Unknown

2:35 A.M.

It began as a subtle sensation—an imperceptible, faint pulsing at the back of the neck.

It manifested as a lingering pressure, unsure whether to escalate into an intense headache or persist as a cautious reminder.

Emerson's eyes fluttered open, and two gray irises ponderously scanned the surroundings.

Disbelief washed over him. He found himself seated at the familiar wooden dinner table of his childhood home. Memories floated at the edge of his awareness as he absorbed the table's familiar look and its contents. Before him rested a pristine, radiant white plate, holding a medley of ever-changing, unidentifiable foods.

On either side of the plate, the silverware gleamed with a sleek, stainless steel design, their edges sharply defined.

But the peculiar shapes of the food and the all-encompassing darkness that veiled the kitchen and living room weren't important to him. Not at that moment.

His sole focus rested upon the table's other occupants—his mother and father. Their mature countenances stood out with pristine clarity against the washed-out background of his childhood home.

A smile spread across his face and a warmth bloomed within his chest that naturally reflected in his eyes. He silently watched his parents engage in animated conversation, their lips moving without making a sound. But he understood what they were talking about simply by their postures and smiles.

The memories of those conversations flooded back to him as vividly as if they had taken place only yesterday.

Those dinners were some of his fondest memories. He could still taste the warm, delicious food after a long school day and organizational work at the local library.

The way his mom always found a way to provide comfort and levity, no matter the situation. Sometimes, she would even pour him a few tablespoons of red wine with a wink.

His father's infectious, booming laughter that always overshadowed any problems Emerson may have accumulated throughout the day. It almost felt like Christmas dinner every night, and holidays with their extended family were even more energetic and joyous, if possible.

But it wasn't all sunshine and rainbows, of course.

In the end, though, Emerson made an effort, a choice, to focus on the good. The bad was only as powerful as you allowed it to be. And if you weren't careful, it could become very powerful...

A sudden, intense pang of an indescribable hollowness pervaded his heart.

The scene before him was something he dearly missed, something long lost and existing only here, only now. It was a chance to relive it. A chance...

He opened his mouth to speak but found that he couldn't make a sound. He wasn't about to let that stop him. He placed his hands on the table, preparing to push back the chair and stand up to hug them, when he noticed an odd ache in his throat. His brows furrowed as he took a moment, focusing on himself, and noticed just how dry his mouth was. Not only his mouth, but his tongue felt like an old, shriveled sponge.

He swallowed, hoping that some saliva would help, only for a horrifically painful, scratchy sensation to surge down his throat like two pieces of sandpaper holding a boxing match.

As he frantically searched around the table for something to alleviate the pain, he noticed a tall glass of icy water that hadn't been there before, sitting beside his plate. He leaned forward against the table's hard edge and grabbed it with both hands, the ice tinkling against the glass and a cool, refreshing sensation radiating through his palms. He tipped the glass to his cracked lips and... nothing.

His mouth and tongue remained bone dry, while the ache in his throat angrily pulsed as though it were upset by the development. Before he could try sipping again, a tickling sensation grew in his chest. Before he knew it, he was overcome by a dry, wheezing fit of coughing. Once his throat couldn't feel any drier or ache more profoundly, he tried to take a sip with shaking hands, some of the cool water flowing past the sides of his mouth and the glass's edge spilling over his fingers.

Nothing! Why couldn't he taste it? Why was it not helping?

The aching sensation pulsed again, causing him to wince and almost drop the glass.

No, he wouldn't give up; he could solve this! He inspected the glass with resolute panic, knowing that perhaps his diligent effort would amount to nothing and that not trying wasn't an option.

The water level was lower; he was drinking it, right? He felt nothing, but he was drinking it!

Pain and confusion warred across his face when the glass suddenly vanished from his hands, reappearing beside the now-empty plate. Only this time, there was no ice, no condensation, just a few measly drops of some murky liquid at the bottom.

RUMBLE!

The dining room began violently shaking as what sounded like two colliding mountains thunderously dominated the space while hundreds of deep, crimson-glowing cracks spread across the walls.

Silently screaming his throat even more ragged, Emerson covered his head with his arms as chunks of drywall rained from the ceiling. The rustic chandelier over the table precariously swayed before dislodging and crashing onto the table, cracking it in half and throwing shattered glass and ceramic everywhere.

The walls came tumbling down, and the entire ceiling collapsed in a deafening roar.

...

