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She could feel the clear paths by the way the air moved. Incredibly, she could feel the whole room, all of it pressing gently against her skin. As if she looked down on it from above. As if she commanded it. There-that couple at the table in the corner was fighting. The woman stared into her tumbler of gin and tonic while her foot tapped a nervous beat on the floor. Her boyfriend stared at her, frowning hard, his arms crossed, his scotch forgotten.
Emma could have him if she wanted. His blood was singing with need. He would be easy to persuade, to lure away from his difficulty. A chance meeting by the bathrooms, an unseen exit out the back-
No. Not like that.
A quartet of boisterous, drunken men burst into laughter in front of her. Raucous business school types, celebrating some exam or finished project. She knew how to get to them, too. Stumble perhaps. Lean an accidental arm on a shoulder, gasp an apology-and the one who met her gaze first would be the one to follow her.
Instead, she went to the bar, and despite the crowd, the press of bodies jostling for space, her path there was clear, and a space opened for her just as she arrived because she knew it would be there.
She wanted to miss the taste of alcohol. She could remember the taste of wine, the tang on the tongue, the warmth passing down her throat. She remembered great di
The glass of wine before her remained untouched. It was only for show.
She never would have done this in the old days. Sitting alone at the bar like this, staring into her drink-she looked like she was trying to get picked up.
Well, wasn't she?
When the door opened and a laughing crowd of friends entered, Emma turned and smiled in greeting. Even before the door had opened, she'd known somehow. She'd sensed the sound of a voice, the tone of a footstep, the scent of skin, a ripple in the air. She couldn't have remembered such fine details from her old life. But somehow, she'd known. She knew
them.
"Emma!"
"Hey, Chris." Finally, her smile felt like her old smile. Her old friends gathered around, leaned in for hugs, and she obliged them. But the one who spoke to her, the one she focused on, was Chris.
He was six feet tall, with wavy blond hair and a clean-shaven, handsome face, still boyish but filling out nicely. He had a shy smile and laughing eyes.
"Where've you been? I haven't seen you in weeks. The registrar's office said you took a leave of absence."
She had her story all figured out. It wasn't even a lie, really.
"I've been sick," she said.
"You couldn't even call?"
"Really sick." She pressed her lips in a thin smile, hoping she sounded sad.
"Yeah, I guess." He took the cue not to press the question further. He brightened. "But you look great now. Really great."
There it was, a spark in his eye, a flush in his cheek. She'd always wondered if he liked her. She'd never been sure. Now, she had tools. She had senses. And she looked great. It wasn't her, a bitter voice sounded inside her. It was this thing riding her, this creature inside her. It was a lure, a trap.
Looking great made men like Chris blush. Now, she could use it. She knew how to respond. She'd always been uncertain before.
She lowered her gaze, smiled, then looked at him warmly, searching. "Thanks."
"I-I guess you already have a drink."
The others had moved off to claim one of the pool tables. Chris remained, leaning on the bar beside her, nervously tapping his foot.
Compared to him, Emma had no trouble radiating calm. She was in control here.
"Let me get you something," she said.
For a moment-for a long, lingering, blissful moment-it felt like old times. They only talked, but the conversation was long and heartfelt. He really listened to her. So she kept talking-so much so that she almost got to the truth.
"I've had to reassess everything. What am I going to do with my life, what's the point of it all." She shrugged, letting the implications settle.
"You must have been really sick," he said, his gaze intent.
"I thought I was going to die," she said, and it wasn't a lie. She didn't remember much of it-the man, the monster's hand on her face, on her arms, pi
"You make it sound like you're not coming back."
"Hm?" she murmured, startled out of her memory.
"To school. You aren't coming back, are you?"
"I don't know," she said, wanting to be honest, knowing she couldn't tell him everything. "It'd be hard, after what's happened. I just don't know." This felt so casual, so normal, that she almost forgot she had a purpose here. That she was supposed to be guiding this conversation. She surprised herself by knowing what to say next. "This is going to sound really cliché, but when you think you aren't going to make it like that, it really does change how you look at things. You really do try to live for the moment. You don't have time to screw around anymore."
Which was ironic, because really, she had all the time in the world.
Chris hung on her words. "No, it doesn't sound cliché at all. It sounds real."
"I just don't think I have time anymore for school. I'd rather, you know-live."
This sounded awful-so false and ironic.
Don't listen to me, I'm immortal, part of her almost yelled. But she didn't, because another part of her was hungry.
When he spoke, he sounded uncertain. "Do-do you want to get out of here? Go to my place maybe?"
Her shy smile widened. She'd wanted him to say that. She wanted him to think this was his idea. She rounded her shoulders, aware of her posture, her body language, wanting to send a message that she was open, willing, and ready.
"Yeah," she said, touching his hand as she stood.
His skin felt like fire.
Chris took her back to his place. He lived within walking distance, in a garden-level unit in a block of apartments. A nice place, small but functional, and very student. It felt like a foreign country.
Emma watched Chris unlock the door and felt some trepidation. Nerves, that was all. Anticipation. Unknown territory-to be expected, going home with a new guy for the first time.
Chris fumbled with the key.
There was more to this than the unknown, or the thrill of anticipation. She stood on the threshold, literally, and felt something: a force outside of herself. Nothing solid, rather a feeling that made her want to turn away. Like a voice whispering,
Go, you are not welcome, this is not your place, your blood does not dwell here.
She couldn't ignore it. The voice fogged her senses. If she turned away, even just a little-stepped back, tilted her head away-her mind cleared. She didn't notice when Chris finally unlocked the door and pushed his way inside.
She didn't know how long he'd been standing on the other side of the threshold, looking back at her expectantly. She simply couldn't move forward.
"Come on in," he said, giving a reassuring smile.
The feeling, fog, and voice disappeared. The unseen resistance fell away, the barrier was gone. She'd been invited.
Returning his smile, she went in.
Inside was what she'd expected from a male college student: the front room had a ripe, well-lived-in smell of dirty laundry and pizza boxes. Mostly, though, it smelled like him. In a moment, she took it all in, the walls and the carpet. Despite how many times the former had been repainted and the later replaced, the sense that generations of college students had passed through here lingered.