Unknown

2:45 A.M.

Emerson tilted his head back and deeply inhaled the crisp winter wind, the soothing cold contrasting nicely with the heavy warmth in his stomach.

"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 held in his lap.

"Let's talk."

Emerson's breath hitched in his chest—his pupils dilating as his vision suddenly tunneled onto the blood bag across the old man's knee. The edges of his vision became obscure, washed out... unimportant. The world shrank in on itself, leaving only the distance between himself and that bright... ruby-red... The small, crackling campfire flames grew more luminous, its colors menacingly saturated compared to the dull, monotone surroundings. The flames' movements transitioned from a chaotic dance to gentle lapping at the stones encircling it. The previously dormant forest suddenly came to life with hundreds of distant sounds of wildlife tromping through the snow and underbrush, owls hooting; the wind eerily whispering through the densely packed trees. The steady snowfall slowed until the structures of individual snowflakes could be made out with exacting detail—their unique figures glittering like crystals as they neared the campfire. That scent... that delicious scent barely lingered in the air around him—but it was enough. It was enough...

A strange itching sensation tingled at his fingertips...

An odd ache pulsed through his gums...

His throat tightened...

And yet, beneath the growing haze of unceasing hunger, a small voice of rationality profusely pleaded, shaking and rattling its prison bars.

'Not again... Please, not again!' It was enough. Barely...

"Easy now, kid. Easy," the old man's voice echoed in Emerson's ears as though from a great distance.

"That's my fault for tempting you like that," he said, picking up the blood bag and twisting around to rest it behind the log he was sitting on.

"There we go," he turned back, brushing some snow off the back of his hand and fiddling with the collar of his stylish winter overcoat, "—told you it was the good stuff, didn't I?" A sly smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. The moment the blood bag was out of sight, Emerson jolted against his log as though struck—the tunnel vision popping like an over-inflated water balloon as his vision returned to some semblance of normalcy; time resumed; the sounds of the forest receded to a manageable degree; and most of the sudden discomfort tingling at the periphery of his senses was alleviated. There was still an odd itching in his upper gums, though. But that was also the moment reality came crashing down like a ton of bricks—he couldn't control himself. Whatever this demented, sadistic old bastard had drugged him with was too strong, too addictive. He couldn’t even control his body's responses when the stuff was within his eyesight. What a terrible fucking thing... Jesus Christ... this was his life now! A slave to chemicals.

'This can't be happening already... so fast? How many times has he given me that stuff, and I can't remember?' He felt a warmth behind his eyes as tears threatened to spill at the unfairness of it all. It was a horrifying thought. Maybe this wasn't the first time he was even talking with the old man, and he’d woke up feeling like he wanted to die because he was already suffering severe withdrawal symptoms. And his kidnapper just happened to have a magical liquid in a... blood bag. And that's when the actual container he'd drunk from came to mind with startling clarity. It was familiar, too familiar. He'd seen it hundreds, perhaps even thousands, of times over the years. At the hospital...

Radiant auburn hair!

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

‘What the fuck?!’ Emerson grimaced, flinching as a tremor ran through him while the vivid images flashed through his mind's eye. Those images, those sounds... he felt them. Were they memories? No, they couldn't be... He... What was happening? Were the mystery narcotics already causing hallucinations to this degree? It didn't seem possible, but he saw and felt those things in his head. That meant something. He didn't know or understand their significance... and honestly, he didn't care to puzzle through them at the moment.

'One thing at a time... take it one thought at a time. Compartmentalize. Don't just think. Think!' Emerson scolded himself. Maybe there was still a way out of this? He was feeling remarkably better and didn't get the feeling in his muscles and joints that trying to stand would be impossibly difficult and numbingly painful. He could... He felt he could do something now! Maybe strike while he could still think properly? So what if he'd drunk something laced with opium, and he didn't have much longer before becoming scatterbrained and weak? This may be his only chance to break the cycle of whatever this creepy asshole was planning. He heard his kidnapper shifting in his seat.

"I'll give you another minute, maybe," the old man spoke, and Emerson glanced up with squinted eyes, noticing the concerned look on the old man's face as he carefully examined Emerson.

