♪ What's to come ♪ (CLOSED)

[Skylar]

Electrocuted? That word sets off a few alarm bells in my brain and I start to wonder if that's right. I remember getting up on stage. I introduced myself and then the world went black. Wait. No. I missed a step. My brain's so fuzzy and yet each memory is crystal clear. I remember plugging the guitar in and the pain I felt. It's like it's all happening again and my eyes drop to the floor as I fight to stay conscious.
The guy's yapping away in the background; explaining himself. I I weren't so preoccupied I might have realised from the way he was speaking that he's not only serious but that he seemed to be having a hard time with the situation himself. I look up to see him brandishing his wrist at me and even though all my instincts still tell me to pull away, I can't help but be drawn in by what I see there. He's healing. His skin is visibly trying to heal itself, as I watch.
I force myself to look away and actually realise for the first time that I'm in some dingy attic. My eyes scans the place where instruments go to die and spiders live in paradise. This guy needs a cleaner. Stat. This place is ******* filthy. How can he store instruments here. No wonder I ******* died; rats probably chewed the guitar he gave me. Or gnomes. I'm pretty sure gnomes are real. That episode of South Park pretty much solidified that idea in my head. Of course not all gnomes liked underpants. Mine seemed to like plectrums. It wasn't an accident that I tended to pluck the strings these days. I had to learn that skill, as time was, no matter how many plectrums I bought, I could never find one when I needed them. Had to be gnomes. Fairies are good right? And what would fairies want with plectrums anyway?
Okay I've lost it. It's official. He's babbling on about vampires and I'm thinking about gnomes. Did I really believe in gnomes or was that something I invented to explain my inability to be able to look after a little piece of plastic for any more than five minutes at a time. Chances are, I put the things in my mouth while I fiddled with the strings and damn well swallowed them. That was the more logical explanation. I've always had a thing about swallowing small objects I can fit in my mouth. Mum had me tested once to see if I had that disorder. Pica. I can't help but laugh as I recall the name as it sounds like that little black and yellow dude from Pokemon; Pikachu. And now my mind has really come full circle, as that little critter gave electric shocks too.
An electric shock. That's what happened. I didn't die. The guy's lying to me. This is some sort of windup. I'm being punked. Vampires. Yeah right. Why do all guys assume us girls love vampires. I blame those damn movies. Vampires that look like fairies, all sparkly and ****. Man my brain really is fucked. I'm back to fairies again.
"Give me a break. Do you know how that sounds? I just caught you feeding me your blood. What do you have? Hep C? AIDS? Did Dillon put you up to this?"
My mind is back on track and seems to be firing on all cylinders, as everything is suddenly so much clearer to me. I'm clinging to this idea of being poisoned, as it's the only one that makes sense. My subconscious mind doesn't want to realise that what he's saying might be true. I just watched the man's skin start to heal. I can hear a conversation in the alleyway as if I were standing with them. I can focus on an object, like his hand, and actually see what twenty-twenty vision couldn't possibly see.
My anger flares up again. I haven't felt this charged in, well, I don't think I've ever felt this angry.
"You know what. Time’s up Elliot." His name is dripping with disdain as I say it. "You can explain all this to the cops. I'm done with whatever all of this," I wave my hand about me, "whatever this is."
I took note of the exit a moment ago and push myself up from my knees, onto my toes and stand myself up. I'm not waiting around here any longer. The guy is clearly unstable and needs help. If I get the cops, he'll likely be forced to take a psyche eval and then he might get the help he so clearly needs.

[Lancaster]

Of course the girl doesn’t get very far.

Elliot lurched to his feet to bar the door. Of course, this didn’t happen ordinarily, like a human might; it didn’t take him a couple of slow seconds. In all his haste, instinct kicked in. Of course he didn’t want to scare Skylar, but he may have inadvertently done so. He moved with a speed that no human could be capable of; his long-limbed body slammed against the wood of the door as he came to unpractised halt. Only now were his shoulders slumped; was his head bowed. Trying his best to appear unthreatening. The overwhelming desire to see Skylar calm had Elliot subconsciously pushing power out from his core, attempting to pacify his target. His tongue buzzed, infused with all the charismatic power that he could muster.

