Page 46 of So Thirsty

He wraps his hand around my chewed-up wrist, and he squeezes, snapping the bone.

When I scream, a geyser of blood shoots from my mouth.

“There’s more,” Miri says. “Should we ration?”

“No. No more,” Henry says. “We’re done.”

“But—” Tatiana starts.

“I won’t risk them being weak for the sake of gluttony. It’s done. It’s time to finish.”

He presses his face to my neck and takes a final lick. Then he speaks directly into my ear.

“See you in another life.”

—

I fade out again, and when I come back, it’s with the taste of blood in my mouth. My eyelids are too heavy to lift. I can’t see anything. I can’t feel anything. I can’t hear anything—not voices, not the wind, not the beat of my heart or the whir of blood swimming through my veins. I can’t smell the snow. I can’t smell the lingering of incense in my hair or sweat on my skin. I can’t smell Naomi, her signature vanilla perfume.

There’s nothing except taste.

It’s all there is.

The taste of blood.

I recognize the flavor. It’s familiar but it’s new. The texture silky. Light on my tongue. Warm as whiskey in my throat.

It’s all there is and that’s okay because it’s all I need.

And then it goes away. The taste is gone.

I open my eyes.

Tatiana holds the wooden cup to my lips. That’s what I’ve been drinking. My own blood. The blood Henry siphoned from me.

But I’m not horror-struck. Not sickened or afraid. I’m not at all upset.

I’m thirsty.

As soon as I understand this, the thirst becomes excruciating. It’s louder than a fire alarm, sharper than knives. My skin is bubbling off; my bones are splitting, scraping, grinding my insides; my teeth are exploding, my brain shuddering, and it’s going to rocket out of my skull, seep through my ears and my nostrils, push my eyes out. I know it is. I know. This is unrelenting, to the point where nothing else matters. I’m trapped in the agony.

I’m hot. I’m burning. I’m not imagining it. The snow melts around me. I’d scream if my throat weren’t so dry.

“Let her sweat,” I hear Henry say. “It’s going to be a long night.”

“This one is still cold,” Costel says.

I struggle to keep my eyes open; it’s like I’m pressing them into sand. But I see Naomi half-submerged in snow. She looks hollow, like a deflated balloon. She’s not moving. Not drinking. Elisa’s got the cup and she’s trying to help Naomi drink, but the blood is just spilling out the sides of her limp mouth.

“Careful. Don’t waste it,” Tatiana says.

“Keep trying,” Henry says. “Put her head back. Pour it down.”

My guts are seething, and my skin can’t contain it. I start convulsing, clawing at my throat. My left hand flops loose, my wrist barely held together by whatever remains since Henry destroyed it.

Am I most attracted to the people who are destined to do me the most harm?

I’d forgive him for it, for all of it, forgive anyone for anything, for everything, if I could just get a drink. Just one drink.