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“London Bridge is falling down, falling down, falling down. London Bridge is falling down, is about to fall down.”
My eyebrows climb over my forehead and I can’t help my lips from curling. “Are you singing nursery rhymes?”
Mei’s eyes widen. “You can hear me?” Her voice is high-pitched, rasping, with the slight remnants of an accent.
“It would appear so.”
I reach forward, desperate to grab her hands in mine, but stop short — her touch is caustic. Instead, I clap my own together in front of my chest. “Now tell me everything about you.”
chapter 23
insatiable hunger
teizel
once Esme managed to tune into her sixth sense enough to hear Mei, I wasn’t of much interest to either of them. Esme learns quickly. She’s eager and responsive to direction, and the way she squeezed my arm in gratitude before leaving… no touch so small should cause me such pleasure.
Which is why I’m out here, roaming the wholly uninteresting streets of Hazel Creek. The girl is a walking threat to my self control, and the best I can do to make sure I keep my distance is remain well-fed. Rationally, I know the curse’s pull wouldn’t have left me alone until I engaged with Esmeralda, but a part of me wishes I’d never walked up to her in that cemetery.
A witch is a dangerous thing on its own. A witch whose taste I’ve had on my lips, one who’s broken apart under my touch, one I can’t get out of my head no matter how hard I try, is playing Russian roulette with fate. I can’t let my guard down around Esmeralda like I’ve done before.
It’s a foggy, sticky evening, the threat of rain heavy in the scent of the air, and even the usual spots are quiet. I passed at least two bars and one nightclub, and aside from a few drunkards, found nothing of interest. So I keep walking. The Old Town, I must admit, could have an ounce of charm to it, if everyone inhabiting it didn’t feel so… bland.
I stumble upon a group of people, huddled together by the old Town Hall, brandishing umbrellas like walking canes. They’re circled around a short, brown-skinned woman with unruly curly hair who speaks through a microphone wired around her waist, gesticulating wildly. Tightening my coat around me, I move closer to listen. Turns out it’s a haunted tour, and that brings a smile to my lips. How deliciously fitting.
I follow the curly-haired woman and her group through the meandering alleyways of the Old Town as she tells preposterous but entertaining ghost stories. The fear and excitement cursing through the patrons have standard flavors, like coffee and vanilla. I wouldn’t normally go for such things, but hungry as I am, they stroke my appetite. A few times, she steals a glance my way. She must know I wasn’t part of her original group, or that I haven’t paid whatever fee is due to participate, but doesn’t seem to mind — in fact, she looks curious. I grow bolder after a few stops and push my way through the small crowd until I’m standing in the front row.
Her eyes don’t leave me as she delivers a story about the ghosts that haunt the decommissioned county jail. I give her a mischievous smile and inhale a deep whiff of her scent. Sweet with a note of spice, like gingerbread. Not my first preference, but the specific combination I crave — apricots and olive oil — is off limits. This will have to do.
I follow the tour the rest of the way, continuing to offer the guide encouraging smiles and glances as she bats her eyelashes and shrugs her sweater-covered shoulder at me. It feels like a lifetime later than we land by the cemetery, and the guide thanks and dismisses the group. I hang back until the crowd has dissipated.
“Those were quite the stories,” I tell her.
She crosses her arms over her chest. She’s a short woman, barely tall enough to reach my chest, and has to tip her head to look at me. “Do you believe in ghosts?”
“I believe in a lot of things.”
Her lips quirk in a half-smile. “Mysterious. Just the way I like ‘em.”
I offer her to take a walk. As we stroll through the alleyways, and she talks about how she ended up as a haunted tour guide, I bring her hand to my lips, skating them down her wrist, her forearm. She pushes me in an alcove, demanding my lips on hers.
But it’s not her mouth I want. It holds no interest for me. Instead, I tip her head and find her jugular. As I press my lips there, inhaling the scent of her desire, more ginger than bread, my fangs elongate. With no more than a brief pinch and a gasp on her part, I’m deep in her essence, swimming in her emotions.
I drink the desire first. It’s the best tasting one, spicy and nutty, and this woman is filled with it. I leave enough behind to make sure she can experience the emotion again — if I drained her of it, she’d forget how to feel it. Still hungry, I move on to her excitement. There’s an ounce of lingering fear beneath it all, but I leave it where it is. I find it spoils my meal.
When I pull away from the woman, her eyes are glossy and lips parted. I lean her against the wall before turning to leave.
Her taste lingers on my lips, despite my attempts to wipe it. I wouldn’t go as far as saying she was an unsatisfying meal, but she didn’t quell the hunger deep in my core, and I’m all too certain why. Esmeralda’s scent has been a siren call to me since I first met her. Knowing she’s a witch… it makes a lot of sense.
Memories of feeding from one of her kind haunt me. I know she would keep sated for weeks, months. And I also know I’d go back for more as soon as she’d let me, because she’d be so delicious, so addicting, I couldn’t keep away.
I can’t feed from the little witch because I can’t fall any deeper under her spell. She’s already burrowed under my skin as it is.
When I get home, Meilin is waiting for me in the foyer.
“Where were you?”
“Feeding.”