“Please just listen to me, Skylar,” he said. He said her name. Would keep repeating her name. Apparently it was supposed to be a good tactic, in business. So why shouldn’t it be a good tactic when dealing with someone who may or may not break down into some kind of panic attack.

“I’m sorry. I’m going to say that first – and it won’t be the only time. I am so, so sorry,” he said, shaking his head. There was no attempt to tame his hair as it fell again over his eyes. There was no point.

“I don’t know who Dillon is. This isn’t a joke,” he said, his voice heavy and yet calm, rife with guilt and shame. “I can’t let you leave, not until you know everything. You’re not my prisoner, but you won’t be safe out there if you don’t listen. I fed you my blood. You are not human anymore. You are a vampire. You cannot go out in the sun, otherwise you will burn. You have to drink blood to sustain yourself. There are those who will hunt you just for what you are – there are those who will hunt you if you give away what we are to humans. You have to let me explain,” Elliot said. His hands were held out in a supplicating way – to hold her back from the only exit, and to signify his own harmless surrender. He bit his tongue to keep from ranting. To wait – to let what he had already said sink in, before he could continue.

[Skylar]

"What the... How did... Are you... Wow."
I want to leave but the guy's blocking my retreat. I'm not sure how he did that. I must have hit my head hard when I fell. 3 shots aren’t enough to make my eyes play tricks on me like this. He must be an Olympian or something. He's got that tall, lanky runner thing about him. That has to be it.
I'm distracted when starts talking, apologising or whatever. I can't help but notice an almost silky note in the way he speaks. And why didn't I see how good-looking this guy was earlier? I mean yeah I wanted to check out his butt, still do, but damn. He's got that scruffy, I don't care what you think of my appearance thing going on. That's kind of sexy.
I try and focus on the words he's saying but his lips are distracting me. I need to stop looking at him, he's ******* crazy and I don't do crazy. Do I? Oh who am I kidding. I'm a weirdo magnet and this Elliot guy is about as weird as they come.
He's talking about vampires again, only now I find myself actually listening. I'm glad I looked away. I can concentrate better then. Just have to get past him and down the stairs without looking at him. This is gonna be tough. I take a few steps towards him while he's listing the do's and don'ts at me. I've never been very good with rules. It's not like I set out to break them or anything. I just seem to end up with one foot over the line, wondering how the hell I got there. The usual answer's drink. Not that I have a problem with alcohol or anything. I just like to have a good time.
I change my tactic when he says I have to let him explain, though a part of me wants to actually hear him out at this point. I've now covered my ears with my hands and I'm blindly walking in the direction of the stairs, eyes squeezed shut. I occasionally put my hand out to check I'm not about to walk into something, or rather someone. I know what I'm doing is childish, especially since I'm La'ing aloud in an effort to drown out what he might say next. My hand hits his solid frame and I stop. I'm not sure what I expected. I should have known he wouldn't move out of my way. My mind is scrambling to come up with a plan B, for some reason every time I think to knee him in the nads and run, my body veto’s the suggestion. It's about the eighth time this idea runs through my head that I realise I'm practically stroking his chest. My hand seems to have an agenda all of its own. I should have been paying more attention.
"Look. I'm sure you're a nice guy and all. And toned and whatever," my hand has moved to his bicep, much to my surprise. "You're certainly fast. I just. I really need to go now. Okay? And I'm sure that if I tell someone downstairs that you think you're a vampire, that they'll find your medication."
I don't even believe my own words as I'm saying them. He has to be crazy, because if I actually believe him. If I allow him to persuade me that I'm a vampire. Then I'm the crazy one.
He smells good at this distance and I start trying to place the aftershave he's wearing. I've still got my eyes closed, so I tell myself that this is just a matter of my other senses kicking in, only I know that's not true. My senses seem heightened. I'm more aware of everything. As I pick through my senses, my desire to get downstairs has me hearing things. I can hear the heartbeats of so many people and I swear that if I were to focus a little harder, I might even be able to count them. Then I'm suddenly back in the silent attic. Silent. No heartbeats. None. I can't hear my own heartbeat. I realise something is very wrong and stumble back from the human barricade. I start clawing at my t-shirt, as if to look into my own chest cavity. It makes no sense. I make no sense. How is this even...? Then it hits me like a tidal wave and I'm sucked up into the current, unable to break free as darkness take me. I'm a vampire.

