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Oz guides me toward the humans who are standing there, unmoving. Lights are on in their faces, but no one is home. It’s eerie, seeing them as shells of themselves. “Study them, smell them, and if biting them would please you, then you know you’ve picked a good one.”
Excuse me,smellthem?
This is kind of gross.
“How do I know if biting them will please me?” This all sounds simple, but I still don’t know what he means.
Noting my confusion, he walks behind a human and inhales deeply, demonstrating. “Their scent will stir your thirst.”
Okay…
I can feel his eyes on me as I select. I pass a woman who looks like she could be a teacher. She didn’t smell any special kind of way. A man in a suit with his hair slicked back. He smells disgusting to me. No idea what that means. Then finally, a man in his mid-twenties, whose smell tingles the back of my throat. I look him over. He is average in every single way imaginable. Not unattractive but not particularly good-looking. I stare into his brown eyes. They are far away, unseeing. “This one,” I tell Oz. I tug the human’s hand, imitating Charlee, and lead him to the living room.
Oz follows behind with his selection, another young man, but this one looks like he just stepped off the military bus. He sits on the couch and pulls his human to it. The man sat willingly. “This is the part where you decidehowyou want to drink. Some people prefer wrists, others necks, and some find the femoral artery is one that they particularly enjoy.” He stares pointedly at Charlee in the corner. I follow the direction of his eyes and raise my eyebrows. Charlee has pulled the pants off her human and latched her lips to her thigh. By the look on the woman’s face, it is quite enjoyable to be fed from that particular location.
I make a note of it for a later time.
Oz laughs at my expression. “The neck is traditional,” he says softly. “To the casual observer, you could be kissing, and it’s the easiest start for most new vampires.”
The neck. Not in my five days of memory have I ever found a neck so imposing. Usually, when I picture necks, it comes with an image of Oz kissing mine.
I look at the man’s jugular and take a deep breath. I get a strong sense to feed from there. The raw and primal part of me is awakening, and she is thrilled by being allowed to feed from a living being instead of a blood bag.
“Neck it is,” I said.
Oz pulls his lips back from his teeth and raises his human’s wrist to his mouth. He slowly sinks his teeth down, and I watch as they penetrate through effortlessly. I don’t need to know the science, I just need to do it.
Sitting beside him, his neck is at an awkward angle. I look around, everyone is feeding now, and they are family, nothing to be embarrassed about, right? I swing my leg over and straddle my human. I can feel his heart beating in his chest as I press closer. I rest my mouth against his neck and felt his pulse. Pulling my lips back like Oz had done, I gingerly bear down with my teeth.
A warm gush of blood is my reward. My lips acting like a seal against his skin as I drink. He tastes good. A moan escapes me as I savor the taste, my eyes rolling back into my head. I grip my human’s waist tightly. His blood is delicious, flavored with something I couldn’t put my finger on.
Desire?
Fear?
Do emotions flavor humans like wine?
Oh, what a delicious wine he is, pouring into my mouth hot and thick. I have chosen a very juicy spot, indeed. I pull from him what I need, what will sustain me. Closing my eyes, I can feel the rawness of the blood lust slithering into me, wanting me to drain the very last drop out of him.
The other Wren whispers sweet promises of what could be if I let go. If I let her in.
Surrender control.
She is seductive and compelling, and it would be oh-so-easy to step aside and let her in. I don’t want to. This is my body, my mind, not hers.
You don’t belong here. I do.
She’s lying. We are supposed to be one. I belong here as much as she does.
Almost as if she is pacing a cage, I feel her desperation to rise to the surface, to be released. She whispers more to me. Promises of pleasure, swearing how much easier it will be for us if we rely on her instincts.
My brows knit together as I feed. The war inside my mind is something only I can be aware of. I didn’t know how to fight her off.
Don’t fight me.
She’s insisting.
Suddenly, it hurts. It’s like a sharp pain digs into my skull. The other Wren is taking her fingers and clawing her way into me. I don’t want it, and I don’t trust her. I want nothing more than for her to get away from me. The effort forces the part of myself that isme, my consciousness, my sense of self, further into the recesses of my mind. I don’t want her touching me at all. The darkness, the wild abandonment of reason. No, it can stay far away from me.
