Every child knew the truth of that from the moment of birth. Whether suckling at their mother’s breast or taking their first taste from the vein, it was ingrained in all of them.
Blood is life.
Life began again, not as a roar but as a trickle, almost a tickle to the subconscious. I wanted to dismiss it as a dream my body wanted me to have. I tried to will it away. It was too soon. I was still tired. I was still owed years of sleep.
The trickle turned to a stream. Deciding that the flow calmed the soul, I went with it, riding along, still drifting through the Rest. Falling over the rocks, slipping by the deep pools of my mind, I followed. I allowed it to carry me.
The stream became a river. I could not deny that my Rest was coming to an end. It was too early. I was too far away fromblood. If I woke alone, with no chance for life, I would go mad. I would ravage anyone nearby, and sing and dance with their existence coating my skin a deep garnet.
The river became rapids. Violent, uncaring, channeled toward just one end. I became aware of things. The long, cold stone my body rested on. The smell of must and dust. The utter darkness that surrounded me. The feeling of death, the chill of old bones and desecrated humans in the room.
Blood is life.
I awoke from my Rest.
A scream tore from my throat, the desperate sensation of hunger ripping through my stomach, my heart, my fangs. I was awake. Years before I should have been and the blood madness was taking a firm hold quickly.
Climbing, demented and nearly naked, from the altar I was on, I crawled to where I had discarded the last of the humans I had fed on before the Rest took hold.
Bones. No blood.
I snapped one open, hoping for marrow.
Only dust.
The crypt door was shut, but opening it was nothing for the strength the madness lent me. I shoved, hard, and the stone door moved smoothly to the side.
A stream of light slammed into the back of my eyes and I could see nothing. Like a feral cat in the light of a hunter’s sights, I scurried to a corner, welcoming back the dark and cool. I huddled there, in the grip of insanity, not knowing what to do.
A whisper not my own, “Christ.”
A lamb…a lamb has come. I waited.
Light followed the swear word and passed over me. The figure of a woman, dressed as a Bedouin, rushed forward. She smelled healthy, full of blood I could use.
I hissed, dropping my fangs.
Quickly rushed words, “Gwynnore. Don’t. It’s me, Adelie. I’m here, my friend.”
Who?No matter. She was a lamb.
I lunged, wrapping my hands around her neck and pulling her down.
“Gwen, stop. Stop.” She struggled inside my hold.
My fangs itched, aching to taste the red, warm life as it flowed around them. “Thirsty.”
“It’s coming, Gwen. It’s on the way.”
Some part of my hunger-addled brain recognized her. “Adelie.”
Not…
Not a lamb.
“Yes, it’s me.”
With hard drawn breaths, I could feel the death rattle in my chest. I had to drink. Soon.
