Page 90 of This Vicious Hunger
I’ve been gone from the garden for less than a few hours and already I have proved Olea’s fears to be true. If that girl had not woken when she did… I shudder to think of what I would have done. I have visions—of teeth pincering her tender flesh, the taste of her sweet blood on my tongue. Down my throat. In my belly.
The fire that burns there shames me, but beneath it lies the hot coal bed ofneed. I should have tried one of her parents, the blackberry mother—
I’m glad I didn’t hurt the girl, but I can’t pretend I don’t regretthe rest. The walk to the village and back has left me frailer than ever. My mind is abuzz, a cacophony of pleas.Feed me. Feed me. Feed me.
“Shut up,” I growl, thrusting my palm at my forehead. It is smeared with blood from the healing injury on my arm. Healing, not healed. I inspect the wound cautiously, pulling at the skin. It is red and puffy, the tear leaving a scar. This can’t be good.
What will I say to Olea? “Sorry, darling, I broke your trust to go on an adventure and am returning home with—nothing.” Not blood, not the antidote, not even a fucking leg of lamb. I chuckle darkly, careless now that I’m back in familiar territory. The square spreads before me like a moonlit piazza. I remember standing in this same spot only months ago, life and possibility spreading before me.
I come to a stop as a new scent overwhelms me. My nostrils flare. My heart beats fast, faster than it has since the transformation. I’d almost forgotten what it feels like to be so, so—alive.
My head jerks in the direction of the deliciousness. It comes in wafts, faint at first but then stronger. Notes of oak-smoked whisky, barrels of the stuff, overriding the subtler scents of salt and honey and chilli-flaked whipped feta. I inhale deeply. This isn’t the same as what happened with Leo, not even the same as the travel-worn family in the inn. This is strong. It’s fresh. It’s…
I see him. It’s a man, I think, a dark pool of scholar’s robes on the other side of the square. A puddle. He’s on the floor, unmoving andinjured. It’s the blood I can smell, leaking from the gash on his head. Beside his crumpled body lies a bicycle, handlebars bent and twisted around his leg.
I’m moving before I know it, bare feet gliding across the cobbles. I don’t bother to hide in the shadows of the building or trees; I cut straight through the square, nightgown flapping against mylegs. The air is full of the taste of him. He’s not just injured, I realise. He’s drunk as well.
I halt just beside him. My toes grip at the stones underfoot as I try to steady myself, the headiness enveloping me. It isn’t like Leo. It isn’t like the child and her parents. It is asign.
I did not want to cause the others pain. Leo was an accident, pure instinct. The child… This proves I can control myself—doesn’t it?
This man is already bleeding. If I can find a vial or pot of some sort I can take what I need without hurting him. He’s drunk too, maybe even unconscious. It won’t hurt him—and it could save Olea’s life.
Desperately I search about for something to put the blood in. My blood thrums, heartbeat urging me on. Faster, faster. There is no time. Olea—every second I waste is one that might end her.
I navigate the man’s body, keeping my distance in case he wakes. In the basket of his bicycle he has books and a sandwich pail—empty—plus a pot of ink with a stopper that’s somehow survived his crash. That will do in a pinch, but it isn’t clean. I reach for it jerkily and then stop myself. No, it’s too risky. I don’t know enough about the antidote and I won’t get a second chance.
Then I spot the jar. It’s rolled out of the basket, or perhaps out of his hand, and come to rest beneath the nearest tree, nestled amongst its grass-laden roots. Small, about the size of the L of my index finger and thumb, the jar is perfectly straight. Somehow this, too, survived the crash.A sign, a sign.
I rush to it, frantically grappling to pick it out of the dirt. I smell it; a mixture of booze and spiced cloves assaults my nostrils. It’s amarthal—a sour whisky and apple cider blend that is notoriously potent. That’s as clean as I’m going to get.
I don’t have time to waste. I don’t havetime.
The closer I get to the man, the stronger the smell of his blood becomes. There is an iron taste to it under it all, but still whisky barrels and chilli feta. Garlic—I can taste that too. I’ll just lean in and press the jar to the wound, careful not to touch his skin, careful—
The scent of him pounds at my skull. It envelops me. It is a crashing wave, swallowing me down into the ocean bed. I struggle, mouth closed, lips clamped tight. I try not to breathe. This is Olea’s. It’s for her.
But I can’t. And, oh, I don’t want to do this. The fight is too much. But—he won’t feel it, I promise myself. It’s for Olea. It’s worth it. I’ll just move his head, just once, that’s all I need.
I grab his chin with one hand and twist his neck so it is arched towards the moon. The man groans.Olea, I think. ForOlea. The smell of him only makes me hungrier, ravenous, the pain so large I can’t stop. It isn’t just for Olea. My body screams with the need.
I’ve dropped the jar. His skin touches mine and the singing is in my blood. I can feel the thrum of his blood in his veins, pulse-pulsing just below the skin. Thin skin. Salted like whipped feta.
Without thinking I push his head farther, popping his neck so I have better access. Pulse. Pulse. I graze his flesh with my teeth. Sink them in. Oh, the taste of him is glorious.This is it, whispers the voice.You need blood, fresh blood, and LOOK. Your body can cure itself. It is a marvel. A wonder. You are a GOD. You might not even need the stinging tree. This is a cure all its own.
It is glorious. Like the golden heat of sunlight warming my bones. Like a tummy full of fresh bread and butter after a vicious illness. Like the end of pain, a soft white light, it fills me up.
I drink deep and sate my hunger well.
It doesn’t hurt. That’s the first thing I notice. Unlike the original cure, this melding of my body and his blood is entirely painless. The taste of him fills me up and I amstrong.
I stumble back from the man, finally coming to my senses. I’m drenched in his blood; it is on my hands, in my hair, and drips down the front of my nightgown. More of the ruby liquid spills from his neck—two jagged wounds carved into his flesh that ooze and gape. My teeth. These aren’t like the practised bite marks I inflict on Olea during our love; these are crude and uneven, tears that glisten with red and the pink flesh inside.
Mechanically I reach for the jar. The edges of the wounds are green-black, tiny dark veins reaching out to the paler skin. They look like—vines.
It is only when I’ve filled the jar halfway with blood, when I’ve wiped my hands on the cleanest part of my nightgown, when I’ve checked the man’s pulse and found it lacking—only then that I realise what I have done.
I sit back on my haunches, horror and panic filling every part of me. My nose is clogged with the salted scent of him, my tongue thick with his precious lifeblood. I run it along my teeth as I grip my knees, flexing my fingers and feeling their same loose-limbed smoothness, rocking back and forth and sensing the core of my body grow taut and strong once more. I’m going to be sick.
