Page 20 of Sore Throat, Slight Fever

Or the infinitely practical, “Carry your keys in your hand so that you don’t have to fumble through your purse if someone tries to attack you in the parking lot.” Calliope has since learned that keys, held between fingers in a fist, also help in such a situation.

The ones about vampires were few and only a handful appear to be accurate.

They’re faster than a jungle cat.She thinks of Rory’s ability to appear suddenly at the top of the stairs without the sound of heavy footfalls.

They’re so strong they could uproot this entire house with just a flick of their hands.Rory broke the iron chain with zero amount of obvious exertion.

Vampires can only bite virgins.Patently not true. The bite may no longer show on her neck, but she remembers the feeling of his lips on her pulse, and she is no virgin.

The sun will as good as kill them.Calliope is still uncertain about this, but Rory doesn’t seem concerned about the sunlight, and Kane’s laugh from earlier leads her to believe that if not entirely false, it’s notentirely true either.

She adds Kane’s words to this list:The curse of a vampire is always dominant.

She closes her eyes briefly, feeling for the Ether, searching for the dark nothingness of it, and finds it a comforting presence at her back. The water in the tub begins to freeze. If the Ether, or Quintessence as Kane called it, is still available to her, then surely that means she is still a witch?

Her Hunger suddenly sits up, all patience lost. With ears perked and teeth barred, the beast snaps its teeth with a roar that shakes her rib cage.

Calliope rolls her eyes. “Yes, alright. Hold your horses. I’m getting out.”

* * *

Calliope can hear Rory pacing in the kitchen, as she pauses at the bottom of the stairs. She deposits her boots by the front door (where they belong, her grandma would say), and she walks barefoot down the hallway. Through the gap between the door and the checkerboard tiles, she can see Rory’s bulky shadow as it moves back and forth. She gently pushes the door open.

“Give her a moment,” Kane is saying. “She was mortal two days ago. She needs time to adjust.”

Rory runs a hand through his hair and mumbles something she can’t hear. Whatever it is, he says ittwice, and she just catches the words the second time around, “This was a mistake.”

She clears her throat.

He turns, like a caught animal. For a moment, he looks vaguely surprised by her presence, but then his eyebrows knit together, and he angles his head toward the table, where two jars of blood wait.

She hesitates, biting her lower lip as she looks down at the red liquid. “Where…where did you say it comes from again?”

“Clayton Farm. On the other side of town.” Rory guides her closer to the chair, the coldness of his skin seeping through the thin material of her dress. The touch is brief.

She sits stiffly in the chair, hands folded in her lap. The window is open, and a gentle afternoon breeze dances its way into the kitchen. “And what…kind is it?”

“Cow.” Rory settles in across from her, the movement so incredibly domestic—just two people settling down for a meal—that she almost wants to laugh.

“Do you ever…” She nervously traces the lip of the jar, eyes lowered. “Do you ever drink hu—”

“Not if I can help it,” he says gruffly.

She looks up, eyes wide. “But what about…” The word seems to stick in the back of her throat. “Mine?”

Rory’s eyes dart to the window and then back to her. “I had to drink some, to start the transformation, but I didn’t—I would never—”

She nods quickly, ready to bring them both out of this awkward haze that has settled between them. “How often do you drink?”

“Twice a day. Sunrise and sunset.” He picks up his glass. “Stop stalling.” He brings it to his lips and takes a sip. She watches his throat bob.

Her Hunger is poised inside of her, claws digging into her consciousness, a current ofwantmoving through her bones. The pain in her throat and teeth pulses as her lip touches the glass, ice cold against her febrile skin. Rory is taking another sip, but she can feel his eyes on her as she tips the jar back. Kane, who is perched on the windowsill, is watching her intently, too. She sees the slight ruffle of wings out of the corner of her eye.

Her Hunger, the many-eyed beast, is standing alert, tail swishing dangerously back and forth. She closes her eyes as the liquid slides down her throat. The metallic taste is chased by an earthiness she can’t quite place, a green flavor that is not wholly unpleasant. Palatable to an extent.

But the flavor is inconsequential to the feeling of it spreading through her chest like honeyed sunshine. The ache in her teeth subsides with each sip. She forgets her audience. She forgets herself as she knocks the glass back in one smooth motion, throat desperate for the relief the thick liquid provides. It coats her teeth, her lips. She licks the edge of the jar with eyes closed, feeling almost as if she’s floating.

And then heat rushes up her neck and ears when she comes to, and the harsh reality of the hard wood chair brings her back to the kitchen in a vampire’s house beside a lake, the rough-hewn metal of her manacles cutting into her skin.

---