[Lancaster]

Elliot was somewhat aware of what was happening; he wasn’t completely oblivious to the power he was capable of wielding, it had just been a very long time since he’d had to use it. He had forgotten how it made people act. He’d wanted only to calm Skylar down, to put a blanket over the fire in her head and smother the panic that was threatening to rise, but he’d gone too far. When her hand ended up stroking his chest, he cleared his throat. Of course he could have stopped her, but she wasn’t leaving. She was staying right there, and if she had to stroke his chest to do so then so be it. Even if he did find himself glancing over his shoulder in case Pi should come waltzing in—there was nothing going on. Nothing. It wasn’t Skylar’s fault, it was his. All his fault.

The smile that graced Elliot’s lips was not mirthful. It was a sad smile, filled with all the regret that always lived there, lingering at the edges of his life, always. How he wished, sometimes, that all of this was just a matter of missing medication. How he wished that the waves of electricity hadn’t killed Skylar; that she had just passed out and he could let her go, fine and dandy, to continue living her life as she had been before she’d entered his establishment.

But none of that was true. There was no medication that could fix what they were, and there was no way to turn back time. For the moment, he was happy enough that for all Skylar’s want to leave, she didn’t go anywhere. She didn’t try to wrangle herself away from him, or past him. She didn’t start screaming the roof off, which was the best that Elliot could hope for.

Until Skylar stumbled back and started clawing at her chest. Elliot lurched forward, wanting to clasp her hands between his so that she would do any damage. So that she wouldn’t draw blood. He knew exactly what was happening. He could feel the panic rolling from her in waves. She realised she had no heartbeat. He remembered when he himself had discovered that he had no heartbeat. Actually, he remembered his reaction to his own turning being the exact same as Skylar’s. He hadn’t believed Pi. He’d laughed at her. He’d pandered to her insanity only so that he might be able to find a way out. He had assumed she’d slipped something into his drink, which accounted for the migraine that he’d had.

And then he’d realised he had no heartbeat. Was that how it went?

He couldn’t remember, exactly, and nor did he have the time to focus on his memories to recall. Before he could even grasp at Skylar’s hands, she was falling. He caught her. For the second time that night he had this blonde stranger cradled against his chest; a new being for whom he had duty toward. Who now lived under the umbrella of his care.

For a few seconds he could only stand, his thoughts a panic in his head, a deluge of guilt and regret and anger. His head bowed, almost as if he were praying. But of course he wasn’t. He didn’t believe in God. The concept of God made him absolutely furious. At least, his thoughts finally gathered enough to make him realise he could not stay there. He had to take Skylar somewhere cleaner. Somewhere quiet. The first place that came to mind was the Mausoleum Chamber.

So he crouched down with the body in his arms. He plucked the tome from his pocket. Down on one knee, he pushed the paper of the tome into Skylar’s inert hand. Holding onto the other end of it, he read the inscription out loud.

****

Within ten minutes, less even, he had Skylar laid out on the freshly made bed in the Mausoleum chamber. The only sound down here was that of heavy silence. The front door was triple bolted, and was made of the same stone that the rest of the catacombs were made out of. It blocked out the noise of the guns and the shouting, and of the shambling monsters that lived outside. He’d have to warn Skylar before she tried to run away again.

He left only the lamps on, rather than the overhead lights, just in case Skylar was sensitive to the light. He made sure the fridge was stocked with blood bags. He made a phone call to Lancaster’s, to tell the second-in-charge to take care of the open mic night – they knew the ropes, they knew what to do. When they asked whether everything was okay, Elliot hung up to avoid having to tell the truth.

And then he waited. He settled on the couch, sprawled over the length of it; he’d lost blood, feeding it to Skylar. He needed more, but had depleted his ‘magical’ energy already. He needed Pi. Later. He’d call Pi later. His arms were up, covering his eyes. For all intents and purposes, he looked as if he were asleep. But really, he was just waiting for any kind of noise from the other room.