Suffocating darkness...

...

Rich, open air...

A balmy heat...

Emerson slowly lowered his arms, a bold brightness assaulting his eyelids. Then, he carefully opened his eyes, a deep-seated fear for what awaited him clenching his heart in an icy fist.

Then, his face lit up with pleasant surprise!

The sight that greeted him was anything but what he expected: he and his family sat at the same dinner table, wholly repaired, without any plates or cutlery. Only the single glass was now half-filled with brownish sand and small rocks. But even that couldn't dampen his surprise and happiness when seeing his family safe and sound. It took him a few more seconds to realize they were no longer home.

They were in the middle of a desert—the sun hung overhead, mercilessly bearing down on the land. He recognized this place! This was where... he looked at the distant mountain range, its form somewhat mirage-like and indistinct, then looked left, finding the small rock formation of stacked stones he and his father had made on their monthly hike.

He felt a strong urge to get closer. He tried leaving his seat, only to find he couldn't move his arms or legs. He tried bending forward again—nothing. Not even a tingle of feeling. He could only move his head. He looked to his parents in a panic, but they were acting as though nothing was out of place, his father reading something on his phone while his mother cautiously trimmed a single, potted rose with small scissors.

He frantically called to them to get their attention—no sound. And no reaction from them. Despair started setting in as the pain in his throat worsened, and his mouth felt so dry.

What could he do? He didn't know what to do anymore. Why couldn't he move or speak? He wanted to cry. He looked at the glass again, hoping to try and drink whatever water was left at the bottom. The last of his hope was extinguished: the glass was filled with sand and small rocks, a thin film of dust coating the exterior in place of condensation.

Emerson was truly panicking now.

The ache in his throat was reaching the point where darkness was beginning to creep in at the corners of his vision despite the bright day. And why were his parents not helping? He felt so helpless!

"That won't help, you know?" Emerson's head snapped over to look at his father, eyes wide in surprise and hope.

His father met his look with knowing pity, his slight smile conveying love and affection. He reached over and casually knocked the glass over, spilling sand across the table. A small puff of dust rose into the air before vanishing.

His mother was no longer at the table.

"Sometimes, the answers are right in front of us," his father said wistfully, "and other times... well," he casually rested his forearm on the table and his eyes on the spilled sand, "other times, we have to dig deep and search for them." His soft gaze met Emerson's, his wizened gray eyes staring into innocent gray. "Nothing in life is easy or certain, kiddo," he reached over and ruffled Emerson's hair. "But if there’s one thing I am certain of..." a proud smile lit up his face, "it's that you're my boy. And you will always find a way to move forward, no matter what. I know you will."

Emerson felt his eyes grow wet; something warm slid down his cheek.

His father reached over and wiped it away, his thumb coming away smeared in bright red blood.

'How?' Emerson silently asked, his eyes desperate. Imploring. He needed to know. His father seemingly understood the look; maybe he'd even heard him somehow.

"How, huh? Well—"

Rumble—Clap—Boom!

The sound of thunder drowned out his father's words. A bank of dark clouds suddenly appeared in the sky, choking out the sunlight.

His father's expression turned serious as he glanced at the gathering storm. Then, he sternly looked back at Emerson. "All right, I need you to listen to me now; this is very important, you hear?" Emerson frantically nodded with wide eyes.

A flash of lightning!

"I need you to wake up, Em," his father demanded, his eyes glowing with an ethereal light.

Rumble—Clap—Boom!

"Wake up!"

----------------------------------------

Emerson’s bloodshot eyes flew open as he reflexively rolled onto his side, heaving for breath against the fiery agony in his throat, dryly coughing as spasms wracked his lungs. The cold, unyielding ground dug into his left shoulder and hip, agitating his aching muscles. The gentle orange flames of a crackling campfire cast dancing shadows across his sickly pale face. He softly moaned, lightly covering his face with a hand to shield his overly sensitive eyes. The simple movement sent the world spinning.

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He felt sick. The kind of sick where all you could do was curl beneath a blanket and ride out the debilitating symptoms, hoping against hope that the medicine you took would either knock you out or at least make the pain go away. A fever burned his forehead; his stomach squirmed with nausea; a heated migraine pounded at his temples; fatigue pulsed through his muscles, and severe lethargy made him want to shut his eyes forever and drift into a coma—anything to not exist in his own body.

