Page 76 of Blood Lovers

“What?” I turn back and find him looking at me with sleepy, red eyes, his skin pale and sweaty.

But he’s smiling. Kind of. As best as he can, since he’s only half-conscious. “I just need to sleep it off, that’s all. I’ll come by your place for dinner. OK?”

I let out a breath, close the door, and walk over to him. Looking down at his wrecked body.

He’s dying, Syrsee.

And he is.

Even if I wasn’t told that, I can see it.

He’s not getting out of this bed. He’s not.

He’s dying.

And there is only one thing that will save him.

He will make you offers you can’t turn down.

My grandma’s words come back to me now. She was right.

And it’s not even that good of an offer. I mean, I’m not getting anything out of this other than a clear conscience that I didn’t turn my back on a dying man. A man who has been hunting me for my blood.

I have every right to leave him like this. I do.

But I won’t.

I sit down on the bed next to him and pull the aspirin out of my coat pocket. “Can you take these?”

He nods. Kind of.

“Open your mouth.”

He does and I drop two tablets on his tongue. He crunches down, making me wince at the imagined bitterness, then swallows. “Thank you.”

His eyes are ready to close again, so I hurriedly say, “Ryet?” to keep him awake.

“Hmm?”

“I met your… friend.” His eyes are closed now. “Ryet? Can you hear me?”

He’s already asleep.

I wanted this last conversation because if he asked me—if he was able to ask me for what he needs—then I wouldn’t have to take responsibility for this choice. I could blame it on him.

And now I can’t.

If I feed him, this is my decision.

I get up, walk over to the little kitchenette, open the one drawer, find a knife, turn the gas stove on, hold the blade in the flame, and watch the metal turn bright orange.

Then I walk back over to Ryet, cut a one-inch gash across the fleshy part of my right palm near my thumb, and let the blood flow. Then I hold it over the small opening between his lips and let it trickle in.

He doesn’t move. Not for almost a minute. Then he swallows the pool of blood in his mouth and lifts his head up with closed eyes, blindly searching for the source.

I lower my hand down to his mouth and watch as lips seal around my cut and he sucks on me. After only a few moments, he’s strong enough to reach up and grab my hand with both of his, holding it possessively, like he’s afraid I will pull the blood away.

I expect him to get stronger. To sit up, to feel better. And he looks better.