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All I can think about is the blood.

H e’s not craving me anymore .

Well, that was fast. It was my number-one worry on the ride east. And then I just put it out of my mind because his cravings, just yesterday, were so strong I was getting pissed off about it.

But now, he’s telling me that he’s craving bacon.

We’re in the bathroom now. Ryet steps around a stacked-stone wall to start the shower and then comes back out.

When my eyes slide up and meet his, all I see is doubt.

He places his hand on my shoulder and gives it a little squeeze. “It’s fine. I promise.”

But I’m already shrugging him off and shaking my head before he can get those last two words out. “It’s not.”

“We don’t know that, Syrsee.”

I scoff. “Don’t start treating me like that.”

“Like what ?” His tone is defensive.

“Like I can be placated with lies.”

“‘Lie’ is a strong word. We don’t understand anything right now. It could all be fine?—”

“And it could all be going to shit. Suddenly, you don’t need to drink, Ryet? And I have a craving for blood?” A wave of dizziness washes over me, forcing me to reach out and place a flat palm against the log-sided wall. He reaches for me again, but I just stumble forward and sit down on a small bench just outside the shower.

“Are you OK?”

“No, Ryet. I’m not OK.” I look up at him, and I’m suddenly angry and scared. “I’m not OK. We”—I point at him, then me—“ we are not OK. You’re turning into a vampire and I’m turning into… well, I have no idea, but the odds are good that it’s something much, much worse. And now, in the middle of all this, you’re threatening me?”

“How the hell am I threatening you?”

“You’re not going to give me the blood?” Even I am surprised when these words come out of my mouth. But the look on Ryet’s face is more than surprise. It’s… shock.

He laughs. It’s a small laugh that has nothing to do with anything being funny. “You’re worried…” He stops, letting out a breath and sucking in a new one so he can start again. “This is what you’re worried about? The blood? Because if all it takes to make you happy right now is to give you a drink of my blood”—he lifts his palm up to his mouth, bites, and a rivulet of scarlet drips down his wrist—“then by all means, Syrsee, have a drink .”

My heart thumps inside my chest as my eyes follow the red line as it slides down his arm, and then I am transfixed by a single drop as it splats on the tile floor.

I almost kneel down and lick it. But instead I close my eyes, lean forward, and breathe through the compulsion.

Ryet says nothing. And the silence just hangs there between us like something real and heavy.

Finally, after almost a minute of this, he bends down in front of me. One hand on my knee, the other pushing my hanging hair out of my face so he can look me in the eyes. “If you need it, of course you can have it. I just didn’t think it was…” He stops. Watches me. Probably noting how I’m not looking him in the eyes. I’m staring at the blood on his arm.

Then he’s lifting it to my lips. I wish I could turn my head, or at least put up the pretense of an objection, but I can’t. I reach for his hand and then the next thing I know, my mouth is pressed up against his skin and a sense of peace and calm washes through me as a purple and gold mist rises up in the steam of the shower.

This mist becomes thick, almost like a curtain. Separating me from the room, and Ryet, and the whole world. Then it thins again, splitting in half, almost making a hallway. This is when I realize I’m alone now. There is no shower, there is no cabin, and there is no Ryet.

There is just a way forward.

I take a step, then another, and another. And soon there is no purple, just darkness.

I should be afraid—I should be terrified, actually. Because the blood is doing something to me. It’s acting like a very powerful drug and it’s fucking with my head. Just as I think this I see, in my mind’s eye, Ryet sitting on the couch all limp and satisfied, his head rolled back into the cushions.

Like an addict. He looked like an overdosing addict yesterday when we got here. The only thing missing from that memory of him is the cliché needle sticking out of his arm.

But inside this new reality I’m not afraid. I can smell blood up ahead and it’s drawing me forward. Suddenly the space around me is bright and golden, all traces of purple gone now.

A part of me knows that this is a dreamwalk—not a kind I’ve ever experienced before, but the gold is like the purple. It takes me places.

The brightness slowly dims and as it does this, I start to make out shapes. A man with his back to me. He is tall and cut with muscles. His blond hair is shoulder-length and the ends curl up just a little. But while it is a very nice back, what really catches my attention is the wings.

Well, the buds of wings. Like Ryet’s. But this is not Ryet.

The man looks over his shoulder at me, scowling. “What do you want?”

He can see me?

He turns all the way around, facing me, and I realize this is Paul. Not the Paul I know, but another version of him. Something much, much younger. And if the wing buds are any kind of indication, he is newly born. Second-born, I think Ryet calls it. Newly second-born. Paul’s feet are bare and he’s only wearing a pair of loose-fitting linen pants.

“Do you know who I am?” My voice is surprisingly calm.

Young Paul snarls at me. “A ghost. A demon. The Dark Slut. I don’t give a fuck who you are. Get out .”

“I’m afraid it’s not that easy.” I sound very in control. And as soon as I think these words, I am in control.

“Why not?” He’s still growling at me. Eyes narrowed down into thin slits. He’s angry and control is something this version of him has yet to master.

“Because I didn’t choose to come here, Paul.”

He tries not to show his shock when I say his name, but I can tell this revelation unsettles him. “Who are you?”

“I’m Syrsee. We’re… acquaintances. In the future.”

His brow furrows, then he looks over his shoulder. I glance in that direction too. And this is when I realize we’re in a room. Something old-looking. Walls made of stone, elaborate cornices made of plaster, and marble slabs for the floor. There is a large pool of water in the middle of the room. That’s what he’s standing in front of. But his glance right now is in the direction of a door. It’s closed, and this seems to be what he was checking, because then he looks back at me. “What do you want?”