'Sick old fuck. Just you wait, you goddamned demented motherfucker.' Emerson lowered his gaze to the base of the small campfire, absently watching thin trails of melting snow pooling around the heated rock as the gears in his head furiously turned. He needed to think. Think, damnit!

'It couldn't have been blood,' Emerson finally assembled and reasoned out his first thoughts. 'I did not drink blood,' it didn't make sense. Granted, the blood bag his kidnapper had hidden away certainly looked like blood was inside, but... No, he was sure now. The images floated with near-perfect clarity in his mind's eye, superimposed over his memory of what he'd seen in the phlebotomist's lab. They were practically identical.

'I... drank blood?' A cold sensation spread through the pit of his stomach, gradually morphing into a burning revulsion.

'I couldn't have...' he reflexively swallowed the bile rising in his throat, his brows furrowing. Then, overwhelming relief washed over him as he connected the fleeting thought with his senses. He couldn't taste that coppery tang mixed with saliva you would usually taste when tilting your head back with a bloody nose. That was something—everything! Blood had a distinct taste, and the fact that there was no leftover taste on his tongue after drinking over half of what looked like a whole bag? It couldn't have been blood. It hadn't been blood, he reasoned. It made sense. That was something—he wasn't going insane! Palpable relief spread through him like wildfire as he desperately clung to anything that would rationally explain away what he'd seen.

'It looks like a duck... but it doesn't quack like one,' the silly thought also helped alleviate a modicum of the tremendous stress and anxiety eating away at what he assumed was his fragile and probably drugged mind.

'It's okay, Em. Breathe. Breathe, you idiot,' he barely inhaled and shakily exhaled the crisp air, its presence acting as a soothing balm to the perpetually uncomfortable warmth lining his throat.

'All right. It looked like a blood bag—fuck it, it was a blood bag,' he'd initially wanted to believe it’d been a simple saline solution bag generally used for I.V. drips. But his eyes didn't lie—he hoped. A saline solution bag was clear, with one side covered in small, black font describing the content's dosage, administration, and composition. That wasn't what he'd seen. It was a blood bag. But it couldn't have been blood despite its color and visual consistency because he couldn't taste any residual blood in his mouth. And, he had suddenly felt too good, too fast, for it to have been any blood medium. Even if it had been laced with a morphine solution or dissolved pain medications, it couldn't have absorbed or acted nearly half as fast. Actually... now that his mind was free of that horrendous, debilitating pain... it didn't make any sense, damnit! Even if that bag had been pure liquid cocaine or something, that wouldn't explain the miraculous speed of his recovery. Or his clarity of thought.

'So that leaves... what exactly?' he didn't know. He didn't know, which frightened him because he lost control when he saw that bag. Yet now, he wasn't displaying a desire for it... Emerson's brows furrowed deeply as he focused inward... genuinely concentrating on the image of the blood bag and its mysterious contents. Dread formed in the pit of his stomach once more. 'Oh no… no, no, oh fuck...' It was there. He felt it. A lingering, dormant sensation of intense hunger briefly flared as he poked and prodded at it with his thoughts.

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'But I'm... fine?' this was the strangest fucking thing. What was happening to him? He could seemingly control himself while thinking about the blood bag, but seeing the thing made him lose control. Why? Was it some sick Pavlovian response?

'Did this sick fuck... Pavlov me?!' Emerson wanted to scream. He wanted to get to his feet and grab the old bastard by the throat and squeeze, and squeeze until he could feel the bones breaking beneath—Emerson suddenly came back to himself as the horrific fantasy evaporated.

'What... the fuck, was that?' Emerson asked himself with growing horror spreading through his chest and lodging itself in his throat. He'd wanted to kill the man just like that. He had just contemplated cold-blooded murder and... liked it? That wasn't him. So where in the hell had that come from? Speaking of which... He was seemingly displaying minor symptoms of addiction and physiological withdrawals, but mentally he was... okay? He felt fine. That fantasy had undoubtedly not been fine, but given his current circumstances, the amount of stress, and probably the drugs he was on, he would give himself some leeway with the sociopathic thoughts. Whatever shrink he hired after escaping would probably have something to say about his rapid acceptance of the situation, but screw it. He doubted the imaginary shrink had ever been kidnapped, drugged, and taken out into the Canadian wilderness for a heart-to-heart chat with the same kidnapper, who was also talking like they had a history. Emerson decided it was okay to be having slightly violent thoughts.

