She casts me a small smile. “It’s called the internet. It’s like…a network of information.”
I squint suspiciously at it, which makes Hannah laugh. It’s a pleasant sound, especially in the gloom of the graveyard.
As we walk back to the road, she says, “Phones have come a long way since your time. It can show me maps of anywhere in the world, take pictures, play music, and you can share status updates with all your friends…”
“More powerful than most grimoires,” I say.
She smiles again, and my own cheeks tug in response.
Back on the bus, I steal glances at her profile in the passing lights, taking in the way she worries at her lip, the way her hair shines in the street lamps, the delicacy of her nose and jawline, her even skin. There’s something simple and lovely about her.
I shift in my seat, trying to ignore the building heat as I remember the press of her body against mine and the rapid flutter of her pulse under my fingers. The little sounds she made, breathy and desperate… It’s like she was discovering something about herself she’d never known before.
And given what Charlotte always told me, that’s probably exactly what’s happening. I’ve shown Hannah how good it feels to be fed on.
Charlotte was never shy about telling me how much she liked it. The games we made of the feeding rituals were better than anything in the world. I used to push her limits, testing what sounds I could draw from her and how much I could make her lose control. I can see her clearly in my mind’s eye, spread naked beneath me, her pale skin flushed, her blonde curls spilling across my pillow, that beautiful mouth begging me for more. I recall sliding my fingers beneath her skirts, and her legs wrapping around my waist, pulling me closer as I took what I needed while giving her everything she craved.
But now it’s Hannah I see—those blue eyes darkening with desire, her warm-gold hair tangling across the pillow, her pale skin flushed pink. She’s clutching me as I show her pleasure she never dreamed possible, her lips parted as she begs for more instead of fighting not to make a sound. I can almost feel her soft skin against mine, almost taste her essence. I’m drinking her in, draining her, tasting whether her skin is as sweet as her life force, until…
I dig my nails into my palm, using the sharp pain to push those thoughts away. I can’t let Hannah’s feedings end like Charlotte’s did. My own life depends on my ability to have restraint with her.
This girl is a temporary inconvenience. I’ve lived my whole life without needing anyone, and I’m not about to start caring for some fragile non-witch who will be gone from my life by sunrise.
Besides, Hannah is nothing like Charlotte. She would probably faint if I touched her that way. And I have no business imagining it in the first place.She made her feelings about my nature clear back in her kitchen, looking at me with such disgust when I wanted to feed on her neighbors.
She might be attracted to the ritual, but that doesn’t mean she wants anything to do with the witch performing it. She is only letting me feed because she has to.
And why would someone like her—young, bright, virtuous—ever want to be tangled up with a sanguine witch? I’ve killed more people than I can count. I’ve done things that would horrify her sweet moral sensibilities. Even if she did want our feedings to become more, the way I want to pin her beneath me and make her mine would terrify her innocent heart. From what I can glean, she’s not like that.
No, we’ll be done with each other the moment this binding spell is broken, and then she can go find someone who can pleasure her without the constant threat of draining her life away.
I force my gaze away from her and down at my palm, which tingles where I cut it. It’s slowly stitching itself back together with threads of magic that feel like spider silk.
Yes, it’s better to appreciate her beauty from a distance and keep my darker desires locked away where they belong.
Hannah and I stop in front of a narrow door wedged between two shops, looking up at the glowing wordsThe Crimson Moon. A full moon rises behind the letters, more scarlet than crimson.
I wrinkle my nose at the litter and grime around the door. “Charming.”
Of everything that’s changed in the last century, the filth of the city remains constant. This is why I prefer the woods.
A group of young women walk past wearing clothing that would have scandalized a brothel back in my time—skirts that reveal their entire legs,shoes that defy gravity, shoulders completely exposed, breasts all but hanging loose. It’s…well, I’m no better than a man, because it’s hard to peel my eyes away from them.
Hannah clears her throat. “Shall we?”
We follow the women inside, stepping away from the foul-smelling outside world and into a stuffy establishment with dim red lighting. It’s so loud I can barely think, a deep beat reverberating in my chest. Is this supposed to bemusic? The air carries the scent of whiskey and something else—herbs, maybe sage, burned recently as if to ward off evil.
Too bad sage doesn’t work on sanguine witches.
As I blink the room into focus, I stop in my tracks, wondering what we’ve walked in on. Bodies press together, writhing, sweaty, hands groping. Fingers roam up bare legs and down plunging necklines. Hips sway, lips devour, tongues plunge into mouths. Like watching animals in a mating game. No waltz, no pattern, no decorum, just desire on display.
When did such intimacy become acceptable outside closed doors? I can’t decide whether to be scandalized or to envy their freedom.
Heat rises in my body, but when I feel Hannah’s gaze on me, I look away from the crowd, remembering what we’re here for.
At the perimeter, every seat and table is occupied, but none of the faces are familiar.
Behind the bar, a very tall, broad man with pale skin and red hair stands serving drinks. And beside him…
