Said tail flicked happily, like it was thanking him for the sort-of-compliment.
“Oh, shit. Youcanunderstand me, can’t you?” Kit should have realised when the werewolf started leading him out of the woods, but nobody had ever accused him of being too smart.
The werewolf stopped and gave Kit a slow, meaningful blink. They were out in the middle of a field now, nearer the coast. Kitsmelled the faintest hint of salt carrying on the wind, blown in from the sea.
“I suppose this is where you leave me?” Kit asked.
The werewolf whined, inching closer to him.
Oddly, Kit’s hunger eddied close to the surface. He reined it in. “What is it now?”
The werewolf lowered its head in a half bow. Kit raised his hand and placed it on the werewolf’s head, right between the ears. The fur felt soft as he scritched over the scalp with his nails.
The werewolf rumbled from deep in its throat. Kit smiled. “You enjoy that, don’t you?”
Emboldened, Kit dug his fingers in harder, moving them all around. He flinched when the wolf twisted, but it was only offering Kit a better angle to get in behind his ears. Kit obliged, getting stuck in. The werewolf’s tail began thumping, sending earthquake-like tremors along the ground.
“Oh, you definitely like this,” Kit said. He restrained the instinct to call the wolf a good boy like he would a dog. Although with the wagging tail, docile nature, and contented look on his face, the werewolf acted more like a domesticated animal than a supernatural creature.
Kit flicked his gaze to the sky. “Shit. I need to get moving. Don’t wanna get caught out in the sun.”
The werewolf shook his head when Kit dropped his hand. Enough time had passed that he planned to sprint back, his muscles no longer protesting so loudly when he moved.
“I suggest you don’t go around chasing any other vampires, by the way. You’re just lucky that I didn’t fancy ripping your throat out.” Kit gave the werewolf a friendly smile, then turned and sped away.
No matter how much he was tempted, he didn’t look back once.
Kit’s lungs burned for air. A faraway fragment of himself asserted that the urge to breathe shouldn’t even exist, but another long-dormant part of him begged for it anyway. His chest ached, his nostrils flared impotently, and he gasped at nothing.
Discordant thoughts ran through his mind. He didn’t know where he lay, and he had no idea what had happened to him. He couldn’t tell whether this was a dream or a memory.
Or worse: if it was real.
“Look at me, darling.”
The voice broke through Kit’s haze, and he opened his eyes to the dark. There was nobody there. His throat wasn’t filled. He didn’t need air.
And, most importantly, his creator was dead. Kit couldn’t have heard his voice. Lawrence had been reduced to nothing more than ash.
Kit sat up in bed, running his fingers over his throat. The metallic tang of blood filled his nostrils.
He crept to the mirror, intent on getting a look at the damage. In his sleep, he’d clawed his neck to ribbons. If he’d still been human, he would have bled out by now. Tilting his head up, he looked more closely at the damage. Some of it had healed, but other cuts had barely closed.
It wasn’t until he stood in the shower that he relaxed enough for his thoughts to stray to the werewolf. Kit had made it back to his flat in plenty of time and almost regretted not staying out for longer. He wondered if he would ever come across the werewolf again.
It would be best if he didn’t. Kit knew little about the different supernatural creatures, but he knew they didn’t mix well. The werewolf might have been alone the previous night, but he would be part of a pack, and the prospect of being outnumbered didn’t appeal in the slightest.
Stepping out of the shower, Kit wiped the steamed-up mirror clean. The cuts on his neck had stopped bleeding, but he’d need to hunt again if he wanted them to heal. It exhausted him. His nightmares had never been this bad, and he now needed to feed twice as much as before. Waking up every night covered in his own blood was a relic of days past, and Kit was loath to go back to it.
If only the memories of Lawrence would leave him alone. They’d plagued Kit ever since the last time he’d seen Shaun, the sounds and images of their creator playing in his head on a loop. Sleep offered no refuge—Kit’s unconscious mind unable to stop the onslaught. Most nights he woke up more tired than he’d been when going to sleep.
His hunger felt more pronounced, his eyes shadowed. Voices of the dead spoke to him. Shapes lingered in the corners of his vision.
Madness might be the only explanation.
He fed that night on a younger man than usual, his scent attracting Kit. Only when he latched onto the man’s wrist did he look up at his victim and see something of himself in his face. The man displayed the type of youth Lawrence would have favoured. It was such a sobering thought that Kit left without taking more than a few drops of blood.
Kit returned to the flat, starving, and went straight back to his bed. He curled up in the darkness. It being night, sleep eluded him, but he lay there all the same.
