Free The Last Girl by Kitty Thomas Page B

moralize those creatures for their instincts. So why should I judge Christian that way? But I knew the answer even before the question formed in my mind—because he’s shaped too human and my moral code for anything that looks human is bound up in what humanity considers right and wrong. I can’t help feeling that way, and I don’t expect the sentiment to ever change.
    His look mirrors my own disgust, and I don’t like it when the shoe is on the other foot. My mind screams that I’m the good one. The last thing I deserve is his scorn.
    “It will do nothing but heal you and make you feel good. It won’t make you a vampire. It won’t make you evil. And you will drink it when I give it to you. Or have you already forgotten this morning when I withheld? I should think you’d be happy to be offered such a gift instead of the pain and terror I offered you this morning. Or did a few hours of sleep wipe that reality away?”
    I don’t say anything because the last thing I want is a frequent repeat of this morning. Instead, I put my mouth against his wrist and take the offering he’s presented. He pets my hair with his other hand.
    Maybe everything I know about vampires is wrong. Maybe he was never human. Maybe he’s a god, instead. Or a demon. I have a feeling our human words for things: god, angel, demon, vampire... they’re just words. They don’t really mean anything because we don’t know what the hell we’re talking about.
    “Good girl,” he whispers against my hair.
    He pulls his wrist away and I lay my forehead against the satin pillows, exhausted. I’m still not used to this schedule shift. Despite frequent insomnia, my body is confused by the changes.
    I think again about my mom and the bakery and I start crying.
    “What is it?” His voice isn’t quite cold, but it’s not warm either. I’m not sure if he cares at all. Probably not. It seems more an affectation of humanity that he’s learned in order to blend in and stalk prey better.
    “This will destroy my mother. She’ll think I’m dead.” I look up, my eyes imploring him to comprehend a single human emotion just this once. “Don’t you understand? It’s not just me. You’re making others suffer, too.”
    “Perhaps I should kill them, then? Far be it from me to let anybody be sad.”
    I’m not going to respond to the bait. He wants me to lash out so he can do another lesson of here’s why I’m almighty and you are property.
    The chemise has stayed on through all of this, my panties pulled aside for his convenience. It makes me feel dirtier than if I’d been naked. I hate him. I hate him with a depth that scares me almost as much as the emotions I felt only a few moments before in his arms. But hate and anger are normal in this situation. More comfortable. Hate I can deal with. The desire I felt with him... the pleasure I felt with him... I cannot.
    He crosses to my closet where all my new clothes are now hanging. The space is immense and deep. Even though we bought a lot last night, the closet still looks empty. He paws through the clothing and tosses some black boots, black leather pants, and a red halter top at me. He’s dressing me up like a slutty superhero. But I don’t say anything. I just take the clothes and begin to put them on.
    “No.”
    I stop at his voice, rooted to the spot in a way that would have been comical if I were a cartoon character.
    He points to the bathroom. “Shower first.”
    This embarrasses me. I haven’t showered since getting here. That’s been over a day. I’ve been too scared to think about mundane things like hygiene, but it’s embarrassing because I know how good his sense of smell is. He must think I’m dirty.
    As if he can still read my thoughts he says, “Don’t worry. You just smell like food and sex to me. You need to shower because where we’re going, you’ll need to be extra clean. It’ll be safer.”
    What the hell does that mean? I don’t question him or say anything, feeling