Page 9 of The Temptation of Roan Island

The thought grates, not to mention the scent of her illness repels me, but I try to make my voice gentle as I say, “I think you’re intoxicated enough for tonight.”

“Next time?” She dips her chin and gives me a coy smile. “Promise?”

I make no promises, but also don’t deny her. It’ll be easier to get her out of here if she’s not making a scene over wanting my bite.

“Is it just the two of you?” I ask.

“Yes,” Kay says at the same time as Anna says, “Why?”

“No reason.” I take Anna’s arm to lead her away, expecting Kay to follow.

“Would it be alright if… might I… stay?” Kay asks when we reach the door that leads back into the main house.

This is no place for a girl of barely eighteen, but that’s not all she is. She’s also a woman who will likely die in the next year. I won’t dictate where she goes or what she does. Anna is another story. She’s barely awake on my arm, and not all the men here are honorable enough to gain Anna’s consent, especially considering their own state of inebriation.

I sigh and encroach on my sister’s meal. “Zarah.”

She looks up from the neck of the man on whom she’s dining, her mouth coated in a macabre smile. “Brother?”

“Miss Hoff would like to stay. Would⁠—”

“I’d be delighted.” Zarah holds out a hand to Kay before I finish my request. She doesn’t bother wiping the blood from her mouth. This might be a bad idea, but it’s better than leaving the young woman in Jafeth’s care.

With Anna leaning heavily on my arm, I guide her out of the party.

“Finally,” she slurs. “We’re alone.”

“Please don’t read anything into it, Miss Graves.” Truly, don’t. “You need a good night’s sleep.”

“And you can join me.” She places a hand on my torso.

I stop, putting more distance between us, but keeping her close enough that she won’t topple over without my support. “I’m not interested.”

“How do you know without a taste?” She blinks slowly and leans precariously to the left.

“Fuck.” I swoop in and lift her into my arms as she falls.

Passed out.

Once I’ve laid Anna in her bed to sleep off the effects of her inebriation, I linger in the hallway just outside Pippa’s door. Listening. Just to make sure she’s alright. It’s quiet. She’s sleeping, I’m sure, as she should be.

Annoyed by my boredom, I don’t return to the conservatory. Instead, I drift through the house. There's a scent I’m following. A lingering haze of… lemongrass with a hint of sweetness, slightly tinged with something I can’t identify. I pass through the halls and slip past the music room. New moon energy winds me up, as if I were a mechanism, a clockwork toy filled with gears and cogs, and tonight I’m wound too tight. I need something to unwind me.

I turn toward the library, where the scent is strongest. Hopefully, losing myself in a good book will offer the solace I’m seeking. I’ve always been a reader. As a boy, I escaped there, choosing to read over anything else. Noah, while he enjoyed reading, would usually pick science books I wasn’t interested in, or he’d try to get me to do experiments with him. He was always taking things apart and attempting to put them back together, an activity I didn’t enjoy the way he did. Zarah would beg me to play outside with her, pretending we were explorers. She never liked being cooped up, even before our father locked her away. Jafeth followed me around like an exuberant puppy except when I went to the library. He hated the quiet solitude. Over time, it became the one place my siblings rarely followed. The library was my shelter in the chaos of living with my father. But even now that he’s gone, my internal chaos remains.

A dim light flickers into the hallway from the open double doors of my favorite room. With a tilt of my head, I listen and take a deep breath. Inside, a single heart beats, and the scent of verbena and fresh-cut grass fills the air, laced with a bitter note.

Pippa.

My hearts suspend for a moment, crash, then race. My body floods with anticipation, muscles tensing for the chase, claws extending. I stalk to the doorway, seeking what my instincts crave.

She’s in my wing-backed chair. Her head is pressed against the inside wing of the dark green brocade fabric, eyes closed, mouth relaxed in sleep. A knitted afghan—the one I brought down after I saw her shivering yesterday—is draped over her lap. The book she was reading rests on top, her finger holding her place. It’s as if she closed her eyes for a moment and drifted somewhere deeper.

I’ve never seen her this way, relaxed in sleep, vulnerable. She’s always been fragile because of her illness, but she usually hides her weakness behind a steely demeanor. She certainly isn’t weak of spirit. Right now, though, all of her defenses are down.

I move closer, her scent both calling and repelling me. The illness is so pervasive that I’m disgusted I’d want to test that flavor. But my mouth waters, uncaring. My fangs distend.

Before I’m aware I’ve moved, I’m kneeling at her side, running a sharp claw down the length of her arm, covered in the yellow fabric of her dress. How easy it would be to shred the material and uncover her bare skin.