Torches placed at regular intervals along the stone walls make flickering shadows across my body as I step away from the darkness. I’m naked. He and I realize this at the same time and he takes a long, casual look down and back up my body before meeting my gaze again, giving me his full attention. Which I do not waste.

“How old are you?” Which seems like a stupid way to start this conversation, but I don’t feel in control of this question. The words come out like they’ve already been spoken. Like I’ve been here before. Like I’m just playing out a memory.

“Two hours.”

“ Hours ? But your wings—they are already sprouting.”

He reaches up and over his shoulder, like he’s trying to feel the little bumps pushing through the skin back there. “They itch.”

“Would you like me to wash them for you?”

His eyebrows go up in surprise. And I have to admit, this young version of Paul—a version that displays confusion, and hesitation, and vulnerability—well, it’s a good look for him. Once again, his eyes travel down my body, then back up to meet my gaze. He doesn’t smile, but he does wave a hand at the large pool of water—which I realize now is a bath. Something Roman, probably. “Join me then.”

His hesitation is gone. He might be a newborn vampire, but he’s still Paul. And I get the feeling that Paul and sex are synonymous. Wings growing out of his back might still be a mystery to him, but a naked woman in his bathroom is not.

This is when I realize I’m about to bathe with the monster and the inner voice—the one that is supposed to caution me from doing stupid things—is snapping into action. What the fuck are you doing, Syrsee? Go back!

But I didn’t come here just to go back. And anyway, this has already happened.

I walk towards him, then past him. His body turns with me and I can practically feel his gaze as he watches me slowly step down into the pool, descending until the warm water is up past my breasts.

That’s when I turn to face him again. He has dropped the pants he was wearing and his cock is long and hard. His eyes lock with mine as he descends down the steps and into the water as well.

He bites his lip and a little stream of blood drips out.

Immediately, the cravings inside me come back to life. I want that blood much, much more than I want sex or answers.

But the weird thing is, I don’t think he did this on purpose. This realization is the only thing holding me back. He’s not the Paul I know. He’s not in control at all right now. He’s not tempting me, he’s just… nervous, I think.

“What?” He snaps this word out and it’s true. I’m making him nervous.

I suck in a deep breath, then slowly let it out. He watches me do this, his brow furrowing again. Then I look around, spy a shallow wooden dish filled with sponges, and walk through the water towards it. I pick up a large sponge that looks like it was harvested directly from the ocean floor this morning and didn’t come from a mall store filled with skincare products.

There is a cake of soap too. And I take that with me as I walk back over to Paul. He doesn’t say anything, just accepts the cake of soap in his palm when I offer it. Then I dip the sponge in the water, rub it against the soap, and look up into Paul’s eyes. “Turn around. I’ll wash them for you.”

He clenches his jaw, but then relaxes it and does as I ask.

Now that I can see them up close, I realize the skin around his emerging wing bones is very red, so I am careful when I touch the sponge to the scabs. He flinches when this happens. Just his skin, though. The way a horse might flinch when bitten by a fly. But he doesn’t protest or tell me to stop.

I dip the sponge in water, apply more soap, and gently rub the scabs until they melt away and begin to bleed. Not a lot, and it’s mostly mixed with water, so I’m able to control my urges. But the desire to lick him is still fairly strong.

“Well?” Paul breaks our silence. “Are you going to tell me why you’re here?”

I continue to gently clean his wounds—which is a good word for what these wing bones look like—as I answer him. “I don’t know why I’m here. It just happened.”

“Where do you come from?”

“The future.”

He looks over his shoulder at me. “How far in the future?”

“Couple thousand years, maybe?”

“Am I there, in your future? Do you know me?”

“Unfortunately, I do.”

My answer makes him chuckle. “Are we not friends?”

“We are not.”

“Are we enemies?”

“We’re…” I sigh. “I’m not sure.”

“Why are you serving me then?”

“ Serving you?”

“Cleaning my back like a slave.”

“I don’t think it was my idea.”

This makes him go quiet and this quiet lasts for nearly a minute. I simply continue to gently wash the wounds until finally, I have to stop when he turns to face me.

The cut where he bit his lip has already healed, but just the memory of the blood when I look at his mouth is enough to make the cravings start.

He reaches out, wrapping his fingers around my wrists—not tightly, but definitely with intention. My gaze slides up to meet his.

“What did I do to you? To make you hate me?”

I shrug. “I’m not really sure.”

“What are you?”

I shrug again. Just one shoulder this time. “I don’t know.”

“A Black witch?”

“Definitely that. But not just that.”

“Did I make you?”

“I… you… well… yeah.” I let out a breath. “I guess you did. You made me when you made Ryet.”

“Who is this Ryet?”

“Your scion. And I am his food.”

Paul is staring at me with a stoic face, his eyes brightening and then dulling, a dark shade of red. And when they do this, all I can think about is his blood. And how much I want it. And how if he were to turn around again, I could simply lean forward and swipe my tongue against his wounds.

“You’re hungry, Syrsee? For my blood?” His voice is different now. More congenial, less angry. More intentional, less confused. This is the Paul I know. The confident one. A monster who takes almost nothing seriously.

But still, all I’m really thinking about is his blood and how much I want to lick him. It takes every bit of self-control I have not to reach out and pull him towards me, begging for it. I hate myself for this. I do. But I’m out of control. This is not a want. This is a need.

“Would you like some?”

I can only nod my head as I press my lips together. Because if I open my mouth right now?—

“Drink, Syrsee. Can you hear me? Drink. Just drink.”

The hallucination fades and I’m on the floor of Ryet’s cabin bathroom. He’s got one arm under me, his upper body leaning over me, and the purple and gold mist is still thick like a curtain. But then he’s holding his palm to my mouth and all I can think about is the blood.