'If anyone, ever, in the history of anything, had a reason to be fucking upset, it would be me. This is fine. Killing bad people... killing bad people is...' Emerson couldn't finish the thought—didn't want to finish the thought. He pushed it away. Not long ago, he would've answered that question without hesitation. Instead, he inadvertently looked down at his pale hands resting on his thighs. The same hands he imagined around his kidnapper's throat. He flipped them around and tightened them into fists, his knuckles satisfyingly popping. He felt... good. No more pain. No more headaches, either. He opened and closed his hands—his eyes shone with determined calculation. He could do it. He felt like his kidnapper had made a mistake this time. If the man turned his back, Emerson would make his move and bolt into the surrounding woodland. The darkness and snow should protect him from any gun his kidnapper might have brought with him. He just needed to be fast. As fast as possible, and to not look back.

"See?" Emerson flinched as he was torn from his thoughts of escape, and his rising exuberance was quashed by the reality of the situation he was still in. He nevertheless looked up from his hands. The old man pleasantly smiled like a grandfather watching a young nephew or niece opening a present. He motioned in Emerson's direction with a hand.

"Good as new, huh? You won't find its like again—" he placed his palms onto the log at his sides, then cocked his head in thought, "—at least not easily, mind you." Emerson, for his part, was trying his best not to let himself be lulled into a false sense of security. Nevertheless, there was something oddly compelling about his kidnapper's voice—a tone, an undertone, inflection, emotion?

"Got it from an Olympic gold medalist who owed me a favor, if you can believe it," the old man spoke wistfully to the crackling flames—a distance to his gaze as he detached from the conversation and traipsed down memory lane. It was there. Emerson was sure now but couldn’t focus on why he felt he should believe the old man's words. But he felt a noticeable change in his disposition on how he subconsciously perceived the other party.

"But that's neither here nor there," the old man leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees and clasping his hands together in front of himself.

"We're here to talk about you," his eyes bore through Emerson as though he were trying to understand a puzzle. "So... tell me, kid, what exactly happened between you and Lady Vantu?"

Emerson's brow furrowed as he warily watched his kidnapper's expression to see if he was being played with. Because he didn't have a fucking clue about who or what the old bastard was talking about. He was even debating whether or not it was worth speaking, but he quickly concluded that if he were to have an opportunity to escape into the woods, he needed to create that opportunity. And what better way than to follow along in this kidnapper's sick fantasy play-acting until a moment presented itself? The thought of actually being able to escape was like a lighthouse blazing in the distance. So he needed to play his cards right—reverse the conversation on this schizophrenic, or at the very least, put on an act of sincerity. However, the man’s following words made his stomach fall and his blood freeze.

"That's not very nice at all, kid—thinking of running away after I saved you from a long, cruel life of servitude to a madwoman."

Emerson did his best to remain calm and maintain an indifferent expression as cold fear gripped his heart, his pulse pounding in his ears—

...

..

.

'?' He frowned. He... thought he'd just felt his pulse? Emerson didn't feel his heart pounding against his chest or the roar of adrenaline in his ears. He… just felt fear, anxiety, and vulnerability, but… he didn’t feel it in his body. It was as though the emotions only existed in his mind. Nothing he usually felt coming from his chest, hair, or skin. He must have even imagined the goosebumps from earlier. The strangeness of his kidnapper's uncanny ability to read body language was no longer important. He placed his right hand on his chest over his heart. Nothing.

'!' Emerson moved that palm around over his chest, pushing harder with every passing second as he continued to feel nothing. There was no tell-tale thump... anything. He couldn't feel his heartbeat. He frantically pulled at the collar of his shirt with his left hand enough for his right hand to fit inside—nothing. The palm of his hand patted down the cold, hard skin everywhere around his heart, but nothing. The beginnings of a panic attack started constricting his throat. Darkness encroached at his peripherals.

"Kid?"

Emerson pressed even harder on his skin. It was as cold as a stone and barely yielded. He’d felt this kind of skin before. His breathing grew ragged; he didn’t notice there wasn’t any air getting into his body.

‘No…’ he yanked his right hand out from inside his shirt and vigorously pressed two fingers to a wrist, feeling for a radial pulse. Nothing.

