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Concrete is cold in winter. Icy cold when the temperature falls to twenty-three degrees, even if you are inside. And I was inside. It was dark, too; I knew that somehow, although my vision was perfectly clear. I found myself in some sort of cellar or basement warehouse, I couldn't tell which. There were plenty of boxes and crates surrounding me, stacked up here and there within walls formed of cinderblocks painted black. The funny thing? I knew it was cold. Bone-freezing cold. That didn't seem to matter. I didn't even have a goose bump as I sat up and looked around. I'd been left in the floor, wherever I was. Rising easily, I made a full turn to get my bearings. My prison couldn't have been more than a twelve by twelve square, and an old desk with newspapers stacked atop its dusty surface sat nearby, amid a pile of boxes. Wondering if the newspapers were recent, I navigated the clutter to take a look. The paper on top was printed five days after Don was removed from life support—January ninth. I had no idea if that was today, yesterday or ten years ago. Don't get me wrong, my mind was perfectly clear. I merely had no memories past getting into my car after drinking four glasses of wine. As my first-ever drinking binge, it sucked.
Now, I had no idea where I was, no idea how I'd gotten there and no idea how to get out. There weren't any windows and I couldn't see a door anywhere. Setting the newspaper down, I noticed a cocktail napkin lying nearby that someone had written on. Lifting it up, I began to read. Horrified is a tame word to me now. Any thesaurus has an alternative listing of words one might use and all of them are woefully deficient. I'd read that napkin—over and over—and still the words petrified me. I recalled hearing something about curing phobias once, where at times the sufferer is flooded or immersed in whatever it is they fear. Nothing might cure what I felt after reading words carelessly scrawled across a stained paper napkin.
"I agree to pay Sergio Velenci one million pounds if the female takes less than nine days to fully turn." They'd wagered my life. I didn't learn until later just how serious that wager truly was. A signature was beneath the agreement, written in beautiful, old-world script—Edward Desmarais.
Those lengthy, needle-sharp teeth I'd imagined while sitting in my car? I hadn't imagined them. They'd belonged to a vampire. I laughed humorlessly. The movies and television shows? They had it all wrong. Those weren't fangs they were showing us. Those were ridiculous compared to the real thing. While pondering how long it had been since my attackers left me in my makeshift prison, another thought wriggled its way into my brain. If they were betting on how long it would take me to become vampire, what were they planning to do with me afterward?
Scrambling off my perch on the edge of the desk, I placed the napkin as close to its original position as I could before straightening the newspapers. I'd leafed through them briefly and they'd gotten scattered a little. No, I can't say why I bothered. Perhaps it was to give myself a little time to think, and I was thinking now. Desperately. Furiously. Whatever their ultimate purpose, I had no desire to meet up with either vampire. Ever. That decision made, I went in search of a way out.
If I hadn't smelled the scent of garbage, I would never have found the door. It was designed to blend in with the rest of the wall and nearly undetectable. I followed the scent instead, sensing a slight bit of air sifting through a crack between a wall and the nearly invisible portal. I couldn't locate a handle, a knob or anything else that might be used to open it. If it hadn't been for my desperation, I might have remained rooted in that spot, waiting for Edward and Sergio to return. If I had, I'd have met my final death right then.
Instead, I whimpered and clawed at the crevice with my fingers, not expecting anything to come of it. Surprisingly, bits of concrete were crumbling away in my hands. I stared at my fingers in amazement; they'd grown so strong I could tear into cinderblocks as easily as if I were digging into soft earth. As soon as I had a large enough hole hollowed out, I placed one hand around the edge of the thick door and yanked. It flew behind me at least ten feet and the noise it made as it landed offended my ears and made me cringe. Dust clouded around the severed door and I think a couple of crates were crushed beneath its weight when it fell. Beyond the empty doorway were narrow stone steps leading up and to the outside. I climbed them swiftly, bursting through another door and into a cold, crisp night.
The garbage I'd smelled was overflowing a metal bin behind a nearby Asian restaurant. Someone was shouting in Vietnamese inside the restaurant kitchen. Another voice shouted back. Time to get the hell out of there. I jogged down the adjoining alley for several yards, thinking while I ran that I hadn't been able to run anywhere in a very long time. My age, my weight and my lack of exercise had seen to that. After coming to the end of the alleyway, I cautiously stepped around the last building, hoping to find an address or a street sign that would tell me where I was. I found both.
Downtown Oklahoma City was where I stood, at the corner of Mickey Mantle Drive and Flaming Lips Alley. If I hadn't been so dazed and frightened, I might have held onto the nearby lamppost and laughed myself silly. Flaming Lips Alley was named after the Oklahoma band that had made a name (and an alley) for themselves.
Even so, I was still too close to the cellar I'd just escaped so I jogged a little farther until I reached Reno Avenue. I knew where I was, then. I wasn't looking forward to walking the remaining ten miles to my house in Midwest City, but I didn't have a choice. I had no money, no purse and no cell phone; nothing belonging to me had been left inside the cellar. A search for those things had yielded no results while I explored my little cave. My vampires had taken them. Amusing, I know, calling them my vampires. I had no idea if they were anyone's vampires, other than their own. A thought hit me as I jogged the ten-mile trek to my house, dodging traffic at times and running across lawns at others—if Edward and Sergio had my purse, then they had my license and a lot of other things. They knew where I lived.
The back door into my garage was now hanging on its hinges, but I didn’t take time to worry over the damage I'd caused. The exercise I'd gotten on the way home had made me thirsty—extremely thirsty. I blasted into the house like a hurricane and nearly tore the door off the fridge getting it open. Ripping into the carton of orange juice, I swallowed a mouthful and immediately became ill. I was coughing up orange juice—the sticky, orange liquid was pouring from my throat and nostrils as my body rejected it. And while that usually burns, it really burned now. After rinsing my mouth out with water when I coughed up the last of the OJ, (I was careful not to swallow any of the water) I sat down miserably on the living room sofa, grabbed the remote and turned on the television.