A Call For Help
Original character Hellie Smoke, daughter of Caryn Smoke, was born with a vampire taint thanks to the events of Demon in my View. Hellie is off at college, learning how to handle her vampiric side without her old support group. Content warning for vampiric mind control, drinking of both alcohol and blood, and life threatening blood loss.
Hellie couldnât decide if she was grateful Mason picked up or not.
She could have gone to the SE Haven part of campus. She could have sat up all night in the student union. Hell, she probably could have gone to El Nido, despite not being a dancer herself. But scales were the last thing she wanted to feel against her aura right now, still raw and ragged from the wounds of her dreams, and the argument theyâd spawned. No, the nest belonged to Dianica, even if the serpiente princess wanted little to do with it.
No, Hellie needed to go somewhere that was just hers, and that somewhere was the gutter. The den that was Masonâs main hangout was grimy and gross, and it matched her mood perfectly. She didnât deserve any better than this.
His car smelled like stale cigarette smoke, and not for the first time, Hellie wondered if he was just from a particularly weak line or what. Las Noches never smelled of anything stronger than glass and sweat, and the occasional note of whatever mystery liquid had been splashed against the bar floor. Hellie missed Uncle Aubreyâs club. She missed a lot of things from home right now.
She hugged her arms around herself as Mason drove, blathering on about whatever stupid shit he liked to talk about. Something disgusting about twins. Hellie ignored him, resolving to steal his car once he was distracted and go get some McDonalds. He wouldnât give a shit if she was out all night, so long as she brought the Accord back in one piece. Ugh, she might even clean out the floorboards for him. How long had that abandoned bag of mostly eaten Cheetohs been under the passenger seat?
The house they pulled up on wasnât any different than any of the other single-family homes turned rental properties that surrounded the campus. None of the signature inversion that New Mayhem was famous for. No, only the elite of the vampiric world announced themselves in bizarre decorating schemes. Masonâs bash circuit houses all had beige or grey or white siding, boring brown roofs, and yards of patchy grass mixed with clover. Nothing to give the game away.
Inside, it wasnât all that different from itsâ neighbors, either. The kitchen was small and seldom used, a dingy white trash can overflowing with beer cans and take out bags. A smattering of upperclassman lounged in the living room, playing video games and smoking pot. No long, flowing gowns with plunging deep Vs or leather-clad legs perched artfully on vintage furniture. Just jeans, t-shirts, and second-hand sofas in bad need of vacuuming.
No one looked up as Hellie and Mason passed through into the back. Nothing to see here, folks. Just another of Masonâs friends. Some nights, a blood junkie might peel themselves off the couch and follow the vampires back, hoping for a high. Mason wasnât exceptionally gifted at giving pain â no one excelled at that more than aunt Fala-- but it didnât take a maestro to turn the sting of feeding into something pleasurable. And as far as addictions went, bloodletting was fairly safe. Most vampires were smart enough not to draw attention to themselves, cultivating a dedicated bash circuit and protecting their personal buffet from showy injuries. Why feed on a neck when there were so many more interesting â and private â places to sink fangs?
Mason was no exception. He didnât particularly care for his flock â and why would he, when they had like a six year shelf life max before graduating out?- but he kept them fed and housed and well enough to snack on. Tonightâs entrees were lounging on his bed, watching some trash TV reruns and groping each other like it was an afterthought. Or the last thing Mason had bothered to âsuggestâ to them.
âUgh, god, Mason, are they really twins?â
Bits of their one-sided conversation came back to her as Mason stripped off his shirt and tossed it carelessly in the general direction of the hamper.
âNah. But theyâve gone pretty far out of their way to cultivate the illusion. Something about an audition, I donât remember.â
âI donât care,â is what he meant, and Hellie heard it loud and clear. She rubbed at her arms, skin starting to crawl. No, not her skin. Something deeper, more primal.
âListen, I gotta get out of here for a bit. Toss me your keys.â
âNo way.â He didnât even bother to look away from the legs he was climbing. âYou just got here. And I promised these two some fun. You owe them for making them wait.â
The women giggled, and Hellie couldnât tell if they honestly found Masonâs banter funny or if heâd rolled them into laughing.
âI just wanna grab some food. I missed dinner.â
Mason patted the other pair of legs. âHelp yourself. Christina wonât mind.â
âChristinaâ laughed and pushed playfully at Masonâs shoulder. âMaaaay-suuuun, Iâm Brittney.â
Mason ignored her and drew his fangs over the inside of the other oneâs thigh. She moaned, head lolling back and fingers twisting in the sheets. Hellie took a step back, leaving, she was definitely leaving--
The scent of blood filled the air.
Come on in, Hells Bells, the waterâs fine.