[Skylar]

My eyes flutter open and I sigh with the realisation that this was all just some weird dream. The bubble burst moments later when once more I realise my body is deathly silent and that this is not my bed. I don't even have a bed. I sit bolt upright and start to wonder where the **** i am. Again. I can't blame the drink for this. Surely I hadn't gone out on the pull after all that had happened.
My common sense arrives a little late to the party and facepalm. Elliot. I get this sickly feeling that this guy is going to be trouble for me. Not only was I now some freak of nature. I was his freak of nature. Only I'm not as disturbed by this realisation as I should be and am mortified to feel a shiver of excitement run through my body at that thought.
That's it. I need to be spayed or something. My hormones are out of whack and I know it. It was like he cast a spell over me or something. Why was I thinking about him in this way. I hadn't thought much of him before I died. Well. I'd wondered about his ***, but that was normal Skylarish behaviour. This was just creepy. I start to worry that this might be my life. That I might be in some sort of conflicted attraction with this guy for all eternity. Man that would suck.
I climb off the bed and jump up and down, shaking my head, hands and the rest of me as I do. The strange little
"Shake it out," I tell myself.
This is something I usually do before a large gig to get rid of any unwanted nerves; to focus my energy and excitement into something more productive. Though what I'm trying to focus it into this time I have no idea. Myself maybe? I need to get my head around all of this.
I walk out of the dimly lit room and into the front room. My eyes scan the place but it's his feet at the end of the sofa that catch my attention. I'm not sure if I'm relieved or worried at this point. It might have been better to wake alone and not have to face him while I felt like this. But there were no guarantee in this moment that those feelings were ever going to go away. I swallow rather unnecessarily and walk towards the sofa. I lean over it, resting my elbows along the top of it and peer down at my kidnapper.
"You know there are other less elaborate ways that aren't quite as finite to get a girl into bed right? And on that note. You're doing something wrong if she then wakes up alone to find you on the couch. I'd say I'm crushed but I'm more confused than anything right now."
I gaze down at him and find myself staring at his lips for the second time this night. It would be so easy to just lean over and kiss him. Too easy perhaps. I shuffle my feet where I stand and hope to god I keep my myself in check. My body seems to have an agenda that's all its own. Doesn't it know I'm only teasing him? That I'm trying to make this very awkward, very worrying situation a little easier to bear?
"So? You going to explain just what the **** happened to me or do I have to start making things up in my mind again?"
I could kick myself for my earlier stupidity, Dillon wasn't smart enough to pull off a prank like this. he wasn't cruel enough either to try and stick me with some kind of STD. Ultimately that would be just as bad for him as it was for me, seeing as I was his go too gal when he couldn't find anyone else to have him. I was under no delusions of the state of affairs between us. It was probably half the reason he didn't take me seriously as a musician.

[Lancaster]

The apartment was completely silent. The heavy kind of silence that can only come from being ensconced underground or risen high above it. It was only after some time living here – or at the crypt – that Elliot realised just how odd it was. There were no planes or cars. There wasn’t the sound of laughter, or of neighbours. There were no possums romping around on the roof, or birds in the trees outside. He missed the sound of the birds in the trees at twilight. Wherever he’d been in the world, that had been one constant. The birds and their singing; their communication. Whatever it was that they were doing.

Regardless, the sound of those three little words uttered by Skylar; the sound of her feet hitting the ground and of her body sliding across the bed linen, was stark against the steady thrum of nothingness. When she leaned over the couch, Elliot shifted his arm so that he could look up at her. The words washed over him, brow furrowing, discomfort growing. What had he done to her? Or had he done anything? Was this just who she was? That’s what it had come down to. He knew nothing about her, and this was go time. This was the part where the sharing happened.

Elliot’s long legs swung from the couch so that he could sit up straight. He hadn’t been lazily laying there doing nothing. The words were repeating themselves, rearranging themselves in his mind, over and over. Everything that he had to tell her, and how he would word it. Maybe she would believe him now. At least she wasn’t running around trying to make an escape. At least she wasn’t calling him a creep. At least she hadn’t accused him of kidnapping – not out loud. She seemed calmer now, which worked well in Elliot’s favour.

“You should sit down. And I’ll tell you everything that I can,” he said. And, though he had directed Skylar to sit down, he himself stood up. By now, she’d have to be feeling the thirst. She’d have to be feeling… something, out of the ordinary, right? Unlike herself.

“I already told you,” he said as he went to the fridge. There was absolutely no humour in his tone whatsoever. This was not something to joke about, though he wished he could for Skylar’s sake. He wished he could make this better for. He couldn’t pretend that he was noble, or that he had saved her life – he was the one who had given her the dodgy guitar. It was all his fault.

