my wrist over, the pad of his thumb gliding over the scar that remains of my suicide attempt.
For the first time, I notice his pallor. There are dark circles under his eyes and his complexion looks sunken in. Sickly.
"Perhaps it does not feel as monstrous to you," he says, still staring at my wrist. "Your magic. Your power."
When he looks up, his canines have elongated into sharp points, and for the first time I see the vampire beneath the man.
"I have never been able to lie to myself about my own monstrosity. I was born in blood, and survive on blood. For the first hundred years of my undead life, I lived to kill." He pauses, closing his eyes until his teeth shrink back to normal. "Blood lust drove me. Then I lost my maker, the woman who turned me, and had been my lover and companion all that time. My thirst remained, but my lust for the kill dimmed. From that moment forward, I killed to live, but still the remnants of my Irish Catholic upbringing condemned me."
His expression is haunted when he opens his eyes once more. "I eventually learned to control my cravings. To feed only a little at a time. Not enough to kill. But not enough to fully live either. It was a half existence for me, but it assuaged my conscience, as much as anything could."
Words trip on my tongue, but I keep my mouth clamped shut. I have questions, thoughts. I want to offer comfort. But I know he needs more time to speak. To share. So I don't interrupt. Instead. I twist my hand to hold his, our fingers intertwining in an intimate gesture of support. It’s far beyond anything he’s allowed until now, but with his personal admissions between us, everything seems different.
He looks down at our joined hands and hesitates a moment, then his fingers curl around mine, the coolness of his skin matching my own.
In this we are the same.
Made of ice, but filled with fire.
"When Dr. Cutter found me, I was a shell of myself. Haunted by my own demons. I had lost the will to live, but had not the will to end it all. He offered me hope." He glances down at me, his eyes full of hundreds of years of pain. "He gave me a chance to not only help others, but to also cure myself of this curse. It was an answer to everything that plagued my broken soul."
He pauses and the silence stretches before us. I realize he's not going to take the next step. He can't acknowledge the truth just yet.
And I hate what I have to do, but I do it anyways, because I must.
Because everyone's survival depends on it.
In a reversal of roles that were never really our roles to begin with, I guide him to the truth as gently as I can.
"Dr. Cutter isn't who you think he is," I say softly, knowing my words will be the dynamite that blows apart his carefully constructed lie. "He's not trying to cure us. Or help us. He's trying to own us. To break us or maybe even harness our power for himself."
Dr. Livingstone sucks in a sharp breath, his fingers tightening around mine as I once again recount my strange and life-altering time with the madman who runs this place.
When I'm finished, I use my free hand to roll up my sleeve and show him where my blood was drawn. "I have no choice but to help him, at least until I can find another way."
“Your blood.” He looks up at me. “What will he do with it?”
“I don’t know, but it won’t involve helping Estelle, that I know for sure.”
“Estelle?”
“My sister.”
“Your sister is dead.” His confusion is too convincing to be fake.
Slowly, I tell him about Estelle. Finding her alive. Cutter’s deal with me. And of my true treatment thus far.
"If what you're saying is true," he says slowly, forcing the words out as if they cause him physical pain, "then it's all been a lie. I will never be cured."
I don't respond, because what can I say except yes.
"Whatever he truly has planned," I say, "it won't end well for anyone but himself."
He breaks eye contact with me to resume looking towards the sea, and I wonder at the thoughts a man who has seen and done what he has would have. What darkness of the soul does he carry?
"Do you believe me?" I finally ask. "Because quite