Her cravings were modest by comparison. A fact she always saw fit to remind me.
“Iris,” she’d whine. “You have such an appetite for a young lady, it’s unbecoming.”
Fate forbid I ever brought a boy home, I never heard the end of it.
Of course, she never commented on Isaac and the constant stream of men and women he kept in rotation.
Everything I know about hunting, I learned from Isaac. He wasn’t shy about teaching me. He made sure I knew where to look, what to do, how to turn it on, when to turn it off. And most importantly, what to expect.
He knew my hunger wasn’t the same as his, nor would it be treated the same by Mother or anyone else. But he refused to leave my life in the hands of fate. So when he told me to prepare myself for the ego of man and the insecurities that come with it, I listened.
And thank heavens I did, or I wouldn’t be standing here.
I slip into my favorite skirt and heels, opting for a low-cut sweater that flatters my modest chest a bit, before tying a pink scarf around my neck to hide the bruising. It’ll be gone in a couple of days, but until then, I like to look my best.
Isaac’s approach to hunting can be summed up in six words.
Have fun.
Look good.
Don’t die.
Strictly, in that order.
Took me a while to get used to that first one. For a long time, it felt more embarrassing than anything else, like I was begging for scraps. But I’ve never had a problem with the other two.
I check my reflection in the mirror by the door and decide to add a layer of lip gloss before stepping out.
Looking good isn’t strictly necessary. My magic will draw them in regardless, but a little confidence goes a long way toward shaking off the embarrassment. But I’m not embarrassed anymore. These days, they’re the ones begging.
I head to the tea house at the edge of campus, the one with the enchanted ceiling and signature wolfsbane and elderflower milk tea. It’s not the most popular in town, but it’s the closest to campus, so it’s guaranteed to have a steady flow of customers all afternoon. Which means I’ll have more than my fair share of options.
I order a cup of my favorite tea and a basket of fries from the sweet troll at the counter, and try not to trip over myself looking at the storm clouds on the ceiling. They seem ready to erupt at any moment, and I hurry toward a table in the far right corner just in time to duck under the umbrella before the misty rain comes down.
“Oh, damn it!” A young wolf curses aloud, spreading his arms over the open books on the table, trying to save them from the downpour.
I watch for a moment, assessing him.
He’s lean and a bit shorter than most, sporting a snow-white coat and simple wire-framed glasses. His eyes are a bright grey, and there are hints of a thick, black tattoo peeking out from the collar of his shirt.
He’s not ugly, but not very handsome either. The kind of boy you can safely show your girlfriends without having to dig up a “better picture.”
I can’t taste his stamina from here, but he looks like he’d yield enough for a good snack. If he took his time.
“Shit,” he mutters.
He’s selected one of the unshaded tables, typically reserved for the merfolk and kelpies, and as he looks around to find that all the shaded tables have been claimed, I call up my glamour.
“You can sit here if you’d like,” I say. “The rain usually lasts about an hour.”
He glances up, peering at me over the top of his wireframe glasses, and blushing up to his eyes.
“Oh, uh…” he stammers. “I-I don’t…”
He looks around again, searching for a different option. When he finds none, he quickly gathers his things and darts over to me, dropping them unceremoniously on the table.
“Thanks,” he mutters.
