, beneath the roar of the waves and the sounds of the gulls … human voices.
“She should be here somewhere. Wait, over there. Oh, no! The birds! Oh, God, are they eating…” I heard the woman gag, retching, obviously unable to finish her sentence. In the dim recesses of my mind I recognized her voice, but it took me a minute to place it: Dottie. Her name was Dottie. The image of an old woman, slow, weak, came into my mind.
“It’s all right, honey. I don’t think they’re hurting her,” the man—Fred—answered. “It almost looks like they’re protecting her.” He took a breath, then added, softly, “That smell…”
I heard the pair of them struggling to hurry across the wet sand. They stopped, too far away for me to attack without dislodging the birds. It was so frustrating! I could hear the rapid beat of her heart, could smell her fear even over the scent of my own burnt flesh. I knew that she would taste wonderful and that fresh blood would help my body heal faster, ending the maddening torment that roiled the entire upper surface of my body.
“Stop, Fred. Don’t go any closer. She’s in too much pain. She won’t be able to control herself.” Dottie’s voice was commanding. “Celia, we’ve brought you food. I’m going to toss it over to you. You’ll feel better once you’ve eaten.”
Yes, I would. If they would only come a teeny bit closer—either of them. Despite the pain, I flexed my toes—the binding spell was gone. They were old and slow. Even hurt as I was, I could take them. Then I would feel so much better. I waited, keeping still. Perhaps if they believed I was still frozen in place, they would come closer.
I heard the soft thud of something hitting the sand beside me. Whatever it was sloshed; it smelled of plastic and human food, and beneath that, blood. Before I could think, my hand shot out, grabbing the container in a blur of speed and bringing it to my mouth. I tore through the plastic with my teeth as dislodged gulls circled overhead, cawing.
The blood tasted glorious—hot, sweet, salty … but there was a faint aftertaste that I recognized from another time, years ago. I started to pull back, but it was too late. Powerful drugs laced with magic were already hitting my system. My pain vanished, and the world with it.
I woke with the sunset. I could feel it sinking below the horizon, feel my body tensing to rise. I felt the pull of the moon, the need to stalk prey, to hunt.
I opened my eyes. I was alone in a hospital room, my body pinned to the bed by metal restraints. I hissed in anger, pulling against the brackets. The metal groaned but did not give way.
There was a crackling noise above and behind me as a speaker was activated. A female voice, tinny sounding from the distortion, spoke to me. “Ms. Graves, I can see you’re awake. How are you feeling?”
Ms. Graves. The name was familiar … it was my name. I was Celia Graves. Memories flooded over me. I remembered who I was. I remembered what had happened to me. I strained to look at myself, naked on the bed, without so much as a hospital gown to cover me.
My skin was whole again. Not scar tissue, whole, new, and as clear as if it had never been burned. Only one thing was different. Years ago, I’d gotten a tattoo to honor my baby sister; ivy twined up one leg from ankle to hip. Now, the back of my leg, where the skin had remained unburned, looked as it had ever since, covered with green leaves and vines. But the front of my leg, where the skin had burned completely off before the gulls covered me, was unmarked. It looked … strange.
“Ms. Graves?”
“I’m here. Give me a minute.” My voice was a hoarse croak, harsh from disuse. “How long have I been out?”
“It’s Thursday. We kept you unconscious with magic and drugs for two days while your body healed the worst of your injuries. We’d hoped to keep you under for another forty-eight hours, but now that you’re mostly healed, your body is processing the drugs too quickly, and using magic alone wasn’t deemed advisable.”
I looked at the tubes and machines I was connected to: IVs, a catheter, a feeding tube. A heart monitor that beeped frantically in response to my racing pulse as I fought to suppress my fear, anger, and the vampire instincts that were as near the surface as they’d been the first night after the bite.
“Ms. Graves, I need to ask you a few questions. Answer as honestly as you can.”
“Okay.” I closed my eyes and took deep, cleansing breaths: in through the nose, out through the mouth. I could get a handle on this. I could control it. I’d done it before. I could do it now.
“Tell me about your family.”
I recognized the question. It’s the first question asked of vampire bite victims, to make sure they’re still human, that they haven’t been brought over. New bats are practically feral. They have no sense of identity, no self, until their master imprints one on them. So if you’ve been bit, EMTs and doctors routinely ask about your human life, questions they have the answers to, to make sure you’re still you. The fact that they recognized how close I was to falling over that edge was terrifying. If I didn’t answer well and quickly, they’d cut off my head while I was pinned to this bed, then stake my heart to finish me.