Blood Born

1

I woke to the coppery smell of blood and an overpowering hunger. My head burned intensely, shards of pain and heat engulfing me. I felt my breath, short and raspy, choke its way from my lungs and up my throat. My nose burned with the smell of dirt and sweat, and I was surrounded by total darkness. A hell of a way to wake up.

My pulsating headache was outweighed only by the growing hunger. It consumed my entire body, making my skin crawl. It was all I could focus on, all I could see. But I wasn’t craving food.

I was craving blood.

The thought of it filled my mind like molten lava, sweeping in and burying all other thoughts and ideas, leaving me with an aching emptiness that only it could fill. I had to have it, and I had no idea why.

What is wrong with me? Am I seriously lying here thinking about blood? Have I totally lost my mind?

All good questions that I had zero answers for. I tried to remember if that was normal—my craving for blood—but my mind was dark, my memories gone. I couldn’t recall ever wanting it before, so how in the world could I have been actually considering drinking it? I tried to push the overwhelming and totally disgusting thought of blood—and what I wanted to
do
with it—out of my mind and focus on figuring out where I was.

The stagnant air tickling my skin was cold, freezing actually, but my body didn’t seem affected. Though I couldn’t really
feel
it, I could definitely sense the briskness. I tried to see if my breath was coming out in a frozen cloud, until I remembered I couldn’t see. My eyes darted back and forth, hoping for even the tiniest speck of light but finding none. Even though I was shrouded in cold darkness, I wasn’t scared. I felt safe, like nothing could hurt me.

The dull throbbing that had been going strong in my head actually dissipated a bit once I calmed down, leaving me with that insatiable thirst for blood and the strangest feeling of home.

Maybe I
was
at home. Maybe I was at home sound asleep in my own bed, and this was all some sort of twisted dream. I tried sitting up, and immediately smacked my head against something mere inches from my face. I instinctively rubbed my forehead, I had barely felt the impact. I mean, I
felt
it, of course, but it didn’t hurt. I didn’t cry out or wince or anything. My strange-o-meter went into overdrive, so I reached out to try and
see
with my hands.

Whatever I had hit my head on was both soft and hard at the same time. A deep-set concave, it was covered with plush padding, with a silky fabric draped over everything. I moved my hands slowly along the smooth surface before the horror of what I was feeling—what I was trapped inside of—finally set in.

I was in a coffin.

There was no mistaking it: The silk covering every surface; the dome lid; the tiny pillow beneath my head. Definitely a coffin.

I had been buried alive.

I did the only thing I could think of once the realization set in; I screamed. Louder and stronger than I ever had before, I screamed from the top of my lungs, my voice bouncing off the fabric walls of my padded grave. I used my hands and feet to increase the sounds coming from my sarcophagus, hoping that somehow, someone would hear me and dig me up. As I totally freaked out, I knew deep in the back of my mind that being heard was impossible. I wasn’t the brightest, but I still knew that when people are buried, they’re buried
deep
.

Somehow, the screaming and banging and harsh panic attack managed to free my mind from the bloodlust holding it hostage and I was finally able to think. My thoughts, of course, went to figuring out what had happened to me.

Why am I buried alive? Did somebody think I had died? Did I die? And what’s with the thirst for blood?

Again, all really good questions that I couldn’t answer, mainly because I couldn’t recall a single memory—of
anything
. Hazy images like out-of-focus photographs flooded my mind, but I couldn’t make out anything concrete. Why had I lost my memory? What happened to me? A tiny sliver of fear crawled up my spine and settled into the taut muscles in my neck and shoulders. Memory or not, something was horribly wrong.

I died. I guess?

This so wasn’t happening. I couldn’t be dead.

I didn’t
feel
dead. I was lying in a coffin, fully aware of what was happening. I was alive. I could feel the foam-covered walls all around me. I could smell the newly-disturbed earth no doubt piled on top of my coffin lid. And although I couldn’t actually see anything for the darkness, I knew exactly where I was. So being dead was completely out of the question.

But if I wasn’t dead, then what was going on? Was it Hell? Purgatory? And how do I even know what Purgatory is? Just then, the tiniest shard of a memory came briefly into focus. I was in a room surrounded by other children, all of us dressed in matching uniforms, our focus on a woman cloaked in black describing Hell and Heaven and the limbo between them. What the hell was that? Who was that woman? Those children? I wanted to dig deeper into the memory to try and discover my past, but the pressing matter of being buried alive took precedence. Purgatory. Could I be stuck between life and death right now, waiting for word as to which way I would go?

Maybe it
was
Purgatory, and I was doomed to lie there until my fate had been decided. The thought of it both creeped me out and made absolutely no sense. I didn’t know
much
about religion—well, I couldn’t
remember
much about religion—but I honestly didn’t think that Purgatory meant being buried alive…and I. Was. Alive.

No, it had to be something else. I was alive, not in limbo. But if I didn’t focus my erratic brain on finding a way out, I was going to die for real. I was going to lie in the coffin someone had picked out for me until I ran out of air and suffocated.

That’s when I heard it.

It was very faint, like listening to the radio with the volume turned down, but it was there. A low, distinct scratching sound. I held my breath as I strained to listen. After a few seconds, I picked up on a pronounced pattern.

