Page 33 of Sore Throat, Slight Fever

She huffs, disbelieving. “Youinsisted on the two-week deadline so I could show you that I won’t become a blood-hungry killer.”

His eyes flash at her. “Yeah, and you sunk your teeth right into the first human you came across.”

Her mouth drops open at his reference to Officer Burton, his words hitting her like lightning. “That’s hardly fair,” she begins to say, even though she doesn’t quite believe it. “You said he was fine.” Although the memory of her biting Burton is still buried, she can still feel its weight inside of her mind, and the soil covering it is soaked in shame.

“Maybe we should amend the agreement. You’re staying here until you can prove that you won’t bite a non-consenting human,andyou won’t hurt yourself in the meantime.”

The wordnon-consentingseems to echo in her head and there it is again, the seeping mass of weeds pushing through the soil. Shame bubbles up inside of her, and she blinks back tears as she pushes past him, feeling a small twinge of satisfaction as the house slams the door behind her.

She races up the stairs, annoyed that she hasn’t gained the graceful speed that Rory possesses, and collapses on the couch in her room, burying her face in her hands as she cries. She sobs, heedless of the noises wracking their way out of her throat, her whole bodyon fire with a cureless fever.

She cries until she feels wrung dry, and with blood-tinged cheeks, she unpeels her clothing and slips into a chilly bath. In a moment, she will immerse herself in her Mind’s Eye and begin the arduous task of, once again, burying the memory of Officer Burton, but, for now, she leans back, cataloging her body. Her awareness travels down her torso, to the tips of her fingers, her knees, her toes.

There is a hesitant knock on the door.

“Hey. Calliope,” Rory begins. She hears him shift nervously and imagines his hands going to his pockets—his go-to stance when he’s nervous about something. Nervous abouther. Is he really that afraid of her? “I’m heading off to work. I poured you a glass. It’s in the fridge. Can you—if you need anything, you know where the number is.”

She knows he had been about to tell her to stay inside. That he changed tact at the last second does little to lessen the sting of his words from earlier. She doesn’t reply and a few moments later, she hears the sounds of his car starting, tires crunching against the dirt as he maneuvers the hunk of rusty metal away from the house.

Then, she slides underneath the water and begins reburying the memory of the time shesank her teeth right into the first human she came across.

18

An Invitation Accepted

Calliope

Night has truly descended by the time she finds Kane in the library. Officer Burton is buried deeper this time, and she presses a hand to her chest in hopes that it stays that way.

Kane is sitting in a pool of light cast by the reading lamp, an open book in front of him. “He didn’t mean it, you know,” he says, turning the page with his beak. “You are not a killer. And I think you’ve proven well enough that you are unlike any other vampires out there. He’s a natural born worrier, so to speak.” He turns another page. “And anyway, I would say his actions are more important than his words.”

She tries to take Kane’s words to heart, but even with the memory buried, there is still a lingering sense of it, like an echo of a thought. She fingersthe corner of a book, a ruby-red cotton cover with a silver symbol pressed into the spine. The iron manacles slide against the table, leaving a thin white scuff mark.

“Why did he Turn me?” she asks quietly—so quietly that she’s worried, and yet half-hopeful, that Kane might not have heard her.

Kane turns another page. “He thought you were pretty.”

It’s not the answer she is expecting, and she looks up at the bird, startled. “And he goes around turning every pretty girl that crosses his path, I suppose.”

“I should say not,” replies the bird. “As far as I know, he hasn’t turned anyone in centuries.” Kane looks up, head cocked to the side. “I don’t know that he’s Turned anyone since…well, I’ll let him tell that particular story.”

She narrows her eyes. “And you know all this…how, exactly?”

“There are a handful of mentions of him in various histories of the Blood Wars and at least one unauthorized biography.”

“Does he ever talk about them? The Blood Wars?”

“No,” admits Kane sadly. “But I’m sure he would tell you, if you asked.”

“Why? Because I’m pretty?”

“Yes,” Kane replies, simply.

She scoffs, realizing that she won’t get much else out of Kane. She changes the topic.

“How can I help you?”

Kane clicks his beak in the direction of the red book. “Start reading.”

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