Page 28 of The Cannibal

A small splashing sound.

The girl was playing in the water.

Liquid sounds of sloshing and wades turned to pumping and throbs.

I stared at the child. She reached out into the shallow pond for a lily pad, one with a flower that matched her purple dress. The curls of her fine brown hair fell over her shoulder, brushing against her neck. Pump. Pump. Pump.

She splashed again.

Heat burned at the front of my face, and suddenly everything got so hot, so vivid.

My eyes strained periodically, then more frequently, as if syncing with my heartbeats . . . or with her pulse.

My stomach turned and lurched.

I was so hot.

So agitated.

Ravenous.

I left quickly, running from the overstimulation, all the colors, the light. I had to hide myself under a weeping tree on an outer path. Under the cover of thick trees and shrubs of the greenhouse, I could be in peace until I was well again.

With palms pressed to my face, I took deep, grounding breaths.

Stop. You’re all right. Nothing will happen. Calm yourself.

I reached over to a holly bush, chewing on the bitter leaves to stop my body from making me chew on something else. My palms were clammy, I couldn’t stop shaking. I was colder than before with this sudden sickly spell.

“Ma’am,” someone said.

I pulled a few more leaves from the bush.

“Ma’am, you can’t eat those, they’re poison . . .” Is someone speaking to me?

Reluctantly, I looked over my shoulder.

A man in coveralls, supposedly someone who worked for the garden. When our eyes met, he looked as if he was faced with some nightmare.

My eyes were burning, every color was so bright, every sound was so loud, and the light was straining my eyes.

My mouth itched, I could barely feel the bit of spit running down my chin.

He moved quickly.

But I couldn’t stop it now.

When he stumbled back, I grabbed him by his clothing, slamming his chest against mine before I went for it.

His throat.

My fangs scraped forward, the sensation of shifting teeth made them itch, the urge to sink them into his throat was too great—and it was done.

The pressure of my canines sinking into his skin elicited a whimper from me, and the soreness eased. Then a pop as they dug through the trachea, and his throat was crushed.

My mouth flooded with blood, the warmth not registering until I gulped. Each swallow sent a flourishing warmth through my limbs.

But then it hit my stomach.