"Mornin' sunshine!" The chipper, masculine voice stabbed into his eardrums like ice picks. Emerson gave a strangled cry—his mind so incredibly scrambled from the pain and exhaustion that he couldn't process that the voice belonged to a stranger or that he was no longer in the police station. Emerson winced as a sudden and searing ache assaulted his head below the ears.

Radiant auburn hair!

He grimaced as the vivid image suddenly flashed through his mind's eye.

Piercing, brilliant chips of glowing red staring into his soul—a blood-curdling feral scream!

Emerson violently flinched, his body uncontrollably, sporadically spasming as he curled deeper into the fetal position—the disjointed memories playing through his mind like a sadistic slideshow.

Razor-sharp nails carving into his skin; scalding hot blood flowing down his chest!

A shudder ran down his abdomen as he swore he could feel those phantom nails digging into him. He gingerly rested the side of his forehead on the cold ground at an angle as the pain grew worse, gradually radiating up to the back of his head.

Heart-stopping, pulse-pounding horror...

His eyes squeezed shut; his brows furrowed as he shakily exhaled.

Androgynous, fearful screams of agony; the wet crunching of bone...

Emerson's right hand clenched into a fist, his fingers digging into the cold dirt. He was in so much pain he started shivering. What was this, what was happening?

"Hmph, yeah, that figures," the same voice grumbled. Emerson sensed some movement.

"Here, take it—on the house," Emerson vaguely heard a squishy thump beside his chest.

"So," the old voice grunted, "you must have one hell of a story, tough guy." Emerson curled in on himself more. The world wouldn't stop spinning. A migraine pounded at his temples. His throat fiercely ached, and swallowing proved almost more painful than the deep aching in his muscles and joints. He couldn't think straight through the overwhelming wreck of his body—he heard the stranger's words but didn't process them.

"Hey, kid?" The man snapped his fingers, the crisp sound causing Emerson to wince. The man's voice drilled into his ears. He groaned into his hand when an excruciating ache pulsed behind his eyes. The crackling heat of the campfire was too warm, too loud, and too close. He heard dozens of small twigs snapping in the distance and the near-silent huffing, chuffing, and scraping of wildlife sniffing, munching, and treading through the snow. The wind flowed through the rustling trees—whispering.

"Listen, I already severed her connection. So go ahead and eat; you’re safe now."

'Please, be quiet... please...' Emerson silently begged, pressing his cheek to the dirt in aggravation. The pain hadn't abated in the slightest, but he'd grown somewhat accustomed to its intensity and could think beyond it to a minor extent. Couldn't this guy tell how much pain he was in? Actually, why wasn't he calling an ambulance?... But, wait, where even was he?

He slowly blinked against the harsh campfire glare, which only worsened his headache, but he persevered until he could keep his eyes slit enough to examine his surroundings.

An old man who appeared to be in his mid-sixties sat on a snow-dusted log on the other side of the campfire. He was the embodiment of a 'silver fox' with medium-length grayish-white hair in a stylish, charming, rugged yet refined comb-over. He wore a navy overcoat, suit, matching scarf, and black leather boots. A small glimmer on his left wrist hinted at the presence of either a bracelet or a watch, though Emerson couldn't tell from his angle.

'Who... is this? And where... the hell are we?' Emerson moved past the pain with a force of will he didn't know he possessed, genuinely taking notice of his surroundings.

They appeared to be in a small clearing, close to a dark, foreboding treeline—it was late at night. He... didn't remember how he'd gotten here.

A small stick popped and cracked inside the dancing flames. Emerson's brows furrowed as he squinted against the bright... actually, the campfire was rather dim, softly burning and low to the ground, giving off little to no heat. He could have sworn... it didn't matter. The small campfire was the least of his worries. Because here he was, as weak as a newborn, out in the woods with a stranger in the middle of the night and with no memory of how he'd gotten there.

His mind immediately went to the worst-case scenario because he was dead unless he was misreading the situation. So, so, so very dead.

'Damn,' he thought morosely, the bodily pain muting any emotional fear response he might've had to being drugged, kidnapped, and either murdered, violated, or soon to be sold into some human trafficking ring. His only wish was that he could remember how he'd gotten into this situation, but unfortunately, whatever this creepy, disturbingly handsome old bastard had given him was the good stuff. Unfortunately, he couldn't remember jack shit and found the idea of memory loss surprisingly more frightening than his bleak future.

The old man must have noticed the expression on Emerson's face because he offered a "reassuring" smile.