“You are a vampire now. You have no heartbeat. You will crave blood. There’s a slim chance that you might be able to eat ordinary food still, but that will depend on your path. Of which there are a few,” he started, slowly. He had started with the blood, because that was what he was doing. Out of fridge he retrieved a blood bag, freshly bought. He cut away a corner of it after pulling a large mug from the cupboard, and began pouring the contents inside. The thick liquid was sluggish.

“Crosses and garlic don’t do **** but you can’t go out in the sun anymore. You do need invitations to get inside other people’s places,” he said, addressing the main things that she might ask before she had the chance to ask them. The things that popular culture might dictate. He put the mug in the microwave to nuke it for a minute or so. He turned his attention back to Skylar.

“Any questions so far?”

[Skylar]

I roll my eyes when my witty words get absolutely nothing back from the guy. The atmosphere in this place is oddly formal and abnormally quiet, but I push those thoughts aside as he suggests I take a seat. I get the strangest feeling that I'm about to be lectured but I do as he asks. What's really odd about the situation I've awoken into, is the fact that I'm not scared of him now, not even in the least. In fact I'm kind of curious to hear what he has to say. I know if he wanted to hurt me, he likely would have done it by now and I didn't wake chained to the bed or anything, so fear just seemed unnecessary. He’s all calm and relaxed, or at least he looks that way to me, and his state seems to feed into me somehow.
I sit and listen as the lecture begins.
So it seems I really am vampire. And that craving blood and avoiding sunlight is going to be a part of my life from now on. I'm not really sure how I feel about that if I'm honest. Not eating doesn't sound so bad. I mean if you don't need it. But not drinking? While that might keep me out of Dillon's bed, I'm not sure I welcome that change. I do like a good night out.
I'm soon distracted though as I’m watching Elliot go about his business in the kitchen. It's a little awkward having to crane my neck to see him, so I curl my feet up under me as I turn my body in his direction. I prop my head up on fist, my arm resting on the back of the sofa, and enjoy the view.
I've had a strange night so far; electrocuted, brought back to life, but not really, fed someone's blood against my will, kidnapped and the like. What's niggling at my subconscious is the fact that I'm now in some random guys flat while he explains that my entire world just changed, and I kind of feel like I'm at home, like I know him.
I get caught up watching him make whatever it is in the microwave. Looks like soup but it came in weird packaging. I'm not much thinking about that though as my eyes wander over his body, taking in every angle of his gangly frame. I smile at the thought of sketching him. I'm sure it would turn into the most adorable caricature.
The lecture continues, but I don't mind. His voice is practically melodic and that accent of his is completely drool worthy. I've met out-of-towners before but there's something about the way he speaks that makes me shiver in a good way. He sounds British but I'm hesitant to ask for two reason; the first being that I'm probably wrong and the second being that, that would mean interrupting him and I could listen to him for hours.
Everything he lists is negative though and while outwardly I'm smiling, a more appropriate feeling bubbles just below the surface of my thoughts. I have to accept what he's telling me. I know that. If only because I can’t turn back time and just bring my own damn guitar to the open mic night. I strongly suspect I can't will my heart to start beating again either, so I pay attention; though it seems a little like reading the label of the bottle of liquid you just downed afterwards, only to find out it's poison. Warning labels are a little pointless after the fact and some of this sounds like stuff you'd want to know when there was still a choice to be made. Fact is, I didn't have a choice. He had to make it for me.
I start wondering what my decision would have been. Would I be here now if all this had been left up to me? I highly doubt it. I'd of probably died thinking he was some kind of nutcase. Even on my deathbed I think I would have had a hard time believing in some mystical saviour. Drinking his blood would have been my last mortal act, and I'm not sure death itself could have made that sound appealing.
Appealing. I giggle. What a fun word to say. Or think even. Though it strikes a different kind of nerve as I now focus on that soup Elliot is making. I run my tongue over my top lip. It smells good. It smells appealing. I'm so focused on the soup now that almost forget to reply when he stops speaking.
"Oh. Erm... Yeah. Two right now I guess. What is a path? And what is that soup that you're making? It smells good."
The comment about not being able to eat suddenly pings in my brain and the colour rises in my cheeks as I realise I may have just said something stupid. A connection between what’s been said and what he’s doing finally clicks in my brain; if we can't eat, then what he's making likely isn't soup at all, it's more likely blood.
I gag at the thought. I'm not a vegetarian or anything but the idea of drinking blood is just disgusting. Forget about the source for a moment, it's just a gloppy mess. The nearest thing I can equate the texture too, is snot. Let’s face it, we've all swallowed that when we've had a cold and that experience is far from pleasant. If that mug is for me, which I half hope it’s not, I'm not sure I could even attempt to drink from it, let alone swallow and then keep the blood down.