Masonâs voice slid through her mind as his unattended guest slipped from the bed. Hellie barely noticed the hands wrapping around her wrist, didnât fight as the slender mortal pulled her towards the bed. Towards the blood. All she could hear was the dry rasping of her own veins, empty, so empty, neglected for so longâŚ
It didnât used to be this bad. Once a week had been enough for such a long time. Why⌠why was it so loud now?
Why was she fighting?
Her knees hit the bed. The rest of her kept going, spilling into the graceful crawl of a predator. Mason rolled over, grinning at her with lips painted sticky red. He looked like an evil clown. She hardly registered him, eyes drawn to the two lines of blood trickling down tender fleshâŚ
It would be a shame to let the wounds close.
Were those her own thoughts, or Masonâs?
Did it matter?
She reached out, fingertips like magnets to the wounds. She pushed, rounded nails catching the edges, pulling. Blood flowed faster, hot, copper, bright. Like chocolate and caramel and candy apples and french fries so hot they burned the tips of your fingers, too salty and perfect to let go to waste. Behind her, more blood flowed, Mason taking his own partner. Heâd open this one for her, then moved on. She didnât have the art of growing fangs just yet. A predator, but still just a fledgling. Still learning, still malleable. He would teach her. He would show her how to roll a mind tighter than a joint. Make em forget anything that isnât you. Make everything else turn to stale ash on their tongues. Make yourself their god.
Hellie put her lips to the womanâs thigh just to drown all the fucking talking out. She didnât want to think anymore. She didnât want to have anyoneâs thoughts in her head, not hers not his not the lady on the bed not some ancient dead priestess-- just the quiet peace of the blood, the all consuming fire that burned away her weakness and made her something strong, something primal.
She drank, feeling power pour down her throat, race to her edges, backwash as the force tried to equalize. She held on tight, not wanting to share, not wanting to let one precious bit go back to this pathetic creature. It didnât even have enough sense of self to remember its own name. Just an empty vessel, a beer can to be crushed against her forehead and tossed aside--
Empty? It shouldnât be empty.
She never drank enough to drain someone all the way to empty.
Hellie sat up, world too sharp, motions too fast. Everything was on a delay, her senses taking in information faster than her brain could keep up with. They were alone âher and the girlâthe TV had gone to fuzzy static. The room was coldâtoo cold, her skin was cold, and paleâand the house felt quiet, empty. Going out, surfaced blearily in her thoughts. Beer run. It was two in the goddamned morning, maybe even three. Hellie couldnât see all of the alarm clock around the discarded clothing that had landed on it. Was she naked? No, but she was cold. Because her shirt was soaked. Soaked in blood. Fuck! The girl. Goddamnit, she had to pull it together. Had to focus.
She backed off the bed, pulling off her shirt and grabbing a button up from the floor. The girl moaned, something unintelligible, but Hellie didnât need to understand her to know what she needed. Sheâd lost too much blood. Too much of it pooled under her and made Hellieâs new shirt stick wetly to her belly. Growling frustration, she jerked it off and wiped at her front, trying to get clean. Fuck. Should she shower? No, damn it, no. Being messy was not the problem. The girl fucking bleeding out in Masonâs bed while he was out on a goddamned beer run was the problem.
She snarled, rage making the fire in her blood sing. Calm. She needed to be calm and make a plan. She stared at her phone âwhen had she pulled it from her pocket?--and watched the display vibrate. No, shake. Her hands were shaking. Why the fuck were he hands shaking? She was glutted on power, she should running through the streets or dancing the night away, high on this human life-- fuck! She had to get this girl help.
She thumbed through her phone, trying to focus. Who could she call? God, why were so many of the numbers in her phone part of this fucking bash circuit? None of them would be any goddamned good. Theyâd just get her a beer or an orange juice at best and wait for Mason to come clean up the mess.
She should make Mason clean this one up, too.
She didnât think âBrittanyâ had that much time.
SE could help, but Hellie knew Mason wouldnât appreciate Hellie leading them to his door. And as fucking pissed as she was right now âhow could he just leave her like this?!-- she wasnât quite ready to burn this bridge. She still had three more years at this school, and she needed somewhere to feed. Masonâs circuit wasnât totally hopeless, just the ones that hung out closest to the source of the rot. Focus!
She stared at each entry in her phone one at a time. Abbey from math, no. Adam from the SSA? No, calling a wolf would not likely improve things. Agatha-- Hellie gave a manic little laugh. Calling the dean was more likely to end in her expulsion than anything else.
Asha.
The falcon was unflappable, beyond cool under pressure. She didnât seem to care that Hellie wasnât a shifter. What would she think of Hellie being a âwell, not a vampire, exactly, but splitting that particular hair right this second felt really, really stupid. If she called her right now, would that be the end of their friendship?
The woman moaned again, and Hellie made up her mind. This womanâs life was more important than Hellieâs social life. If this blew up in her face, well.
It wouldnât be the first time.
âHey Asha? Itâs Hellie. âŚI need some help.â