"Honestly, kid, I'm not going to hurt you. Went to the trouble of saving you from those petulant Anarchs, didn't I?" Emerson couldn't think of a response as the coarseness in his throat suddenly inspired another coughing fit, which further irritated it and caused him to cough even harder, his limbs shaking and chest shuddering with every choked shallow breath. Finally, the pain grew unbearable, obscuring his thoughts behind a vague slurry of impenetrable fog.

The old man’s carefree complexion darkened as he truly took notice of just how poor a shape the fledgling was in. "Caine's ballsack, kid—she did a number on you, huh?" He clicked his tongue. "When was the last time you had a drink? You look just about ready to keel over."

Emerson piteously moaned, squeezing his eyes shut and curling his elbows and knees close to his chest while tucking in his head. 'Let this be over... dear God, please, just kill me,' he begged. He couldn't handle it anymore. He didn't care anymore; he just wanted it all to stop. To end.

The gentle touch of a small hand against his back... the vague, phantom sensation of lips beside his ear...

"Keep going... handsome," a voice... sinful as sin itself. He squeezed his eyes shut tighter.

"Grant him... release..." a whisper... soft as silk. His right eye violently twitched.

"Kill them... kill them all..." maddeningly melodic, fading laughter... His hands shakily clenched into fists against his chest.

"Come find me..." an echoing command, thrumming deep within him. Thump.

Emerson's entire body jolted as though struck, quickly devolving into whole-body shivering. Blackened veins crept along his corded neck.

"Aw, hell," the old man sighed, "All right, all right, hold on." Emerson felt a pair of hands gently raise his limp upper body off the ground and carefully drag him across the snow to lean against something hard. The world was still dangerously spinning even though his eyes were squeezed shut, and just being moved caused shooting pain in his limbs and his muscles to ache. He felt like he was dying. And at this point, he hoped the old man would get upset with him and perhaps smack him around. Maybe the additional trauma would send him into a coma or outright kill him. He was done—he didn't care anymore. He heard the distinct sound of tearing plastic and the crunch of snow beneath boots.

The light from the campfire dimmed even further as the old man crouched in front of him. Emerson sensed movement in front of his face; he felt something smooth and cold push against his mouth.

"Slowly now, got it?" Emerson didn't respond, nor did he open his mouth. He even moved his face away from whatever the old man was offering. He wasn't about to let this asshole give him anything else. He heard the old man sigh again, this time with profound world-weariness.

"Look, I know what she did to you, and I can't imagine what that must’ve felt like. It's deplorable. It's a violation of everything we are and undermines everything we strive for," Emerson heard real anger bleeding into the old man's tone.

Emerson, however, was beyond perplexed. Yet, he simultaneously didn’t possess the mental capacity to sort through his kidnapper's rhetoric, let alone his own thought process. Instead, there was only the pain and that primal instinct to fight. To resist. The urge to withdraw into what you knew and understood instead of taking a chance on anything.

"But," the old man continued, his voice hardening to cold stone, "I'll be damned if I let you embrace your final death because of it. Life isn't easy; life is the acceptance of suffering. And we bear the burden of immortal life. You're going to give it all up because of one night?" Even through the thick fog of pain, Emerson had to hand it to the guy; he could spin being kidnapped and sold into a sex trafficking ring.

"I can see it in you, kid. That spark. That drive—it's not completely gone now, is it? So here's what's going to happen..." Emerson heard some movement in front of him again as the old man shifted in his crouched position, then he heard the distinct sound of sloshing.

'What is that?' He wanted to open his eyes, but now there was an aching, burning sensation behind them that wouldn't let him. He almost couldn't even feel them through the pain.

"You’ll feed and recover within minutes. I promise you that. All that needless pain? Gone," he snapped his fingers, "just like that."

Emerson was suddenly very tempted—hoping to die so the pain would stop compared to actually being offered a solution. But he also didn't know what the old man was trying to give him. He couldn't trust him. But this pain... what was happening to him? Was he going through withdrawal symptoms, or was he already dependent on whatever had knocked him out? Was he just being offered more drugs to barely cling to a life that was already effectively taken from him? That wasn't the life he wanted to live. But... something about the idea of accepting death was repulsive.

He felt like... he felt like he needed to do something... a sudden spike of pain burst through his head, causing him to shudder and groan—his back nearly sliding off whatever he was propped against. Then, finally, a pair of hands on his biceps stabilized him in his previous position.

