Status Updates From Escaping Exile (Escape Tril...

This is a very 3 stars book.

This sounds like its going to be insta-love and/or insta-lust...

Not sure about this when both MC's, so far, haven't shone much of any redeeming quality, at all. That at least makes them good for each other?

“I’m sorry I hit you,” he says.
“Trying to sweet-talk me, Edmund?” He stares at me. “Are you frightened, now that you’ve seen me feed? I’m as bad as the cannibals, wouldn’t you say?”

“I suppose I’ve had my share. I was very popular as a society boy in London, but I always preferred the more…exotic.” His smile doesn’t lighten his eyes as usual.

“I think you might kill me,” he says.
“I will not.”
“A part of you wants to. I see it sometimes.”
Yes, the dark creature. Its sharp claws tap against my skull whenever Edmund gets too close, but I won’t let that part of myself touch him. Not unless he asks—and he might, if he’s out here long enough.

“You want to record all this?”
“It’s what I do.”
I have both of the items he requests—gifts from Michelle on one of her visits. Perhaps she wanted me to write about my guilt, but I don’t remember guilt right now. My entire lengthy memory has been wiped clean by the face of this man who looks so young when he laughs.

He’s talking to himself now. “No heartbeat. How has your brain not rotted out of your head?” Despite the morning he had, he’s willing to be close to me. I think of that poison dart frog that almost took his life and realize Edmund might be perfect.

“Shit. I couldn’t fight you off if I wanted to.”
“You will not need to fight me off.” As soon as I say it, I wonder if it’s true. I don’t think I’ll accept no from him—not with the way his skin feels, the way he looks and laughs in the face of a murdering beast. He is a beguiling amalgam of brave and frightened, brilliant and insane.

I’ve often wondered if evil sours the blood. In New Orleans, I killed all sorts before my exile, but my favorite meals were innocents like Azrael. The tainted blood of street thugs and drunken thieves never tasted as good as that of a young manservant in a fine house or a male whore, new to the streets.

“Damn it, what are you, Andrew?”
“Something very old.”
“Christ, crocodiles are old!” He holds the small knife out in front of him. “Tell me.”
I sit on the edge of my bed. “My people called me upiór. In your modern English, I suppose the word would be vampire.”

They speak and whistle to each other, but they must be at least twenty feet away. Perhaps they fear coming any closer to the home of the dead thing that walks among them? God, I hope so. Starved of human blood, I’m weak—too weak even to defend my Edmund.

I swallowed his very soul. His death was a bright light between my eyes. My head soared as he finally went limp and I dropped his body on the ground. I wiped my mouth. “An angel indeed,” I said. I left his corpse to rot but at least pulled up his breeches and straightened his clothes.

He squints into the sun. “You said the natives might be fond of me, but would they not be fond of you, as well?”
“They haven’t bothered me so far.” I’ve been dead much too long.

The boy in New Orleans is barely a memory. A young prostitute, he seduced me with soft kisses. I killed him because I wanted to know what a sweet soul tasted like, but I don’t think I’ll kill Edmund.

I wonder how Edmund will respond once he figures out what I am, what I want. He is friendly, and I believe he trusts me already, but will he struggle against my advances? Will he try to make me stop?

I will keep him alive to heal. I hope to see his body without all the bruises, but maybe I can also show Michelle how good I am, how I’ve kept a human without hurting it. Maybe she’ll let me go back.

Now, he’s here in my bed, and I’d like him to remain if only to hear more of his ravings. He’s fearless, I think, and just a bit callous. How else can I explain the lack of empathy for his dead comrades? He’s a man of the sea, accustomed to losses big and small. If I were to kill him, he might not even struggle—although I like that part, the struggling—and Edmund looks strong.

Also, he’s English, which truly does make me wonder where the hell Michelle found this ridiculous island for my exile. Where in God’s name are we? My sailor will probably be just as confused as I when he realizes I’m American, but he seems too confused by other things at the moment to care.

In the sunlight, my sailor is a contradiction. He’s not a privileged weakling with clean fingernails, but he’s not a roughened brute either.

Unmoving in my bed, he can’t fight back. He couldn’t even call for help. If the cannibals found out I had a healthy young man in my house, they would never leave us in peace.

I still hold the cloth to his head as I wrap him in my arms and run my nose up the side of his neck. I think Michelle would be angry to see how happy I am.

An angry scrape mars the pale skin, and I bet my guest will be covered in bruises by morning. The sea is not a gentle mistress. I know. I’ve tried to escape my exile by swimming out into white waves to no avail. The crushing currents always bring me back.

Looking at his hairless face, I would have guessed him barely a man. The thick muscles of his chest, arms, and legs dictate otherwise, as do the calluses on his hands.

Safely inside my little house, I lay the man on the floor and poke at the fire until it roars like the thunder outside. Now, it rains. The ocean storm falls heavy, rocks on the roof, and an animal howls nearby, woken wet from its slumber.

My gaze skims the beach, but it’s mostly detritus and dead men. Dead men are no good to me as their blood is most certainly not part of my unique diet. Oh, but then, there’s a scent on the wind. There is something alive nearby, and it’s bleeding. The smell of blood mixes with the salt of the sea and bitter stress-sweat.