Page 105 of Blood Lovers

Let Paul be the one to tell Ryet who I am? Because that’s why he’s here. I know it. I can feel it. And whatever happened last night with Paul, it wasn’t real, obviously. Because he just got here. It was just a dreamwalk.

It wasn’t real.

Here’s the problem with my delusion. Maybe, back before I could hear things, and see things, and feel things inside my dreamwalks I could talk myself into thinking they were nothing more than a fantasy. No. Wrong word. Not a fantasy, but just a regular dream.

I’m not fantasizing about that fucking vampire. I’m not.

But now that I have all my senses—now that I can feel their touch—oh, God. I close my eyes, wincing. What the hell have I been doing?

Did I fuck the vampire last night?

I can’t. I can’t think about that. I untie the robe, let it slip down my arms, and go hunting for my clothes. I need to see Ryet before Paul tells him.

I pull my pants up my legs, slip my shirt on, slip my feet into my boots, and shrug on my jacket as I go outside and tug the door closed behind me.

This cabin is up on the side of the mountain. Higher than the lodge. So I scan the walkways below me, looking for Ryet.

I spot him just as he pulls the door open to a building that looks like a greenhouse, the helicopter still on the roof, and disappears inside.

It’s cold out here, and beginning to snow, so I automatically shove my hands into my pockets. Then I lean into the wind and follow the pathway down to the building where the vampire Paul is waiting.

I’m only a few steps into this journey when the helicopter is in the air again. My heart thumps wildly, fear filling up my whole body. Did Ryet just leave with Paul?

I squint as the helicopter slowly moves through the air—I’m at a much higher elevation, so for a moment I’m almost eye level with the person in the cockpit.

Just one person. The pilot.

So that means Paul is here to stay.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE - RYET

Like an animal.

Or maybe a demon.

I was calm. It was OK. I was gonna let it all go. Chalk it up as a… a fantasy. The dreamwalk.

I don’t need to know about them. They’re gone. They’re never coming back. My family died, this much I know. And even if I could get the memories back, nothing good will come of it.

But there is an ache inside me. A horrible ache that has rotted my heart from the inside out. An emptiness. A loss. A terrible, terrible loss. And it hurts. I don’t want to admit that, but it fucking hurts. Just thinking about the loss—and being unable to even understand it—it makes me want to give up.

It makes me want to dig a hole, and crawl inside it, and cover myself with dirt, and never take another breath or drink another drop.

And this feeling, this knowing, this realization of my own end—and the desire to end it—I’ve been battling it for decades now. I know the truth will kill me. Even if I can’t die, it will kill me. I can feel that much. If I ever get those memories back, I will stop functioning. I will cease to exist. I will wallow in my pain, and my loss, and my sadness. I will be trapped in my own anguish and that will be the end of me.

I know this.

But he’s here. Paul came here. Because I’m here. And we were in a dreamwalk, fucking, and feeding, and he made me an offer.

That’s what it was.

If you give in, you will remember on your own.

But how? I don’t understand. Give in to what? To him? Haven’t I done that? I mean, we’ve been together for sixty-five years. What the hell does he want from me?

It’s torture. Pure torture.

But this is it. I can’t take it anymore. I need the truth, one way or another. And I will do whatever he asks to get it.