“She will need things? What does that even mean?”
“One step at a time. First, go into the root cellar and use those jars and vials. They are for the both of you to share.”
“Which ones? There are a lot of them.”
“I can’t tell you that because I’m not there. I cannot see her symptoms. You’ll have to figure that out yourself. But don’t worry. She’s safe, for now. Because she’s not in the purple, she’s in the gold.”
I make a face of what-the-fuck-does-that-mean.
“It’s a witch thing. Not a place for vampires. But if you can bring her out of it, just long enough for me to find her, then I will be able to prepare her for what’s coming.”
I should ask. I know I should ask.Prepare her for what? But I’m almost certain he’s not gonna tell me, and to be honest, I’m really not sure I want to know. Not yet. One thing at a time.
This feels a little bit like giving up, but what else can I do? I am one hundred percent certain that we are moving forward with whatever plan he’s cooked up, so maybe letting him lead is the best course of action.
“Go now, Ryet. Get the jars and vials and take them inside.”
Suddenly everything around me is starting to fade. Including Paul. “Wait! Don’t leave yet! How do I use the stuff in the jars and vials to make her better?”
And just as everything goes black, I hear his voice, low and distant. “You’ll know what to do. Trust yourself.”
The next thing I know I’m waking up in the dirt, sitting up and letting it all fall off of me. It’s dark, but I can see just fine. And when I look over my shoulder, my wings are exactly as they were in the dream—complete and the bones are covered in a membrane. Except I don’t think it was a dream. I think Paul and I really did just have that conversation.
Then I remember the last thing he said and get up. I pick my way over the various dirt mounds I’ve accumulated in the tunnelover the past week and finally stumble into the root cellar. There’s an old produce basket on the ground, so I just start filling it up with the jars and vials.
Once that’s done, I make my way back through the tunnel and up into the house. I check Syrsee first—still sleeping. Her fever is back. Well, it never really went all the way down to normal, but she’s very hot again. So I take the basket of vials into the kitchen and use a dishcloth to clean the dirt and grime off the bottles, being careful not to get the labels too wet so I don’t smudge what’s left of the old ink.
Then I line them all up on the counter and take stock of what I have.
For jars I have ‘Thirst.’ ‘Hunger.’ ‘Gasping.’ ‘Purging.’ ‘Chills.’ ‘Sweats.’ ‘Fatigue.’
For vials I have ‘Despair.’ ‘Loneliness.’ ‘Regret.’ ‘Contempt.’ ‘Estrangement.’ ‘Fear.’ ‘Shame.’ ‘Guilt.’
The jars are for physical symptoms and the vials are for emotions.
Well, I can’t read Syrsee’s mind, so the vials will have to wait. I choose ‘Sweats,’ since she has a fever, and open the lid of the jar. I expect it to smell rancid—everything in the root cellar looks like it was made decades ago—but it actually smells sweet. A cross between ginger ale and honey. It looks like a pudding or custard and when I dip a finger into it and give it a taste, itissweet.
There are no directions on any of the jars or vials, but at this point, I might as well trust Paul. It’s not like I have many choices. I’m not sure how I’m going to get her to eat the pudding since she’s unconscious, but then I get an idea—maybe I could mix the pudding with some of my blood and feed it to her that way? But then I get another idea—maybeIshould eat the pudding and then just feed her my blood?
I’ve done dumber things in my life, that’s for sure. And for some reason, this feels right. The exchange of blood feels important. At least it’s familiar.
I go into the kitchen, grab a spoon, and then, without thinking too hard about what I’m actually putting in my mouth, I eat the whole thing.
Then I go back into the bedroom, sit down in the bed next to Syrsee, bite my palm, and put it up to her lips. Like every other time I’ve fed her since she fell sick, the blood stimulates some kind of involuntary instinct to suck. I give her a little more than I normally would—wanting to make sure she gets enough for the medicine to take hold—and then pull back and start thinking about my own hunger.
There’s another jar, one specifically called ‘Hunger,’ and my first idea is to eat it myself. But would it be better if I feed it to Syrsee and then take her blood the way she just took mine?
Unless she wakes up, that’s not possible.
But I could just bleed her out a little and mix it in, then eat it.
I decide to do this because while it would be much simpler to just bite her neck and take what I need, leaving the potions or whatever out of it, that is a temporary fix. What if this jar can make my hunger go away? Maybe not forever—it’s not likely that it’s a cure. But even if it’s just long enough for her to wake up and make informed decisions about being my food, wouldn’t it be worth it?
It would. Time. All I can do is buy myself time. Because whatever is happening to us, it’s coming no matter how many jars of pudding we eat. And I just want a little more time before I truly turn into something evil and take my girlfriend along for the ride.
I position Syrsee’s wrist over my mouth and then nick her vein with my teeth. Then I hold it over the open jar of ‘Hunger’ and fill it up to the top. When that’s done, I lick the wound onSyrsee’s wrist until it heals. Then I get a spoon, mix the blood into the pudding, and eat it. Again, like the first one, it doesn’t taste bad at all. Not like honey and ginger ale, more like… meat. Which is kinda gross. Should be gross enough to stop me, actually. But by the time I’m actually having this thought, the jar is empty.
I just stand there in the kitchen, waiting. For what? I’m not sure.Somethinghas to happen.
