I drink deeper, and I want more.
The instinct to take everything surges up so fast it's dizzying, but the alarm in the back of my mind blares. I pull back before I lose the thread of control.
Her blood trails down her neck, red against pale skin. The sight claws at the predator in me, whispering:Go back. More. Just one more taste.
I close my eyes.
Breathe.
Sage shifts, easing off my lap to give me space.
"Do I need to shoot you?" she asks.
When I look up, she's standing over me. Gun pointed downward, stance ready. Calm, but prepared.
"Not today," I murmur. "Are you all right?"
She touches her neck, examining the wound. "Yeah. It'll heal fast. It's not much." She tilts her head. "You?"
I scan myself internally. "A lot. All at once. Smells are… louder. And there's a sort of disorientation, like I'm adjusting to a different gravity."
She nods toward the kitchen. "Come on. Let's test it."
I return the gun to the safe and follow her.
Even before I step inside, the air feels different. The lingering scent of coffee grounds, the faint sweetness of ripe fruit—these were facts before. Now they're experiences.
Sage rifles through the cabinets and fridge, collecting an eclectic mix: dark chocolate, peanut butter, fresh blueberries, a bit of fudge. She places them on the counter like offerings to some strange new god.
"It should taste different now," she says, smiling. "I don't know how fast it kicks in."
"Let's find out."
I peel open the chocolate first. The scent alone stops me. Sharp, rich, and sweet. Like the memory of something I didn't know I'd forgotten.
I take a bite and groan. The layers. The depth. The bitter and sweet. The way it melts into the edges of my tongue.
Sage's eyes light up. She claps her hands, delighted. "It's working!"
"Oh, it's working," I say, voice lower now.
I scoop a bit of peanut butter onto another piece and try it together. It's obscene how good it is. I move down the line—berries, fudge. Each thing more vibrant, more real.
As I eat, I murmur, "I thought I remembered what things tasted like. That I'd retained the essence, even after centuries. I was wrong."
She watches me quietly, a softness in her gaze I haven't seen before.
"Or maybe," I add, "your essence makes everything taste better."
I don't say the wordblood. Because what I just tasted—what she chose to give me—wasn't a substance. It was a miracle.
"What's next?" she asks, eyes sparkling.
She's enjoying this almost as much as I am. Maybe more.
"Everything," I answer.
We tear through the kitchen like unsupervised teenagers: cereal, yogurt, marshmallows I didn't even know we had, sour candies, honey, the remnants of a caramel sauce from someone's birthday last fall. Each taste is another shock of sensation, another rediscovery of something I thought I lost forever.
