Total pages in book: 125
Estimated words: 122030 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 610(@200wpm)___ 488(@250wpm)___ 407(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 122030 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 610(@200wpm)___ 488(@250wpm)___ 407(@300wpm)
Lucia, on the other hand, I have seen her plenty of times and I hate that bitch. There’s something wrong with her. Something really, really wrong with her. Paul knows it, too. He won’t discuss it with me, though. He just tells me, “Stay out of her way.” And sometimes he says, “She has nothing to do with us.”
I understand that I know a total of three vampires and I’ve actually only interacted with two, so perhaps my personal anecdotal evidence doesn’t count. But Lucia and Paul? Not the same fucking species, that’s how wrong she is.
But she’s not the only reason I don’t stay at the compound unless I’m ordered to. It’s the halfbreeds and the humans, too.
Back when Paul made me, he had no minions. Just me, as far as scions go.
But there were halfbreeds around back then too. Little slaves, he used to call them. “All kings need slaves, Ryet. It’s how things get done.”
But Lucia is the one who craves the humans. She even drinks them. I’ve seen it. I tried to tell Paul about it, but he just brushed it off like it was no big deal.
And hell, maybe it isn’t. Like I said, I don’t know much about them. But I do know this—Paul doesn’t drink humans. He might kill them for sport every now and then—because he’s literally a demon and that’s what demons do—but he doesn’t drink them for nourishment, for fuck’s sake.
That’s why he has feeders.
And me, maybe. Though he doesn’t really drink me. We exchange blood, of course. It happens when I’m feeding on him. He’ll nick my lip a little and he’ll get a few drops. But that’s about it. I’m not a hundred percent sure he doesn’t need my blood because he won’t discuss anything about what it means to be a vampire. But he certainly doesn’t drain me or bag my blood up like he does with his feeders so I’m left to fit the pieces of the vampire puzzle together on my own. There might be an actual reason why he takes those drops from me once a year, other than the fact that I’m drinking from him at the same time, but I just don’t know what it is.
Humans though? No. I have never seen him do that.
I only feed on Paul. Just the thought of drinking a human makes my stomach feel sick.
But then… why did I want to sip on Syrsee?
The blackout was weird, but it started with the sip.
I don’t know. But thinking about doing it again does not make me sick. It kinda makes me hard.
Wow. Maybe I need more sex? Maybe it’s been too long between women? Paul is a sex fiend. He’s always fucking something. I’m a hundred percent certain he’s fucking that bitchy Isabella, even if she is pregnant with some other man’s child.
But I won’t taste Syrsee again. It was a heat-of-the-moment thing, that’s all. We were all worked up from the sex and she smelled so good. I don’t remember processing that at the time, but now, in retrospect, yeah. She’s got a scent to her. It’s kind of delicious. A little bit like Paul’s scent, actually. When he’s around, and he bites his lip the way she did, and I get that first scent of blood in the air… yeah. I lose it. It’s over. My lust for his blood is always easy.
Maybe I was just tired last night? I get tired sometimes. I don’t usually pass out. Well, not true. When I drink Paul, I pass out good.
But that’s Paul. And this girl is a human. A delicious, erotically scented—
“For fuck’s sake, Ryet. Get a hold of yourself.” I shake my head, pushing those thoughts away as I come up on the back side of the First Methodist church. Above the plain metal door is a white wooden sign with hand-painted red letters that read: ‘You Are Welcome Here. Come Inside for Nourishment of Body and Soul.’
The letters are in two different fonts. Half of the words in block, half of them in script. It looks like someone made it decades ago because the words ‘Come Inside’ are mostly just a shadow of their former glory.
I know the door is unlocked because I’ve passed by here several dozen times over the past month on my way to the hardware store and there is another sign, this one taped to the door, which reads: ‘Always Open.’
I pull on the door and smile, thinking about the hardware store and the woman who now lives above it. So I’m not really paying attention when I enter and almost smack into the church guy, who is stocking a wooden crate near the door with bags of potatoes.
“Oh, shit. Sorry.” I put my hands up and step back onto the threshold of the still-open door. The wind is whipping past me, blowing in snow, and I just stand there, confused about what to do next and feeling guilty for the cold air.