"That settles it. You're going to feed, no excuses. And once you're better, we're going to talk. Just talk, all right?" the old man confirmed. "But so help me, Caine, if you turn your head away from me one more time, I will rip off your jaw, break your arms and legs, and pour this down whatever mangled piehole you got left as I watch you do your best impression of a crippled octopus. Understand?"

A cold shiver went down Emerson's spine as he visualized the needlessly complex brutality and realized that although it may have taken the old bastard a while to get it done, he was in a position to do so.

They were utterly alone in the middle of nowhere, and with his blurry vision, he couldn't tell if the old man had a toolbox of torture goodies with him. So this was, essentially, beyond fucked. He decided he'd rather get addicted than lose his jaw and choke on his blood or have his fingernails ripped out one by one until he complied.

Emerson straightened up as much as he could, the fabric of his shirt catching against what sounded like wood as some sharp bits dug into the small of his back. His muscles similarly protested with intense aches, while his joints experienced piercing pain like bone fragments dug into ligaments. But he somehow managed it, releasing a shuddering breath through half-gritted teeth as he powered through it as best he could.

'I'll accept this on my terms,' Emerson resolutely decided, deluding himself into having much more confidence than he felt. Maybe an opportunity to escape would present itself if he was patient enough. Then he could go to a rehab clinic, support groups, etc. He'd recover. He would.

"Good. Here we go." Emerson once more felt something smooth and cold push against his mouth. This time, he carefully parted his dry lips and waited with eyes shut. 'Just get it over—'

A somewhat-cold liquid gently flooded over his tongue, partly filling his mouth. The initial surprise immediately vanished as Emerson's mind suddenly went blank. His entire body seized.

He swallowed the small mouthful of liquid. It was the most delicious thing he'd ever tasted. The flavor, the intensity, the essence of what it was defied description. But the one thing his subconscious instinctively understood the moment that liquid slid down his parched throat was that he needed more. So much more. He pushed his mouth harder against the plastic, causing more of that liquid to gush out, some of it messily spilling past his lips and sliding down either side of his mouth to drip onto his lap.

"Easy does it, now," the old man chided, but Emerson didn't hear him; there was only the liquid, the simple movement of it flowing across his tongue, down his throat, pooling in his stomach. The warm radiance gradually spread through his core. After the first mouthful, his mouth and throat were no longer horrifically dry, and the numbness and neuropathy in his limbs devolved into a light-tingling sensation.

With the second mouthful, the piercing ache within his muscles and the sensation of glass shards stabbing his joints became a dull, muted pulse.

With the third mouthful, the warm blanket of fatigue and lethargy overwhelming his spirit lifted. He hadn’t even noticed a weight lifting off his shoulders as the mental toll of his condition abated.

With the fourth mouthful, the pounding headache at his temples turned to a mild throbbing.

With the fifth mouthful, his sickly pale skin gradually darkened to a healthy pale hue, and hundreds of blackened veins momentarily bulged against his skin before receding.

"That does it for now," the old man made to pull away the plastic container when Emerson growled low in his throat and started drinking even harder, even reaching up to grab the bag with both hands.

"Enough," the old man growled. The sound elicited something primal within Emerson, and his weakened Beast meekly shrunk away as a true alpha made its presence known—commanding deep respect and submission. Emerson's body went into autopilot. He dropped his hands back to his sides and dutifully unlatched his mouth from the plastic bag, inclining his head as though chastised. He didn't even realize he was doing it until it was over.

'What... was that?' Emerson was horrified. He had no control over himself. He just... he'd just done what felt... correct?

'What... the hell?'

"Mm. Good, feeling better?" Emerson slowly opened his eyes, blankly staring at the snowy ground between his thighs. He didn't notice the fresh drops of blood staining his ruined clothes. Instead, he was still processing the speed of his miraculous recovery and the fact that he listened to his kidnapper without a second thought. What was happening? And why... He slowly clenched his hands into fists. Did he suddenly feel so much better? So... good? This wasn't right—he felt like he was at death's door not even a minute ago. And now? He deeply inhaled the cool, night air, its soothing cold contrasting nicely with the warmth radiating through his body.

"Now then," came the old man's voice. Emerson briefly caught a blur of movement directly before him. He looked up. The old man was once more sitting on his log across the dwindling campfire, a half-empty blood bag resting in his lap.

"Let's talk."