“Definitely that. But notjustthat.”
“Did I make you?”
“I… you… well… yeah.” I let out a breath. “I guess you did. You made me when you made Ryet.”
“Who is this Ryet?”
“Your scion. And I am his food.”
Paul is staring at me with a stoic face, his eyes brightening and then dulling, a dark shade of red. And when they do this, all I can think about is his blood. And how much I want it. And how if he were to turn around again, I could simply lean forward and swipe my tongue against his wounds.
“You’re hungry, Syrsee? For my blood?” His voice is different now. More congenial, less angry. More intentional, less confused. This is the Paul I know. The confident one. A monster who takes almost nothing seriously.
But still, all I’m really thinking about is his blood and how much I want to lick him. It takes every bit of self-control I have not to reach out and pull him towards me, begging for it. I hatemyself for this. I do. But I’m out of control. This is not a want. This is a need.
“Would you like some?”
I can only nod my head as I press my lips together. Because if I open my mouth right now?—
“Drink, Syrsee. Can you hear me? Drink. Just drink.”
The hallucination fades and I’m on the floor of Ryet’s cabin bathroom. He’s got one arm under me, his upper body leaning over me, and the purple and gold mist is still thick like a curtain. But then he’s holding his palm to my mouth and all I can think about is the blood.
