Chapter 45

I turned my head to see the blonde dancer standing at the corner with her hand on one hip and a sneer on her face. She'd changed out of the red outfit and was dressed in a blue glittering bodysuit with feathers in her hair and bright pink lipstick decorating her face.

She took in the sight of me and Simon tangled together, and disgust filled her features. "Should I call security?" she said in a thick French accent.

I wondered why she spoke in English, then realized she thought we were a pair of reckless tourists. I slid down Simon's body, fumbling to reach for my pants.

"I wish you wouldn't," Simon replied. He said something in French.

Whatever it was, the dancer looked furious.

Anger coursed through me at the interruption, and her immediate desire to be a tattle tale. As I buttoned my pants, I glanced over at them and paused when my eyes fixed on her.

Her heart beat faster as she raised her voice, yelling in French. Simon replied calmly, buckling his belt. I paid no attention to whatever he said; my eyes fixed on the pulse in her throat. I couldn't look away. Her blood rushed through her veins like the most delicious treat, leaving a flush on her cheeks.

I was starving.

The world turned hazy around me, and all I could see was her. Her neck. Her pulse. Her blood.

The dancer turned to call for help or someone to escort Simon and me out of the building.

I didn't think.

I wasn't sure what came over me, nor did I remember moving.

Then, there was only blood.

I didn't hear her scream or Simon call my name.

Blood. Blood. Blood.

So much of it; I could have bathed in it. It turned the whole world red. It was everything I ever wanted, everything I ever dreamed about.

"Lucinda! Lucinda, you have to stop." Through the red haze, someone begged me to come back to myself. "Lucinda, we have to go. Now!"

I blinked.

There was blood on my hands… and on my face… and in my hair. I was covered in it. It was thick and sticky and warm, seeping through my clothes and pooling at my feet.

I stared down at the blood. Once, in the ER, I watched someone bleed out from a gunshot wound. We weren't able to get the bleeding under control fast enough, and the blood kept coming. That was the first time I understood how much blood was in the human body. I'd read about it in textbooks; the average person had approximately two gallons of blood in their body. I knew, realistically, that I could compare that to gallons of milk. If I spilled two gallons of milk, that was a lot of milk.

It was different when it was blood.

The dancer slumped to the ground in front of me, hitting the ground with a distinct thud—one a living body never would have made. I stared down at her blonde hair and the blue sequins on her outfit, both getting redder by the second.

Simon's hands on my shoulders brought me fully back to reality. He pulled me backward, spinning me to face him. I'd never seen his eyes so wild. I glanced between him and the dancer at my feet, realization sinking into me.

Her heart wasn't beating.

Her eyes were wide and lifeless.

She was dead.

Simon tugged on my arm. "I'm sorry, darling. We have to go."

I shook my head, pointing at the dancer on the ground at my feet. "Did I kill her?"

"Lucinda, now."

Simon was much older, and therefore stronger than me. Despite my feet gluing themselves to the ground, he twisted, wrapped his arm around my torso, and pinned me against him. I barely felt him dragging me backward. I couldn't look away from the bleeding body.

Body.

Not dancer.

Her hair was no longer blonde. It was red. The feathers in her hair clung to it now; they'd lost all of their vibrant color too.

Everything was red.

Stale, outside air cascaded over me and I gasped, stumbling into Simon. He didn't pause once we were outside; he lifted me bridal-style and rushed into oncoming traffic. I yelped at the honking horns of angry drivers. Simon ignored them, rushing through the streets. I was vaguely aware of yelling after us for a while.

The longer he ran, the quieter the calls became.

Until there was quiet.

Simon slowed to a stop, breathing heavily and letting me down. My feet hit the ground, but my knees wouldn't hold me up.

I fell hard, staring at the blood coating my hands.

"Simon," I whispered. "Did I kill her?"

Simon stood over me. When I looked up at him, a small rim of red tears lined the bottom of his eyes. And I knew. Even before he nodded, I knew.

"Yes, you killed her."

White noise echoed in my ears, drowning out everything else. Simon knelt in front of me and said something, but I wasn't paying attention. My chest constricted painfully; I couldn't get a full breath.

I hadn't even felt like myself… or like anything at all.

One moment, I was clinging to Simon and recovering from an orgasm, and the next, I was staring down at a torn open throat. I remembered I was starving, but the girl hadn't come anywhere near me.

She annoyed me, I realized.

She would have called security on Simon and me.

That wasn't a reason to kill someone, and yet it pushed me over the edge.

I killed her.

I killed her.

I killed her.

My hysterical sobs echoed onto the streets, growing louder with each passing moment. I dragged my nails along the concrete until they broke, relishing in the pain that reminded me I was a monster. My cries were broken and haggard, weak from my inability to take a full breath. Each gasp was like swallowing acid. My stomach contracted, forcing the stolen blood out of me. I vomited all over my hands and Simon's shoes, blood splattering anywhere and everywhere.

"God, Lucinda, I'm sorry, my love," Simon cried.

"It hurts!" I screamed. Devastation crashed through me like a black hole, stealing every ounce of oxygen I had. "Make it stop. Please."

I killed someone.

I stole their life.

I was trained to save lives—to take care of people at their weakest. I was never supposed to hurt them, not like this.

Simon knelt at my side, trying to wrap his arms around my shoulders. I wrenched away from him and vomited again, trying to stand and failing.

"I'm so sorry," I cried. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry."

I could hardly breathe. Everything hurt. My vision blurred.

I thought Simon lifted me again, but I wasn't sure. I clung to Simon when he lowered me after what might have been a moment or an hour, only rolling away when my body clenched—I vomited again.

"I can't do this," I sobbed.

"You have to, Lucinda."

"No."

No. No. No. No. No.

I killed that dancer. That beautiful, wonderful, powerful woman was dead because I lost control.

"My love, I warned you this would happen," Simon said. "Every vampire kills someone."

No! No. No.

Not me.

It was never supposed to be me.

I couldn't swallow. I couldn't breathe. I couldn't see.

Piece by piece, I lost bits of myself.

Until all I could see was the lifeless look in the dancer's eyes, as if she watched as Simon carried me from the Moulin Rouge. The accusatory stare in them threatened to drag me under, into a never ending darkness. I thought about giving into it—anything to stop the pain coursing through me.

Then, a familiar voice rang through it all. "I'm here."