Wild Night
With a cry of "No!" - or what you hope is a cry, you can barely hear yourself over the roar of blood in your ears - you try to wrench yourself away. You're weak, but the surprise of resistance works to your advantage, and you jump backwards off of Jake with a clumsy push and stumbling walk. Your eyes open. You are utterly thrown by what you see.
Spots of blood dot the sand where you lay and jumped away, a sinking spoor of it where you once laid. You feel a warmness over your neck and chest, wet and heavy - more blood, you assume. But Jake himself is the most startling thing of all. He has not, physically, changed. But the light you flopped under illuminates Jake directly - his skin, which before seemed pale, now seems cadaverous, contrasted with the wet, dark stain over his shirt, and the bright cherry-red blood over his neck, forearms and face.
His mouth is open, illuminated in red. His eyes are wide and golden, reflective. Two large, terrible fangs, colored with your own blood, slip from his lips.
He stirs. You swoon. He's standing, rushing, so close to you, so sudden. You're still weakened, and bleeding, and growing weaker every second. You do the only thing you can: you screech.
It's cut off by a hand pressed over your mouth and a smack to the back of the head. It is curiously effective, and you black out immediately. The last thing you remember is a sense of movement.
Spots of blood dot the sand where you lay and jumped away, a sinking spoor of it where you once laid. You feel a warmness over your neck and chest, wet and heavy - more blood, you assume. But Jake himself is the most startling thing of all. He has not, physically, changed. But the light you flopped under illuminates Jake directly - his skin, which before seemed pale, now seems cadaverous, contrasted with the wet, dark stain over his shirt, and the bright cherry-red blood over his neck, forearms and face.
His mouth is open, illuminated in red. His eyes are wide and golden, reflective. Two large, terrible fangs, colored with your own blood, slip from his lips.
He stirs. You swoon. He's standing, rushing, so close to you, so sudden. You're still weakened, and bleeding, and growing weaker every second. You do the only thing you can: you screech.
It's cut off by a hand pressed over your mouth and a smack to the back of the head. It is curiously effective, and you black out immediately. The last thing you remember is a sense of movement.