Page 21 of The Blood we Crave: Part Two

My dearest Scarlett, my beautiful, wonderful Scarlett.

I hope these memories remind you of how special your addictive heart is. How the way you love is a gift to be cherished.

I love you across oceans and mountains, my strange girl.

Xo, Mom.

Beyond the dedication, there are several pictures of Lyra through the many stages of childhood. A scrapbook of her youth. I thumb through her as a baby, stopping to run along the edges of a particular one of her as a toddler.

Lyra’s small, barely five, in a dress covered in stars. Her hair is twisted up into two high buns, and the smile across her young face is blinding. If someone asked me what I thought pure happiness looked like, I’d show them this.

Her mother, Phoebe, is sitting on the ground next to her, holding the tail end of a snake while Lyra holds the upper half. They look so similar, especially now that Lyra has grown into her features.

It’s these moments where I can quietly admire all she is, not having to worry about hiding my appreciation of her peculiar ways. It’s in these hours of the morning that I give myself some leeway, and I am soft.

Weak for her.

A noise coming from the kitchen disrupts my snooping. I’m quick to snap the photo album closed but not before slipping the picture into my pocket. My brows are furrowed as I reach into my pocket for a knife, but I find them empty.

I flex my fingers, anger sinking deep into my gut. Would that measly copycat killer just waltz into her home? Did he know I was here? Lyra would have screamed if something happened, right?

This amateur is starting to irritate me, toying with me like he had the right or ability to stand toe to toe with me. I’m not sure who he is, but I do know when I find out, I will take immense pleasure in him watching how a master works.

His flesh seared by my blade. Body chopped into pieces, slowly. I’ll clean and cauterize the blood vessels so he lasts longer. A chill runs down my spine as I think about setting up a mirror so he can watch as I cut him up. Bury my hand into his gut and use his intestines as decoration.

I miss killing, long for the power.

Have gone far too long without making sweet, deathly music.

I can already see the notes on the page for the concerto I’ll create for him.

When I come around the corner to the open kitchen, my torture plan fizzles out because instead of a cold-blooded killer, I find a warm-blooded one in its place.

Lyra is humming.

“Salt and the Sea” by Gregory Alan Isakov. Originally sung by the Lumineers, and a song I know without my consent. Her latest fixation, it seems.

She sits crisscross on the island, a blanket pulled over her shoulders and a book tucked in her lap. The dim light of a lamp nearby casts a glow across her face, showing off her cherub face and a few curls that poke out from the hood pulled over her head. I lean against the entryway, biting my tongue as I catch a peek at the faded tattoo across the front of her ankle.

Nevermore.

The perfect wicked concoction of macabre and beautiful. It’s easy to stand out amongst the world of the living, but Lyra, sweet Scarlett, she is life that spins through graveyards. A face that echoes across the dead. Beauty so divine death can’t bring himself to touch her.

My hands buzz with an itch as she picks up a cherry, staining the tips of her fingers before turning the page, transferring the sticky substance to the page.

A drop of red juice slips from her lips, dripping down her chin.

I’ve never been so hungry for cherries. I crave the taste of them on her tongue, her skin. My groin tightens with desire, and these loose sweatpants do little to conceal how starved I am for her.

“If this was a horror movie,” I say, “you’d be dead.”

“I was being nice and letting you finish staring.” She yawns, stretching her arms above her head and exposing the skin of her lower stomach.

My jaw tightens, and something warm burns my face. A knowing grin tugs at the corner of her lips as she lazily pulls her eyes from the book, unshaken by my arrival.

The smile fades once she sees me, drops as quickly as it arrived, and I can feel the heat of her gaze tracing my naked upper half with a look of unashamed attraction. Lust glazes over her eyes, and she does nothing to hide it.

Owns it.

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