Ruler [Blood Magic, Book 3]

Chapter 36: Transitions

I didn't have many visitors those first few days. Perhaps Keel had issued a warning and no one else was up for my transformation drama. Just as well, I wasn't in the mood for company, preferring to sulk around the royal chambers and alternately pity myself and beat myself up over every bad decision that brought me to this point. Keel was probably right and much of the emotional trauma was a side effect of the influx of Nosferatu cells, but feeling shitty was feeling shitty. The only thing that gave me any pleasure was pounding away at the practice dummies Keel had installed for me in his gym. That's where I spent the majority of the hours between waking, sleeping and meals. For someone who used to shirk combat training at every opportunity, it became my saviour and therapist. 

Each night ended with a heap of sweat-soaked clothes tidily deposited in the hamper near the entrance to the gym, sometimes three or four separate sets, and muscles so aching and weary all my body could offer up was a dreamless sleep, which I took on the chaise lounge Keel once chained me to. The couches in the sitting area were more comfortable, but my choice of this place held greater meaning I knew wouldn't be lost on His Majesty. I tried not to focus on how petty that was, or I'd end up spending a few more hours pounding the dummies. Everything pissed me off these days, it seemed.

Not even my father dropped by for any further visits. When I asked after him, Keel explained he'd gone topside to gather intel and supplies, and, no, he hadn't said when he'd be returning. He could be raised by phone if I needed him, however. I decided against that, not wanting to inflame my already prickly feelings. Maybe the old cliche would prove true and time and distance would heal all wounds.

Sometimes when Keel wasn't around, I climbed into the bed and cocooned myself under the sheets; others I'd sprawl across the top of the duvet and read a book or just close my eyes and listen to sounds of the compound with my new boosted hearing, challenging myself to identify each clang, ding, and thud. The king-size mattress was large enough that I could lie in pretty much any direction and have my whole body fit. It was a fantastic bed, and I would have loved it but for the way it complicated everything. A furniture-shaped elephant in the room. A stupid will-they-or-won't-they sitcom playing out in my real life. None of it was lost on me. Some days I thought Keel intended it that way and others I thought it bothered him just as much.

At some point, my clothes and other belongings arrived. Arthos hauled them into the royal chambers in the same boxes I'd used to move from Keel's old room to my apartment. They brought with them a strange feeling of deja vu, and I tried to avoid looking in their direction. As a result, the twin stacks of boxes remained where Arthos deposited them, against the wall, just inside the door. I didn't even bother to peek in the king's cupboards to see if he'd made any space for me. If I did, I would have seen he had. 

Keel must have grown frustrated with my lackadaisical attitude towards both housekeeping and my new lodgings, because one day after I passed out following another night spent pounding out my demons, he stayed up, and put my belongings away. The next night he greeted me with a cup of warm blood from my bleeder and a tour of where I could find all of my things. When he opened the closet that held my clothes, I saw he'd hung my red, slinky sequin dress front and centre. He made no comment, but my cheeks grew hot nonetheless. I now knew the answer to at least one of my long-held questions.

But that was about as friendly as we got. When he was in the room, I tended to be in a part of it he was not. I'd grown fond of the leather couches in the sitting area. Supple and plush, they swallowed me up when I reclined in them. And I lost many hours reading books in their gentle, soothing embrace.

For his part, Keel gave me time, going about his business as if I wasn't there. It wasn't that he didn't acknowledge me, but he gave me space - to a point. Unlike Arthos, he would not serve me his blood in a glass. Usually he fed me from his arm or wrist, but at least once every few days he'd slash himself somewhere less comfortable, forcing me to challenge my "human inhibitions." Sometimes I'd refuse to eat and accept the crippling hunger pangs that would follow, and sometimes I'd put my lips to his neck or his collarbone or his stomach and drink. And the whole time the bond screamed at me to take more than the blood, to take all the power it promised, just tear the thin layers of fabric away and take it. I learned to use the power Keel's blood gave me to fight those urges, but they grew louder every day.