Page 22 of Luna

But he’s a vampire.

He drinks blood to sustain himself.

And now he has me, a living, breathing, blood supply locked up in his house.

I leave the bed and start to pace back and forth, bracing my hands on my lower back. Anxiety and adrenaline are turning to gristle in my muscles. Gristle that grates, and rubs, and becomes pain that I won’t be able to shift.

Instinctively, I reach for my bag then realize I don’t have it; it’s back at the shop. And so are my pain meds.

Fuck.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

I try not to let the overwhelming sense of panic take over. I try to think clearly, but I have no idea whether I’m more terrified of going cold turkey on my meds or of what Lucien Thornfield plans to do with me.

To me.

I stride over to the door and rattle the handle. Of course, it’s no use. The door is locked.

I close my eyes and see the video of Steven. His face.

Pleasure and revulsion converge in the pit of my stomach.

Did I enjoy seeing him like that?

I turn around and lean my back against the door, the cool wood making me shiver through my sweater.

Wrapping my arms around my waist, I slide down so I’m sitting on the floor. I try to breathe slowly, purposefully, in and out, in and out. I adjust my glasses on the bridge of my nose. I do the square trick. Picture forming all for sides as I inhale and exhale. Try to make each breath as long as the last.

I hug myself and rub my upper arms, then tap my chest. All tricks I’ve learned over the years to soothe myself when my nervous system becomes completely dysregulated.

Usually, one of them works. Something shifts and I start to feel calmer. Warmer. Safer.

Here, tonight, my tricks do nothing.

My entire body feels too alive, too alert, too switched on. And I can’t think straight.

There was a time when Steven took my medication from me. He told me it wasn’t helping, and that the doctors had given it to me because they didn’t know what else to do.

“If it was a real illness, it would show up on blood tests, Luna.”

“But they said it’s to do with my nervous system...”

He rolled his eyes and snatched the pills out of my hand. “ME, Chronic Fatigue, Fibro-whatever... they’re all the same. Labels made up by doctors because they have to say something to placate their needy patients.” He tapped my forehead. Hard. “It’s all up here, my love. See what happens if you stop them. I’ll wager it makes no difference at all.” He kissed my forehead this time. “Trust me.”

After a week of being barely able to get out of bed, and fearing I’d lose my job because I’d ignored my boss’s emails, hadn’t showed up for work, and the bookshop had been closed all week, I dragged myself to the doctors and told them I’d lost my meds so had decided to see if I could cope without them.

They gave me a strict talking to and a new prescription, with instructions never to just quit like that again.

After that, I hid them from him. I kept them at work, in my desk drawer, and took them only on days I was in the shop. It made Sundays and holidays hard, but Steven just assumed that was because I was tired from work.

Before he disappeared, he’d been trying to convince me to give up my job. Stay home. Make life easy on myself because clearly I was too weak to hold down even the most non-taxing of careers.

Thinking of the shop, and the smell of the old books, and the sense of peace that washes over me every time I walk through the door and hear the bell ringing, makes a lump form in my throat.

With Steven gone, I had a glimpse of a life I thought I might live. One where I could take control of my own destiny. Grow stronger, and brighter. Maybe even wear heels again.

Now, I’m here. Trapped in a creepy old mansion with a creature that could kill me in a fraction of a second.