Page 85 of Ruin

I lay there, shivering in the moonlight that streamed through the open door, my body drenched in sweat and blood. My head was spinning, and my vision was starting to darken as I felt lightheaded.

Heavy footsteps echoed down the hallway, growing louder and more insistent. My heart raced as I anxiously awaited someone’s arrival, hopefully someone who could help. The fear of Arik’s return gnawed at me, even as I hoped for rescue.

Sam burst through the door, his expression a mix of shock and fury as he took in the scene before him. “What the fuck happened?” he screamed, his voice trembling with anger and concern. He quickly wrapped me in the blanket, his movements rough but caring as he lifted me back onto the bed.

I lay there, silent, and barely able to speak, my breath coming in rapid, shallow gasps. Sam’s gaze was fixed on my arm, where the bite marks were already starting to swell and darken. His face turned deep crimson, his anger palpable.

“Stay here!” he yelled, his voice filled with a fierce urgency as he ran out the open door.

As I waited, my vision began to blur and darken, the edges of reality slipping away from me. I stared at the doorway, hoping to see Sam return before it was too late, even as a part of me feared that Arik might come back. Even though my body was beginning to feel cold, the pool of blood surrounding me brought me warmth.

Finally, Sam reappeared, carrying the large medical kit. His face was a mask of determination and fear as he knelt beside me.

“Sam?” I whispered, my voice fading as my eyes fluttered closed.

“Stay with me, Claire,” he said urgently, his hands working deftly as he opened the kit. “I will take care of this. You are not going anywhere.”

His words were a lifeline in the darkness, a promise of help and safety. As the world around me began to dissolve into a shadow, I clung to the hope that Sam’s presence would be enough to pull me back from the brink.

And then…there was darkness.

Chapter Thirty-One

Arik

New York City—December 12, 2018

The lights hanging on the Christmas Tree sparkled as snow rested upon its branches. Dozens of people walked through the South Street Seaport as I made my way to Ambrose Hall to meet Byron.

A scent was lingering—a scent so potent it overpowered that of the Balsam. The scent of home, of memories, of warm skin in cotton sheets, of lavender fields in springtime. It was everything I loved dancing together until the notes merged into a solo performance.

My eyes scanned the cobblestone streets, patrons moving in slow motion as I searched the crowd with an insatiable hunger.

It did not drift.

It did not move.

It just stayed.

“Arik!” I heard shouting to my right as my name echoed over the Christmas music playing from a small ice-skating rink just beyond the tree.

My feet dragged the snowy cobblestone as I made my way to the bar where Byron stood, holding the door open for me. To my satisfaction, the scent only grew stronger as the warm air flowed outside.

“How the hell are you?” Byron asked as he gripped my shoulder.

I made my way past him and through the open glass door, the warmth of the bar nipping at my frozen cheeks as my eyes grew accustomed to the dim space. “You know…same old, same old,” I quipped, trying to keep my composure as the scent tightened its hold around me.

Byron held his hand out, guiding me to a rickety, black-lacquered picnic table at the front corner of the bar. Two amber-colored beers sat sweating on the table next to tall beer glasses as they awaited our arrival.

Despite the shoulder-to-shoulder crowd, all I could feel was her—overwhelmed and tired, slightly irritated. I had heard about this before during my travels and time spent with others like me. The concept that one day the world would stop spinning and a scent would pull you in like a magnet. I had held my hand in front of my face to shield my laughter upon first hearing this folklore.

And now…

Now I found myself thousands of miles from my home, in a crowded bar, chasing a scent like a lunatic.

“Thank you for this, old friend,” I said to Byron as he slid an orange envelope across the table and into my hands.

Byron’s voice cut through the chatter of bar patrons as he poured our beers into the respective glasses. “No worries. It’s the least I can do for you and Sam…and Sam Junior, of course,” he quipped. “Sweet kid…such a shame.”