‘No…’ he pressed harder. Still nothing. He repeated it with his other wrist to the same result. His pupils were constricted to pinpricks, and the world was beginning to spin around him. He held up both hands to his face. They were pale. Too pale. Then he noticed a plain silver ring around the ring finger of his right hand. 'That isn't mine,' he grabbed the ring.

"I wouldn't do that—"

Emerson pulled the ring off like it was a poisonous snake and hurled it off into the darkness and snow. Then he plunged his hand into another pile of snow beside the log. Nothing. It was like the snow wasn't even there. His mind told him he should be experiencing a piercing chill, but he felt nothing significant.

"Now you've gone and done it, kid," the old man said, shaking his head with a frown pulling at his mouth. Emerson didn't respond. His horrified thoughts were growing in volume to the point where they were all he could hear. He pulled his hand out of the snow and held it up.

'Please...' His right hand was covered in a thin layer of snow and chunks of tightly packed ice.

'Please...' The snow stayed unchanged on his hand, sparkling in the dim campfire light as he critically examined it from different angles.

Two seconds... five... ten! It didn't melt. It didn't change. It was like his hand wasn't there.

'No. No. Nononononono...' The darkness at the edges of his vision grew, his eyesight narrowing onto his right hand as everything spun harder. His chest started rising and falling with the pronounced movements of panicked hyperventilation. He looked at his kidnapper over his shaking hands, a shadow of rage flashing in his eyes.

"What did you do to me?" Emerson whispered, his recently unused voice coming out hoarse.

"Hm?" The old man cocked an eyebrow.

"What... did you do?" Though still shaky, Emerson's words came out stronger, as though he were learning to speak again.

"I'd watch your—"

"What!" Emerson suddenly lunged across the campfire from his seated position, his right fist cocked back as he threw a wild punch in his kidnapper's direction. His fist heavily 'whooshed' through nothing but air.

"Did!" He surged to his full height and kicked out, his right leg blurring forward and striking the log the old man had been sitting on. The heavy log splintered at the point of impact, that portion of its bulk bursting with a small hail of snow and wooden fragments before flying off the ground and bouncing off a tree trunk. A powdery curtain of snow rained down from the tree's branches as it violently shook in place.

"You!" He whirled around and wildly flailed his fists in large arcs; the accumulated snow on his clothing sluiced off his figure as he rampaged in a tight circle.

"DO!?" Emerson's furious roar to the night sky transformed into a choked grunt as something dark flashed past him. Its ephemeral presence only noticeable due to the contrasting light source of the small campfire. Emerson violently doubled over and spat out a mouthful of dark blood before crashing to his knees and falling forward onto his hands. He panted on all fours, his black hair hanging around his face, and an animalistic growl escaping his throat as his body twitched and jerked—the sickening sound of shifting bones emanating from his solar plexus. His vision was blurry and red now, all-consuming wrath screaming in his ears, ordering him to kill. Kill. KILL. KILL THEM ALL!

Emerson pushed off the ground with both hands and sat back onto his heels, throwing his head back and screaming with unadulterated rage and agony as a large, blackened vein bulged against his neck and his gray eyes flooded with blood. Hundreds of images flashed through his mind. He couldn't staunch the tide. He felt like his head was about to explode.

The sound echoed across the snowy forest valley and dark silhouettes of the craggy mountaintops of the deep wilderness around them. The roar was abruptly cut off as Emerson's head jerked to the side, his bloodshot eyes staring off into the distance—frozen in a stasis of pure rage and mindless hollowness. Then, they rolled into the back of his head, and he collapsed to the snow. Motionless.

The old man stood directly behind the collapsed form of the childe he'd rescued. A deep frown creased his wizened features as he wordlessly stared down at the body with a pinched expression. He then looked down at the plain silver ring innocently sitting in the palm of his right hand. Finally, he looked between the ring and the boy, indecision across his face.

'Was I too late?' he silently wondered. He then recalled what he'd seen in the child's fragmented memories and thoughts. Finally, his hand closed into a fist around the ring. He would try again. But only once more. He had better things to do. More important business to attend to. The child's situation was pitiable, but there was only so much one could do for a drowning man lest they, too, be dragged beneath the waves for their empathy.

And his patience was not nearly as vast as his curiosity.