Scratch.

One second. Two. Three.

Scratch.

There definitely was a rhythm. A clear, three-second lull between scratching. My first thought—that it was a dog—flew right out the window. I couldn’t be sure, but I doubted if dogs had the ability to count. So that meant the scratching was coming from a person. A person
trying to save me.

I immediately went back into Oh-my-God-I’m-buried-alive-get-me-out-of-here mode, banging on the lid of the casket and screaming at the top of my lungs. I kept up the momentum for what seemed like forever—but was actually about fifteen seconds—before I stopped to let my raw throat rest. That was when I noticed that the scratching wasn’t the only sound I heard. A very loud and heavy banging was also coming from above, and I knew right away that someone had definitely heard me.

Thump thump thump.

Pause.

Thump thump thump.

Whoever it was, they were letting me know they had heard my screams. Someone was trying to save me. The euphoria of the moment, mixed with the apparent lack of oxygen to my brain, sent me over the edge. My eyes rolled back as I blacked out.

“Are you okay?” I heard the deep, sexy voice before I came to and my eyes had time to adjust to the light. They fluttered open, revealing a star-pocked sky, large, haunting trees and the most beautiful guy I had ever seen.

Beautiful probably
isn’t the right word used to describe guys, but for
this
guy? It fit perfectly. Thick, black hair falling in all the right places, framing vibrant green eyes; a wide smile filled with brilliant white, perfectly straight teeth; bronze skin pulled taut over well-defined arms that were reaching out to me. Yes,
beautiful.

Without speaking—I couldn’t, really—I sat up and took hold of those outstretched arms. As I clambered my way up the dirt walls and out of what I hoped was my last time being buried alive, my mind was solely focused on the amount of heat emanating from my drop-dead-gorgeous savior. It was like my hands had been dipped in hot wax, which felt really good. It slithered up my arms and engulfed me like a welcome hug, instantly making me feel safe. Even though night shrouded me and our surroundings, I felt my face turn a deep crimson. Embarrassment must’ve been a specialty of mine. And getting embarrassed in front of a really hot guy? I was probably a pro.

“Are you okay?” That voice again, soft and strong and mesmerizing. He lifted me from the grave and pulled me toward him, his body and heat pressing into me, making me feel both safe and terrified all at once. “You’re shaking,” he added, wrapping his sinewy arms around me, his large hands getting a firm grip on my back. A waft of his overwhelmingly enticing blood swam up my nose and made me dizzy.

“I’m fine.” I lied. I was so far from fine it was scary. I wanted to push him away and run and hide. But I also wanted to wrap my arms around him and never let go. That second thought made me shudder.

“No, you’re not,” he consoled, releasing me long enough to snag a thick brown coat from the ground behind him. He threw it around me and I was instantly warmed, both by the thickness of the coat and by the intoxicating scent of
him
that lingered on the fabric.

“What happened to me?” I asked, trying my best not to look into his eyes for fear of getting lost in them. I took a step back to put some distance between us—though a voice inside kept urging me to move
closer
.

“What’s the last thing you remember?” he asked, his body rigid, his chiseled face intensely focused.

“I don’t know. I can’t remember anything.” I was starting to get a headache from trying to conjure up another image. More fuzzy photos flitted past my mind’s eye, but nothing concrete. I could barely make out a sidewalk and books and leaves swirling in the wind. “I was walking somewhere, I think,” I said, closing my eyes to try and get a clearer picture—and to not stare into his haunting eyes anymore. Truth was, I could have been seeing images from anything: a memory, a past life, a TV show. Huh, I guess I knew what TV was. A tiny, insignificant step toward a full memory, but I’d take it.

“Anything else?” His voice was still soft, but now held a twinge of something else. Anxiety? Fear? I wasn’t sure, but I could sense something.

“I don’t know,” I whispered. “I don’t think so.” I was being as honest as possible. The flickering images were cloudy at best, like I was catching glimpses of my life but had no idea what they meant. “Who are you?” I quickly moved the subject away from me.

“Call me Chance.”

“Chance?” Of course he would have a name like that.

“Yeah.” He kept his eyes locked on my face. Though it made me strangely uncomfortable, I couldn’t stop staring back at him. “What?” His tone was eerily lighthearted, the green of his eyes intense and jarring. His full lips jutted out—almost like he was pouting—sending a really strange—but kind of good—chill up my spine.

“Just different,” I finally answered.

“As different as
Avaline,
I guess,” he said as he took a step back and picked up the shovel he had obviously used to dig me up.

“How do you know my name?”
I
didn’t even know my name…how did a complete stranger? Hot or not, something was off with him.

“Whoa,” Chance said, putting his hands up in defense. A crooked smile quickly passed his lips. “Take it easy. I’m not going to hurt you.”

“I want to know what’s going on. What happened to me? How do you know my name? And who
are
you?” The questions flew from my mouth like word vomit. The corners of Chance’s eyes lowered, his expression now serious.

“I’ve already told you who I am.”

“You told me your name. That’s not enough.” I could feel myself getting mad, fear and uncertainty quickly transforming into anger. Chance could see it on my face. He stared at me before finally clearing his throat.