[Lancaster]

The microwave whirs behind Elliot; it is the sound of a home, really, though Elliot’s feeling of home might differ from the general public. When he hears a microwave it doesn’t remind him much of his mother cooking dinner when he was a child; of sitting on a couch like Skylar is now, waiting for the food to be ready as his mother bustled back and forth. Sure, that memory is in there somewhere, and of course the sound of the microwave – or the sizzling oven or the slamming fridge – was always interrupting the news or the football or Home and Away. No, the sound of the microwave reminded Elliot of the many backpacker’s hostels that he’d stayed in. Most of the time, meals were bought and microwaved. Or one of the fellow travellers was actually a budding chef and made broth for the entire floor. But either way, the microwave reminded Elliot of his travels. But that was home, too.

He stood leaning against the kitchen counter as he waited for it, his arms crossed over his chest and one ankle crossed over the other. What Skylar wouldn’t see were his fingers, which were curled up into anxious fists. He was, of course, completely oblivious to the way she was looking at him; assessing him, swallowing him whole with her eyes. The smell of the ‘soup’, as she called it, did not appeal to Elliot. Not anymore. Human blood was not as appetising as it had once been which meant that he was better able to control his temperament when out in public. He would forever be thankful to Pi for that.

For the moment, he ignored the question about the ‘soup’, and instead focused on the former.

“A path. Someone, somewhere along the line watched vampires as they were turned. Someone assessed their individual attributes and discovered that some were similar to others, starting out. That everyone started on a specific path,” he said. He licked his lips and cleared his throat. He wanted to make sense, so he took his time to explain.

“There are six of them. Allurists, Telepaths, Mystics, Killers, Shadows, and Necromancers. I am an Allurist, and we figured that out because I could eat. I could drink. I could consume human nourishment. But it was also because of the things I could do to begin with – I could intimidate people more easily, but I could also inspire them. Boost them, somehow, just by thinking it. And… other things that I won’t overwhelm you with,” he said. Behind him, the microwave pinged and Elliot retrieved the mug of blood. He closed the microwave door and returned to the lounge room, sitting on the opposite couch to Skylar but at the corner closest to her corner of the other couch.

“We’ll keep an eye on your progress and we’ll figure out which path you’ve started with,” he said.

“And this isn’t soup. It’s blood,” he said. “And you need to drink it. You don’t have to feed from humans – you can drink it from the bag, like the one I just nuked. It’s probably better that way,” he said, holding out the mug to Skylar and hoping to whatever omniscient presence there was that she would take it.

[Skylar]

