CHAPTER 3

 The Ghost in the Blood

Consciousness didn't return to Liora all at once. Instead, it seeped back in heavy, agonizing waves, accompanied by a suffocating heat that made her skin feel like it was pressed against a furnace.

When her eyes finally flickered open, the familiar wooden ceiling of her bedroom slowly drifted into focus. The bright afternoon sun filtered through her sheer curtains, but the light did nothing to dispel the thick, heavy fog in her mind. Her entire body ached with a deep, bone-weary fatigue. Her throat was painfully dry, and a layer of slick sweat coated her forehead.

She was running a fierce, delirious fever.

Liora shifted slightly, a low groan escaping her chapped lips. She realized someone had changed her out of her dirt-streaked birthday clothes and into a soft, oversized cotton nightshirt. Beside her bed sat a ceramic basin filled with lukewarm water and a damp cloth. Her grandmother had clearly carried her back to the cottage, washed the forest grime from her skin, and tucked her into bed.

Liora weakly lifted her right hand, bringing her palm close to her face. She stared at it, her mind scrambling for purchase. It was completely smooth. There were no jagged cuts, no dried blood, no signs of the violent fall that had fractured her reality.

*Was it a dream?* she thought desperately, her feverish mind clinging to the thread of denial. *The fangs, the golden reflection, the dust... was it all just a hallucination brought on by this fever?*

But as her hand dropped back onto the mattress, her fingers brushed against the heavy silver locket resting against her collarbone. The blood-red moonstone was icy cold against her burning skin, a stark, undeniable anchor to reality. It hadn’t been a dream. The memory of the rich, sweet taste of her own blood made her stomach twist in a complex knot of horror and a shameful, lingering craving.

Exhaustion pulled at her eyelids again, the heavy fever dragging her back down into the dark before she could fully process her own terror.

The transition back into sleep was instant, but there was no peace to be found in the shadows of her mind. The fever twisted her subconscious, pulling her back into the fractured memories of her eighth year.

The nightmare reconstituted itself, brighter and more violent than before.

She was back in the overturned car, the suffocating smell of smoke and gasoline burning her throat. But this time, the memory didn't shatter when the tall stranger dragged her from the wreckage. It expanded, playing out with terrifying fluidity.

The stranger carried her away from the roaring flames, stepping into the deep shadows of the highway tree line. Liora felt herself being held down on his lap, her small, frail body engulfed by his imposing frame. Her head was resting directly against his broad chest.

There it was. That same, unforgettable warmth she had carried in her thoughts for ten years. In the freezing night air, surrounded by the smell of death and burning metal, his chest felt like a blazing hearth, anchoring her to life.

She looked up, trying desperately to see the face of her savior. His features remained frustratingly blurred, obscured by the shifting smoke and the haze of her childhood memory. But through the fog, two details burned themselves into her mind with absolute, terrifying clarity.

He had thick, dark hair that fell messily over his forehead, and a single, wide, piercing crimson eye that glowed in the dark like a dying ember.

In the dream, the young Liora whimpered, weeping from the pain of the deep, bleeding gash on her arm. The dark-haired stranger didn't speak. He gently cradled her wounded arm, lifting it toward his face. Slowly, deliberately, he pressed his lips to the open tear in her flesh, kissing the wound.

Liora expected a sting, but a strange, numbing coolness washed over her arm instead. Then, the stranger tilted his head.

With a soft, predatory click, two shiny, incredibly sharp fangs slid out from beneath his upper lip, gleaming dangerously in the moonlight. He leaned back down toward her bleeding skin, his grip tightening on her waist, holding her firmly against his warm chest.

"No!"

Liora bolted upright in bed, a gasp tearing from her throat as she tore herself out of the nightmare.

She was panting heavily, her hand instantly flying to her chest, where her heart was hammering a frantic rhythm. The sweat on her skin felt cold now, her fever finally breaking under the sheer adrenaline of the dream. Her breath came in short, ragged puffs as she stared wildly around her sunlit room.

It was the same person. The stranger from the accident ten years ago, the one who had saved her life and held her against that impossibly warm chest—he wasn't human. He had fangs. He had a crimson eye.

He was exactly like the creatures her grandmother had warned her about.

A soft rustle near the doorway made Liora flinch.

Grandma Nymeria stood there, holding a steaming mug of herbal tea. Her ancient eyes scanned Liora’s pale face, immediately recognizing the residual terror lingering in her gaze. She walked over quietly, setting the mug on the nightstand before wringing out the cloth in the water basin.

"You're awake," Nymeria said softly, pressing the cool cloth to Liora’s forehead. "The fever has dropped. Your body fought hard against the suppression spell I had to cast in the woods."

Liora didn't pull away from the cloth, but her voice was tight, stripped of all her previous skepticism. "He was there, Grandma. Ten years ago."

Nymeria froze, her hand pausing against Liora's brow. "What are you talking about, child?"

"The man who pulled me out of the car when Mom and Dad died," Liora whispered, her eyes wide as she stared into space, the imagery of the dream still vivid behind her eyelids.

"I remembered him. My memory was sealed, wasn't it? But it's coming back. He had blonde hair. He had fangs, and a wide crimson eye. He held me on his lap... he kissed my wound.

Grandma, who was he? Is it really a vampire?

Why did a vampire save me?"

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