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“To hurt you,” she roars, throwing the wine bottle against the wall. It shatters, an explosion of ruby painting the bare white wall. Marcella spins, her eyes burning. “I will not do it. I promised myself I wouldn’t. And even though every single cell of my body wants to take you to pieces, to make you scream again and again, to call out my name for mercy as I drag you to the edge, I will not.” Her teeth clack together as she tightens her jaw. “I will not harm you. I can’t even begin—” Her hesitancy doesn’t suit her; it makes me want to scream.

So I do.

“Do you want me? Do you even like me? Or am I just another convenient meal for you to have next door whenever you get hungry?” I throw the meanest jabs I have, my ugliest fears growing cancerous and rank inside of me.

Marcella draws up, face shadowing.

“Damn it, Lacie,” she hisses. “Don’t you hear me? Want—do I want you? I want you like I—like I haven’t wanted anyone in my whole fucking life!” She presses the heels of her hands to her eyes, and for a second I think she’s started to cry. But when she drops her palms again, she’s full of rage, her jaw set, her eyes dry. “I told myself this was a mistake. I went against all my better judgment to try and help you, and this is fucking why. I want to swallow you whole. I want to put you in my bed and keep you there until the walls of this world shake apart. But I am a monster, Lacie. And right now, all I know is the clawing, endless hunger inside of me. You’re too fucking good for me, lamb, and I—I don’t know—”

She chokes on her words, fists opening and closing. She’s as undone as I’ve ever seen her, as helpless.

There’s nothing I can do.

Quiet echoes between us. The tendrils of need pull away, painful bit by painful bit, until I’m hollow and empty and fully alone in my head. Tears prick my eyes as I take the sweatshirt where it fell onto the couch. I put it on like I’m made of glass, my skin a hair’s breadth from shattering. And Marcella doesn’t even look at me. She doesn’t make so much as a sound. She just stares into the dark of her apartment, her eyes chasing across the glitter of broken green glass and dripping wine dregs.

“What now?” I ask, my voice roughened but soft.

Marcella closes her eyes. “I’m going to bed. Tomorrow, we can talk over next steps. Preston is no longer safe for me, or for you. For anyone, truly. I am sure that our leaving the Winter Ball after-party will bear some consequence. Until I can confirm your safety … I think it’s best we don’t … don’t do whatever this is.”

The world swims in front of my eyes. The whiplash between need and hunger and hatred and fear is too much, the wine pulling my body like putty. “I understand.”

But I don’t. I don’t know how my life turned into this. All I want is to press my lips to hers again and lose myself in our frantic, gasping hunger. But the insistence, the pleading, is gone, all smoke and mirrors.

“In the morning, let us meet for coffee as usual. The Perk’s open early on Saturdays. We can … we can talk then. Alright?”

I stand up and zip the sweatshirt. “I’ll get this back to you tomorrow? I’ll wash it—”

Marcella snorts. “No. Please, don’t. When I get it back, if it smells like you … If it smells like your need, maybe that’ll be enough to … to sate me.” She glances at me, her fists tightening, her muscles all tensed like she might spring for me, panther in hunt.

I gather a breath into my lungs and take a step back. I should be afraid. I shouldn’t want. I should flee this room and thank fuck we didn’t end up in bed together, twisting over each other, screaming for each other, because she’s right. She’s right: she could really have hurt me. She could kill me.

I know the tales. Hell, I’ve studied them myself, brought them to their little constituent pieces, their syllables and their rhyme schemes and their etymological meanings. I know what she is, how she seduces and takes what she needs to survive. If I didn’t see it before, I do now.

My hand presses to the punctured bruise at the hollow of my collarbone, the wound pulsing strangely. When I pull my fingers away, they’re painted red with my own blood. A terrified squeak breaks through my lips.

Marcella nods, her claws sharpening, her teeth peeking from behind her lips. Her eyes shine green, her skin a haze of misty color. Her body is doing something—strange. Shuddering, changing, in ways I can’t grasp. My eye can’t track it: the ripple of something under her skin, the crack of her jaw, the murderous growl wrenching from her chest. She takes a stiff step toward me, jerky and hard-won. Whatever is happening, she’s fighting hard against it—and losing the battle.

“Marcella?” I whimper.

“Go,” she grits out. “Leave.”

Tears breaking the dam of my lids, I spin and flee, the door shuddering closed behind me.

TWENTYMarcella

Contrary to popular belief, most monsters, whether they’re vampire or vættr or draugr, don’t just turn into their monstrous forms. That transformation isn’t a conscious choice, and I will forever hate Dracula and all the attendant fiction about him for pretending like the undead are anything other than what we are: beasts.

Beasts full of self-loathing and power who are likely holding their human forms together with spit and twine (and maybe some blood).

Bellatrix watches me in the reflection of my vanity mirror as I brush my hair into a high ponytail.

“What?” I query, cocking an eyebrow.

She blinks at me but doesn’t come any closer. I know she hates it when I turn into my true form near her. And who wouldn’t? Even Lacie fled.

Granted, I told her to. I scared her on purpose. But I was this close to—

Swallowing hard, I peel the wrapper of my Snickers bar and chomp down, letting the sticky caramel between my teeth soothe me. Back to normal for now. No needle-sharp incisors splitting my soft palate, no spreading green glow. No rapacious void inside of me, feverish and needful. It’s not moving. It’s not screaming.