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“I see. And the Sacred Kiss. Was it her idea or yours?”
“It was both of ours, I guess. I don’t remember really…. We were supposed to do it earlier but chickened out and then…it just happened. We didn’t really plan for it, not then.”
“So it was her idea.”
“I think so.”
The doctor ordered him to close his eyes, and Oliver did so dutifully.
“Let’s start at the beginning. Let’s remember all the happy memories, then one by one, reject them. Let them go.”
The doctor’s voice was in his head. It was a compulsion, he realized.
You are not bound to her.
You are no longer hers.
As the doctor’s calm voice droned on, images began to flash in Oliver’s mind. Schuyler at five: shy and mute. Schuyler at nine: teasing and petulant. Schuyler at fifteen: beautiful and quiet. The Mercer Hotel. The fumbling and the awkwardness. Then in her childhood bedroom, where it finally happened. The sweet smell of her—of her jasmine and honeysuckle perfume. The sharpness of her fangs as they pierced his skin.
Oliver could feel the wetness on his cheeks. He was crying. It was too much. Schuyler was in every part of his soul, in his blood; she was as necessary to him as his skin. He could not let go.
What was he doing? He didn’t belong here. This was against the Code. If the Repository found out, he would be kicked out of service. It would humiliate his family and destroy their reputation. He couldn’t remember why he had even come. He began to panic and started looking for a way out, but the litany continued, drumming the compulsion into his head.
You are no longer her familiar.
You are nobody.
No. No. It’s not true. Oliver felt wretched and confused. He did not want to let go of his love for Schuyler. Even if it pained him so much that he could no longer sleep, could no longer eat. He wanted to keep these memories. His sixteenth birthday, when Schuyler had drawn his portrait and bought him an ice-cream cake with two hearts on it. No. He had to hold on…. He had to…. He had to…. He could let go. He could listen to the nice calm voice and let go. Let it all go.
He was no one.
He was nobody.
The nightmare ended.
When he woke up, he found the faces of the doctors peering down at him. A voice—he wasn’t sure whose—said, “The lab reports came back. He’s clean. Put him in the line.”
A few minutes later he was standing in the lobby alongside a group of young familiars. Oliver swayed on his feet. His head hurt, and he couldn’t remember what he was doing there or why he had come. But he didn’t have time to think or puzzle over his muddled thoughts, because the curtains suddenly parted and a beautiful vampire entered the room.
“Bonsoir,” she greeted him. She was model-tall and carried herself with the confidence of a queen. She was from the Euro
pean Coven, he could tell, with her immaculately tailored traveling clothes and sultry French accent. Her bondmate walked in after her. He was tall and thin with a mop of shaggy dark hair and a languid expression. They looked like two sleek cats, all angles and black turtlenecks, with their Gauloises cigarettes and sloe-eyed good looks.
“You,” she purred, looking directly at Oliver. “Come with me.”
Her partner chose a dazed-looking teenage girl, and the two humans followed the couple to one of the elaborate rooms on the top floor. Most of the blood house was furnished as perfunctorily as possible, with thin curtains dividing the rooms. But this was as plush as a five-star hotel suite, a grand space with a sumptuous fur-lined throw on the king-size bed, gilded mirrors, and baroque furnishings.
The male vampire pulled the girl down to the bed, slid her dress off, and immediately began to drink from her. Oliver watched but did not understand. He wasn’t sure what he was doing in the room, only that he had been chosen and wanted.
“Wine?” the female vampire asked, holding up a crystal decanter from the glass-topped bar.
“I’m all right, thanks.”
“Relax, I won’t bite.” She laughed. “At least, not yet.” She took a long slow sip from her glass and watched her bondmate drain the girl. “That looks delicious.” She put out her cigarette, stubbing it on the Persian rug and leaving a small brown hole.
“My turn,” she said, pushing Oliver down on one of the antique armchairs. The vampire straddled him and kissed his neck. She smelled like heavy oily perfume and her skin was papery. She was not as young as she first looked. “This way, please,” she said, turning his body toward the front of the room. “He likes to watch.”
He saw the male vampire leaning up on his elbow, smiling lasciviously, while the human girl lay unconscious and naked on the bedspread. Oliver did not flinch. He remembered now why he had come to this place.
