Page 37 of Vervain

Shadows ooze from the cracks around the door like hair caught in the wind. Thin tendrils lower as I raise my hand and knock on the metal. The clang rings out, stinging my ears. “Serun, are you awake?” Darkness quivers, trembling at the sound of my voice.

“Yes. Do you need something?”

I open my mouth, wanting to tell him I don’t want to be alone. But I don’t want to tell him about the nightmare—ghosts of my haunted past. I’d rather leave it alone.

I pick at the skin around my fingernails, and my focus shifts to the door leading to the other carriage. Pir Avacen whispers in my ear. “Did you bring food for me to eat? I’m starving.”

“It’s in the fridge.”

I scan the room.

“Chest fridge beside the door, but it may look like a bench to you.”

Lowering my focus, I nod when I find the wooden box by the door, then face his room again. “Is everything okay?”

A breathy laugh comes from within. “Fine, kamai. I’m just…thirsty…” he says in a grainy, low voice.

Hair prickles across my neck. I cup my hand against the nape, where he once bit me. The memory of his fangs returns, sinking into my flesh like butter. His toxins made me high. Submissive.

Lustful.

“Oh, did you need me to uh…get you…something?”

“How motherly of you—but I am fine,” he says, and I sense the smile on his face.

“I will leave you be then.”

My ear twitches at a disappointed sigh, but I step away and to the fridge. Wisps of frost appear as I lift the lid, only for my skin to glow red. On one side of the compartment is full of blood bags, and the other has a few cans of human food.

Swallowing the sudden lump in my throat, I ignore the blood and grab a chilled can, twisting it around to see the label: chopped fruit. I can’t recall the last time I ate fruit. The Bleeders usually gave us a high-protein diet.

Closing the lid, the carriage rocks and I stumble, grabbing the door for support. It clicks and slides open as I fall to my knees, the can rolling away into the darkness beyond Serun’s carriage.

Fuck that.

I reach to close the door, abandoning the lost can, when another door deeper in the carriage opens and light spills out. Olivia appears, her brown hair a mess, pulled in different directions. She grabs at the sleeve of her torn shirt, disgust curdling on her face as she storms into the room opposite, slamming the door behind her.

My eyes narrow at the laughter coming from the room Olivia just left.

A hollow sigh escapes me and I enter the darkness.

The canned fruit doesn’t matter anymore.

I should keep to myself. Should stay inside the carriage with Serun and not interfere in problems that aren’t mine. But I’m reminded of all the times I prayed for anything, even Mother, to save me when the hand of my Blessed was raised high.

My feet are light on the floor as I creep into the carriage. On my right, next to the door Olivia went through, there’s a clear, oval glass window. She is in a sort of balcony area, leaning against the railing, overlooking the murky ocean. Tendrils of smoke swirl near her fingers. Olivia tips her head back, puts her fingers to her mouth, and takes a long drag on a cigarette. A bandage covers her arm. Rust coloured blood already seeps through the fabric.

“Why did you bid on her if you hate everything she does? You could have let Lord Serun kill her,” a voice speaks with a disinterested drawl from the room to the left.

“I wanted a barista, but she spilled every drink, and A-negative blood doesn’t come cheap. Few Feeders topside have it anymore. I hope more breed together to keep the trait alive.”

“Then use her for something else. You have a month before she is no longer a newborn. Entertain yourself until then. It is what I am doing with mine, and he does not complain…much.”

This is what I assumed nightwalkers were like—monsters. All they care about are themselves. Everyone else doesn’t fucking matter.

I soundlessly slide the door open. The two men face away from me, seated on rich maroon chairs, a television screen holding their gaze.

My focus settles on Olivia’s master. I step closer, then stop when movement in the corner catches my attention. A man is balancing a bottle of thick red wine and two glasses on a serving tray. Dark brown eyes look away, his lips pressing thin and his grip tightening.