Page 69 of Roses & Ruin

“Are you trying to scare me?” I try, puffing out my chest. “Cuz, um, it’s not gonna…gonna work?”

All the lights in the tunnel cut out. I’m plunged into perfect dark. I scream, immediately hyperventilating.

I hate the dark, hate, hate, hate the dark—I can feel it filling my lungs, suffocating me. I fight to get my breaths under control. I walk backward, away from the man. Too afraid to run and slam into a wall. I fumble for my phone in my pocket, but I have no dexterity with my gloves. I yank them off with my teeth, shaking so hard I drop them, lost forever in the dark.

I find my phone, pull it out, switch on the flashlight. The world shrinks to a single beam of light. My ragged breaths bounce off the dirty concrete. I listen but hear nothing else. No footsteps. No breaths.

I whirl in a full circle, strafing the phone light up and down. I reveal the tunnel one shallow foot of light at a time. There’s no one here. Just peeling graffiti. Dirty, wet ground littered with cigarette butts.

I keep moving back, shooting the light everywhere. My heart beats painfully in my throat. I can feel it throb in the meat of my tongue. My eyeballs. At the tips of my fingers.

“Rose,” I hear, a whisper that’s nothing more than a dry scrape of leaves, something I could have easily imagined. I flounder in terror, whirling around, because did I imagine it?

I’m panting raggedly, shooting my light to the ground in front of me. I shoot it to my right. My left. I shoot the light up.

Clinging to the ceiling is a body with a chalk-white face, wide, bloodstained smile, pitch-black eyes, and two sharp fangs. As soon it meets the light, the thing lunges at me.

I don’t have time to scream. I’m backhanded across the face. The impact slams me to the ground, the phone knocked from my hand. I hear it clatter down the tunnel, and the flashlight extinguishes.

I’m lying on my stomach in the dark, alone with the creature.

Now I scream. A hand wrenches in my hair, yanking my head back so hard, my entire torso lifts off the ground. Tears of pain spring into my eyes as it drags me backward.

I really should have thought of my last words.

A breeze kisses my cheek. There’s the meaty sound of impact and a male grunt of pain. The grip on my hair disappears. I flop back on my stomach, wind knocking out of me. Behind me, vicious snarls ricochet up and down the tunnel. I crawl around, feeling frantically among the filth and debris for my phone.

Something slams against the wall. There’s a sharp hiss, the sound of exertion and grappling. My fingers close around my phone. I feel my way to a wall, push myself to standing. Something solid thuds to the ground. I feel the vibration of impact, followed by a deep, guttural “Oof.”

And then silence.

Arms snake around my middle. I’m yanked back against someone, and a chin hooks over my shoulder.

I scream.

“Shh, it’s me.” Delia! “He won’t be out long, and I don’t know if there’re others, so hold on tight.”

“Hold on to what—” My gasp is sucked from my lungs as I’m suddenly flying toward the exit. Air roars in my ears. We’re moving so fast I can’t catch my breath. Delia’s anchoring me at my waist, but there’s nothing to hold on to. My arms and legs flail in the air, tears soaking my cheeks.

I feel Delia hunch, and she takes the impact as we crash the door open. I recoil, squeezing my eyes shut from the scalding white light of the snowstorm. Delia doesn’t stop flying through the storm for another few minutes. When she finally stills, propping me against a tree, I see Coupland Hall over her shoulder.

“Fuck, Ro.” Delia’s voice is lower and rougher than normal. It’d be a little frightening if she didn’t look so worried about me. “Are you okay?” Delia’s eyes are nearly all black, and most startling of all, her fangs are out. They’re slimmer than Hayden’s, more needlelike, but noticeably longer.

They look very, very sharp.

Logically, I knew Delia was a vampire, but seeing it is something else. Her long pale-gold hair is dancing in the wind, her eyes wide with concern. If not for the daggers sticking out of her mouth, she’d look like an angel.

Maybe she still does.

“Talk to me, Ro,” she pleads, pressing a cool palm on my forehead.

“You’re bleeding,” I finally rasp.

Delia pulls back, shocked. “No way. The fucker got me?” I point at her forehead, where there’s a huge gash, and when she puts her fingers into the split skin, her face contorts. “Oh. Oh. That little…”

She drops her hand to the ground, palm up, and crooks her index finger once. A field mouse pops out of the snow and scampers into her palm. Glaring distractedly over my shoulder, she raises the mouse to her mouth like an apple. I’m ashamed of how I jerk my eyes away when she bites into it.

“Haven’t you, like, held your own intestines in your dreams?” Delia says wryly, tossing the drained corpse over her shoulder. Fascinated, I watch the wound on her forehead knit and seal. When she wipes the blood away, the skin is smooth. Flawless. I start to tremble violently.