though I could still sense her coiled up in the back of my mind.
Kill him, she hissed at me. He deserves death.
No, I thought at her firmly. There’s more to you—to us—than instinct. I can feel it. The bloodlust that sang to me when I looked at the man was seductive, but it was wrong. Killing people was wrong.
I opened and closed my fists, remembering the surge of strength that had come when I’d sucked the air out of the man slumped on the toilet. I’d taken enough energy from him to knock him out cold, and it hummed pleasantly through my muscles as I cocked my head and listened for noise in the adjoining rooms. After a few careful minutes of intense, active listening, I relaxed and concluded no one was coming to investigate.
I stepped over to my unconscious attacker, careful to avoid the glass littering the linoleum floor, and picked him up. My muscles tensed with the strain of carrying a full-grown man like a child, but the energy I’d sucked from him sustained me until I could set him down in the tub, out of my way. I checked the wound on my arm and saw it had stopped bleeding already, mostly healed by the energy I’d stolen, so I untied the strip of T-shirt wrapped around it and stuffed it in my pocket.
Then I grabbed a washcloth to use as a gag and studied the man’s destroyed wrist. It was a mess, but he would survive. Mindful of the bones I’d crushed, I decided not to make things worse by tying his wrists together. The last thing I needed was his screams of pain echoing through the motel when he woke up.
I walked over to the mirror and grabbed a towel from the rack on the wall. After blinking the protective covering over my eyes out of the way, I wet the towel in the sink and used it to wipe the blood off my face and neck, following bloody trails from the corners of my eyes to my jaw line while I thought about what to do next. Obviously, the man in the bathtub was hiding something. It made no sense that he’d gone after me with the glass instead of just answering my questions when it became clear I had the upper hand. I drummed my fingers against the cool porcelain of the sink, thinking. I’d have to interrogate him when he woke up, but in the meantime, I would search the room for clues.
I finished wiping my face and neck, then cleaned off my arm and blotted the blood from my T-shirt as best as I could. I didn’t bother with my jeans—the dark denim masked the stain well enough—and I walked into the other room to begin my search, leaving the bathroom door open so I’d hear the guy when he woke up. I wrinkled my nose at the cut-onion, peppery smell in the room and opened a window to let in some fresh air. I was nervous at the thought that my hostage might wake up and make enough noise to attract attention, but I had no choice. I had no idea how long he would take to revive, and I was stuck in the motel room with him until he did.
After a few minutes, the air was noticeably clearer and the headache that had been building between my eyes lessened. I moved quickly as I searched the room, pulling out dresser drawers and looking under the bed. The newspaper he’d mentioned was there, but nothing else. I moved on to clothing, feeling pockets, the lining of his coat, and even the toes of his work boots, though I was loath to stick my hand inside. Nothing turned up and I felt ridiculous going through the motions of my futile search, like I was playing at cops and robbers, but I fished around under the mattress anyway. I even looked between the pages of the New Testament I found in the wreckage of the nightstand. But still, nothing. The more I searched, the more stupid I felt.
What had I expected? This wasn’t a Jason Bourne movie. Maybe the guy really was what he claimed to be—a redneck asshole who was a little too into his right to bear arms. I crossed my arms in frustration as I stood in the middle of the room and looked around.
My gaze fell on the framed print that had been knocked off the
Kill him, she hissed at me. He deserves death.
No, I thought at her firmly. There’s more to you—to us—than instinct. I can feel it. The bloodlust that sang to me when I looked at the man was seductive, but it was wrong. Killing people was wrong.
I opened and closed my fists, remembering the surge of strength that had come when I’d sucked the air out of the man slumped on the toilet. I’d taken enough energy from him to knock him out cold, and it hummed pleasantly through my muscles as I cocked my head and listened for noise in the adjoining rooms. After a few careful minutes of intense, active listening, I relaxed and concluded no one was coming to investigate.
I stepped over to my unconscious attacker, careful to avoid the glass littering the linoleum floor, and picked him up. My muscles tensed with the strain of carrying a full-grown man like a child, but the energy I’d sucked from him sustained me until I could set him down in the tub, out of my way. I checked the wound on my arm and saw it had stopped bleeding already, mostly healed by the energy I’d stolen, so I untied the strip of T-shirt wrapped around it and stuffed it in my pocket.
Then I grabbed a washcloth to use as a gag and studied the man’s destroyed wrist. It was a mess, but he would survive. Mindful of the bones I’d crushed, I decided not to make things worse by tying his wrists together. The last thing I needed was his screams of pain echoing through the motel when he woke up.
I walked over to the mirror and grabbed a towel from the rack on the wall. After blinking the protective covering over my eyes out of the way, I wet the towel in the sink and used it to wipe the blood off my face and neck, following bloody trails from the corners of my eyes to my jaw line while I thought about what to do next. Obviously, the man in the bathtub was hiding something. It made no sense that he’d gone after me with the glass instead of just answering my questions when it became clear I had the upper hand. I drummed my fingers against the cool porcelain of the sink, thinking. I’d have to interrogate him when he woke up, but in the meantime, I would search the room for clues.
I finished wiping my face and neck, then cleaned off my arm and blotted the blood from my T-shirt as best as I could. I didn’t bother with my jeans—the dark denim masked the stain well enough—and I walked into the other room to begin my search, leaving the bathroom door open so I’d hear the guy when he woke up. I wrinkled my nose at the cut-onion, peppery smell in the room and opened a window to let in some fresh air. I was nervous at the thought that my hostage might wake up and make enough noise to attract attention, but I had no choice. I had no idea how long he would take to revive, and I was stuck in the motel room with him until he did.
After a few minutes, the air was noticeably clearer and the headache that had been building between my eyes lessened. I moved quickly as I searched the room, pulling out dresser drawers and looking under the bed. The newspaper he’d mentioned was there, but nothing else. I moved on to clothing, feeling pockets, the lining of his coat, and even the toes of his work boots, though I was loath to stick my hand inside. Nothing turned up and I felt ridiculous going through the motions of my futile search, like I was playing at cops and robbers, but I fished around under the mattress anyway. I even looked between the pages of the New Testament I found in the wreckage of the nightstand. But still, nothing. The more I searched, the more stupid I felt.
What had I expected? This wasn’t a Jason Bourne movie. Maybe the guy really was what he claimed to be—a redneck asshole who was a little too into his right to bear arms. I crossed my arms in frustration as I stood in the middle of the room and looked around.
My gaze fell on the framed print that had been knocked off the
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