I let out a long breath. Because I think this is like a medicine chest. Cures for what ails me. Which means I have all these things to look forward to.
With this realization, I sober up. The last bit of magical haziness that came from feeding on Syrsee evaporates and I suddenly feel like a man who woke up after a bender.
This makes me huff out a laugh. Because maybe I should drink the vial filled with the cure for guilt. And shame. And regret.
Fucking hell, I should just drink them all.
I don’t, though. I just turn around and go back down the tunnel, pick up my boots and clothes, and then go back up the stairs. Once the basement door has been shut behind me, I wash my feet in the bathtub and put my clothes and boots back on, feeling a little stupid for taking them off in the first place. Then pick up our backpacks and put one in each of the two bedrooms.
I give Syrsee the one with the private bathroom and I take the other.
I unpack the meager things I have collected since being reborn. Three pairs of jeans, two thermal shirts, four t-shirts, and some socks and underwear. I put all these things in a dresser that is mostly empty—the top drawer is filled with towels. Then I put my toothbrush in the hallway bathroom.
This is it. This is what my life has become. A backpack of clothes and a toothbrush. I don’t even have a phone.
But just as I’m thinking this, I look over at the one hanging on the wall in the kitchen. I walk over there and pick it up, then smile when I hear a dial tone.
Too bad I don’t have anyone to call. But I feel five percent less isolated than I did thirty seconds ago and I’ll take it.
I’m just turning my back to it with the intention of heading outside when it rings.
I turn back, staring at it. “Really?” I ask the phone.
It responds by ringing again.
I pick it up. “Yeah.”
“Ryet! Oh. My. God!Ryet! I’ve been calling you for weeks!”
“Echo?”
“Are you OK? Where are you? Is Paul there?”
“Yes, I’m OK. You called me, so you know where I am. And no. Paul’s not here.”
I have never hated Echo. I actually kinda like her. She’s a little brown-noser when it comes to Paul, but she’s just a halfbreed. It’s kinda her job to do that. She takes a moment to actually internalize my answers, then huffs out a laugh. “Right. I called you. I forgot, it’s a landline. So you’re at your place?”
“Obviously.” Though I don’t hate Echo, this is enough to make me tired of her. “What do you want?” It occurs to me here—only after I’ve said these words in the rudest way possible—that I should possibly, maybe be nicer to her since she is… well, all I’ve got in terms of friends and family at the moment. Sad as that is.
“Paul is gone. Do you know where he is? I mean, I’m sure he’s fine. Underground or something. But the halfbreeds, Ryet. They’re taking advantage of everything. They’re going a little crazy too.” She lowers her voice here. “I found Lucia up in that tower room. Paul cut off her head, Ryet. Herhead!”
“Right. Yeah. I was there.” Sort of. “So. Why are you calling?”
“The halfbreeds. What are they supposed toeat?”
“I’m sorry?”
“They… we…wehave to eat. And the feeder died. What happened to the Black witch you and Paul brought home for us? Do you know where she is? We’re…hungry.”
“First of all, I didn’t bring her ‘home’ for you. I didn’t bring her there at all. Second, you’re a halfbreed. Order a pizza if you’re hungry.”
“Well”—she scoffs here—“duh. We have eaten. We just… haven’t…eaten. If you know what I mean.”
She means blood, of course. “Listen, Echo, I’m sorry it’s turned out this way, but the blood is gone.”
“What? What do you mean?”
“The blood. Is gone.” Even if I was in the mood to share, I would never share with the halfbreeds. There is no way in hell that Syrsee will end up feeding halfbreeds. She’s mine. She was made for me. And the sooner these tweakers get past this little truth, the better. “You need to go back to eating like humans. For every meal. There are no more Black witches in your future. Is there anything else?”
