My Precious Nightmare

25: Thirst is the Greatest Teacher

Aster knew he was in for the Mama of all Bad Days when he came to burning all over, chest an empty cave of agony, mouth full of fangs, and throat practically caving in on itself from how dry it was. Not only that, but he was in his tub surrounded by empty plastic blood bags floating in a shallow bath of too-dark blood.

With a string of profanities, he crawled out of the bathtub. Something primal and heavy rolled over his mind. His vision blurred. Clenching his teeth hard enough to taste his own blood, he shoved it back. He MADE it go back. Nothing would ever have power over him. He would make sure of that. After all, it was mainly the strength of his will that had gotten him to where he was today.

Still, it hurt so bad he could barely breathe let alone see straight. What he did manage to see was a small trickle of blood pouring from the hole in his chest, despite the heavy, blood-soaked bandages someone had double-wrapped his chest in.

How had that happened again? How had he gotten here?

A flit of memories went through his mind, along with a deep-seated dread. Lane had to come after him to pick up his body. And if he had been like this...that idiot girl and her friend had been only feet from him. There was no way they'd escaped.

Wheezing, trembling against the urge to hunt, to find, to sink his fangs and draw every last bit of delicious blood to his desert throat, he clumsily wiped off the blood, redid the bandages (sort of), pulled on some pants left on the counter, and stumbled out of the bathroom. His first question was answered at the sight of his brother passed out on his bed, one of the coolers they used to hold blood beside him. Knowing how heavy the sleep came upon them, Aster let him lay and instead followed the familiar aromatic smell of Sky.

Her stuff would still be here. Maybe he would find her body—no. No, he had to make sure.

The image of her standing in front of that window, striking a pose in the dying sunlight with that goofy, self-assured smile, burned into his mind's eye and, for a moment, his grip on his consciousness wavered. A small, tiny voice he had long ago decided he never wanted to hear again whispered in knives.

Not her.

He shoved himself forward, teeth clenched, throat aching. It wasn't till he turned the corner and saw none other than the bastard on the petite girl's finger in front of Sky's door that it occurred to him that he hadn't bothered to check the cooler for blood. He hadn't even bothered to look when his body screamed for it.

Perhaps he wasn't in as much control as he thought.

Sheer, hot malice did away with that. He grabbed the nearest thing he could reach and threw. He swore he could see red.

"Why are you in my house!?" Wasn't that Sky's friend? "And sucking on a child nonetheless?"

He barely registered his foe pushing the girl back into the bedroom and lowering his stance. Because, as the door opened, a fresh waft of warm, living smell came floating out. A familiar rosemary and thyme, undercoated with chocolate, rolled down his aching throat and about the hollow agony of his chest.

Primal instinct roared over his will.

Yet, with an equally furious heave, he dug in his mental heels like a man on a raft of the sea, and managed to direct the murderous hunger swallowing him whole at the other vampire.

His foe met him head on, grappling Aster's shoulders like a wrangler to a goat's horns. Despite the iron hard strain of each of his muscles and the claws he sunk into the man's arms, Aster found himself forced to his knees. Red eyes bored into his. Then a foot slammed into his gut, forcing him down. Keeping him down.

Aster snarled and hissed, clawing at the leg. This shouldn't be possible. The enemy was two heads shorter than him!

Red bled across his consciousness. Red, like blood. Chocolate blood, spiced with rosemary and thyme, like a heady Irish stew. Like home. A home he only vaguely remembered having.