Mmm. There's that voice again. I focus on the intonation and am pulled back to listening to him when he was up on stage. He was good. Better than I'd admitted. There was something in his voice that called to you, drew you in. His guitar playing was what I'd tried to focus on then but now in my memory I'm momentarily swept away by the melodic tones.
"6 paths."
I say the words as if I'm taking it in but really I'm just trying to focus myself on the words he's saying. When I find myself staring at his lips as his mouths his words, I have to force myself to train my eyes elsewhere. I have the strangest urge to jump up and go sit on his lap. And if I keep thinking about those lips, I know I'll act.
He's trying to tell me that each path is different. I get that. So basically it's a waiting game to see what I am. I start trying to figure out what these difference might be. Or why they might be called what they are. Time for the word association game. Allurist; allure is the obvious choice of word for this one, I guess that makes a person more attractive. I can see how that might have it's advantages. Telepath; telepathy, something mind related. Mind control? Moving things with your mind? Hmm... Next one. Mystic; bit more difficult to define, mystics are... erm... mysterious. Well that doesn't tell me much. Killers; obvious answer for that one. I'm not that. I'm pretty sure. And if I am, I don't want to be. Shadows; something dark and flaky maybe. And finally, necromancer; something dark and disturbing involving control over the dead. Makes me think of Voodoo witch doctors.
Right so to figure out what I am we can do some tests this. This is what I've taken away from that section of the conversation before I'm handed the mug. I take it but I don't look impressed and keep the vessel at arms length. There's a strong instinct to down the contents, drain it dry and lick the inside clean. Obviously I resist this. The urge to throw up is just as strong, if not stronger.
"Erm... Might not be best for me to drink this here." I tell him.
He'd told me to drink and I wanted to, to please him but I was half certain I'd be spewing the contents up on his couch a few seconds later.
"Mind if we move this to the kitchen...or bathroom?"
Even as I ask I'm peering into the mug as best I can, as I refuse to bring it any closer to my lips. I've locked my arms in place and use Elliot's natural attraction to distract me. Damn if I don't want to please him.
I'm up on my feet and moving to the sink before I know it. That scent is drinking me nuts. I have to have it.
"Here goes nothing."
I grimace at the contents as I stand next to the basin in the kitchen. If this is coming back up, I'm going to have to make sure I keep my head down. I pinch the bridge of my nose, something I do when I have to take medication that tastes gross and begin drinking the liquid with a relish that surprised me. Soon my hand is off my nose and on the mug. It's cradled between my hands and I tip my head backwards as I try to drink the last of it.
When I'm done, I place the cup on the sideboard, next to the sink and wipe my mouth with the back of my right hand. God that was good. I want more.
"Another." I half ask, half demand as I turn back to Elliot. "Then we can test me and see what path I am. Yeah?"
I wanted to know exactly what I was as soon as possible. My mind is trying to tell me what I am but I'm not really listening. I only know the one path I'm not. No way was I going to be a killer.

[Lancaster]

Elliot was unsure how Skylar would take the blood. It varied, across all his sirings – most of which had been by pure accident. Some of them gagged. Some of them suffered. Most, though, like him, had hoovered the red cruor as if it were water after months in the desert. The idea of drinking blood was the only thing to deter. It was wrong. It was cannibalistic. It was so entirely against human nature to drink the blood of others, that sometimes Elliot assumed the gagging was just mind over matter. A subconscious reaction. The new vampiric body, however, craved the stuff. He remembered the first time that he had fed; as soon as the liquid hit his tongue it was the best thing he had ever tasted. At least, that’s what his body told him. Now, Pi’s blood was the best thing he had ever tasted, and would continue to taste. Now, he was still severely glad that he could consume human food and drink still.

Still, when Skylar asked whether they could move her meal to the kitchen or the bathroom, Elliot shrugged and gestured to the kitchen; his home was her home now, and she could do as she pleased. She could do as she felt she needed to do. He couldn’t tell her that she wouldn’t throw up, because she very well might.

Elliot followed her to the kitchen and watched, waited. Reluctant at first, Skylar soon consumed the entirety of the mug of blood and was asking for another one. Elliot smirked and nodded, doing as he was told. Into the fridge, out with the blood bag, repeating the same process as before.

“You can buy these blood bags from specific shops – I’ll show you which ones, later. I recommend drinking only from the bags, though we can do a test run on a live target too,” Elliot said. He never liked that part. He himself didn’t drink from humans anymore, so he couldn’t show and tell. “Just to practice. You can feed from them without killing them but you have to make sure to be careful and not to be seen. They don’t remember. They pass out, the wound heals, and they just don’t remember,” Elliot said with a shrug. At least, it should work that way, and he hoped he wouldn’t have to later eat his words.

“There are also those of us who don’t drink from humans anymore. Necurats, who only drink from vampires. The majority of the vampire population look down on Necurats. It’s some kind of taboo – for your own safety, I wouldn’t recommend it. Not unless you have someone you can trust that you feed on every night,” he said. Sometimes that didn’t work out so well for him. Sometimes, he couldn’t find Pi. But at least he had the ability to boost his own blood, when all else failed.

By this time, he had warmed the next mug of blood for Skylar, and handed it to her.

“There are some things we might be able to do to eliminate specific paths. And a couple of things we can try to see if you’re an Allurist, like me,” he said.