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Nothing but a hen.

H e’s hungry . I can see it now. I’ve spent the last two weeks feeding him and there is definitely a pattern of behavior that only occurs when he needs my blood. It’s nothing as obvious as bloodshot eyes or pale skin. It’s more like an energy coming off him. A vibration, almost. It’s always there, but when he’s hungry the velocity of the wave increases.

Wow. Velocity. Not a word typically found in my vocabulary. I know what it means. Speed. But it’s a very specific kind of speed that pertains to waves and…

I shake my head to stop this train of thought. What the hell, Syrsee? No one cares .

Anyway. When he’s hungry this wave vibration is more urgent. I can’t explain it, but I can feel it and it’s happening right now.

It comes with colors too. Like the purple letters that came with the phrase ‘blood lovers’ back when I was first turning into… well, whatever it is I am now.

I haven’t had much time to think about the changes happening inside me. I can feel them. But I can’t explain them. I just know I’m not the same person who walked into my grandma’s cabin on New Year’s Eve. The moment I walked out, and she was dead, everything about me changed.

And that’s just the beginning. Who the hell knows what was done to me while the blood orgy happened up in that tower room at Paul’s compound.

I close my eyes in this moment when Ryet’s back is to me and he’s closing the cabin door. Then I take a quick breath, give myself a speedy pep talk—which amounts to nothing more than Don’t think about it, Syrsee —and force myself to smile so when Ryet turns back to me I don’t come off as resentful.

Even though I feel some resentment about this whole situation.

The little neighbor welcome wagon down the hill was a nice distraction. And it’s all been fine since Ryet woke up and we started heading to West Virginia. It was a relief, actually. For him to take over and start making decisions so I didn’t have to.

But reality won’t wait forever. And my pep talks suck.

Bright side—Ryet’s hunger is distracting and imminent, so I don’t really have the luxury of dwelling on my insecurities. The color of the wave coming off Ryet is not purple. It’s yellow. Kind of gold, actually. Which is good. Because I’ve got enough purple going on these days and having a separate color for this particular event—or behavior, or whatever you want to call it—should make it easier to determine which state of insanity I’m currently residing in.

Purple equals past, present, future. Also sex dreams. Which aren’t dreams, but kind of are… so… yeah. I’ve got way more purple than I need.

And now, gold equals food. As in I am the food.

“So.” Ryet is smiling and walking towards me. He pans his arms out, presenting his cabin. “What do you think?”

“It’s really nice.” I look around. Turning in a slow circle to take it all in. And it is nice. It’s very log cabin-y on the inside. Wide-plank wood floors, cotton-rag rugs, couches that don’t have drink holders, and an entire color wheel of neutral colors. Browns, and warm grays, and off-whites.

Even though we’ve only known each other a couple of weeks, it’s the kind of work I’ve come to expect from him. Lots of wood paneling, and logs, and it’s clearly been made with care.

Care is a good word for Ryet. He’s careful. Very careful. He likes details. Not just in the craftsmanship of his woodwork or bathroom renovations, but in his choice of words, the way he approaches people, and how he, even now, keeps a certain distance from me.

I look back at him and that gold wave is coming right at me with an ever-increasing intensity. “You’re hungry.” I don’t ask it as a question. I already know and I don’t feel like wasting time with words that don’t matter.

He doesn’t say anything, just shrugs up his shoulders while looking me in the eyes.

“It’s OK. I get it. You need to eat.”

“I’m sorry. I really am. I wish it wasn’t like this.”

“But it is.” I offer him a smile. It comes out small, so I make it bigger. None of this is his fault. It’s not my fault, either. It’s just… reality now. He needs to eat and I am his food. “Where should we do it?”

Ryet looks around, then offers up the couch. “How about right there?”

It’s as good a place as any, so I walk over and sit down as Ryet crosses the room and joins me. Feeding him was different in the truck. When he was asleep, he would wake up just enough to grab at me. He wasn’t strong enough to force me to feed him. So he didn’t… like… pull me out of my seat, or anything. I just leaned over, and he just latched on to my neck. The feedings were quick, too. Painful, as well. But it was a minute or two of sucking and then he’d be full, or whatever, and he’d slump back into his seat, falling back into unconsciousness.

But since he woke up the feedings have been different. They’re still short. He doesn’t take a lot. And if he hadn’t been doing that all along, I’d assume that he was cutting them short on purpose for my benefit. But they’ve always been quick, so I don’t think he needs much blood. He just needs it frequently. They’re less painful, at least. In fact, sometimes it’s a little bit erotic. The feeling of blood being pulled out of me… I dunno. It’s a trigger, I think. Something hormonal, maybe. Because it makes me want him. It makes me want to feed him.

There’s a bit of awkwardness as we look at each other, neither of us really sure how to make this less uncomfortable.

Ryet tries a smile. “Hi.”

Which makes me smile. “Hi.”

“I’m sorry?—”

I put up a hand. “Just… don’t. There’s no point in apologizing. It’s not your fault. It’s not my fault. And there’s nothing we can do about it. You can feed off me or… take your chances on what happens if you don’t. I’m not recommending that, by the way. Whatever those consequences are, I’m absolutely sure it will be much worse than… this.” I make a little gesture to the two of us. “And I guess I could refuse to feed you. But you must have it, Ryet. And if I say no, then…”

I don’t finish. I don’t need to. If I don’t feed him willingly, he’ll just take it from me.

I am his food .

It’s not personal, it’s just nature. It’s survival. If I were starving and saw a hen, for instance, I could catch it, and keep it as a pet, and eat the eggs. We could be friends. Companions. But if it stopped laying eggs, what choice would I have? I would kill it. And then consume it. It’s just survival.

Ryet sighs. “I don’t understand it all yet. But I’m going to figure it out. And part of that is figuring out how to free you from this.”

It takes a real effort not to scoff at his proclamation , or whatever it is. But I manage. And I force a smile too. “Here.” I lean towards him, moving my hair aside so he can have access to my neck. “Go ahead.”

“Come on, now. We can do better than this.” He says this easily. Lightly. Like feeding him my blood can be fun.

“What do you mean?” My tone is the opposite of fun.

He reaches for my hip and pulls me towards him, then grabs my legs and pulls them over his lap. One arm sliding behind me, the other hand reaching for my breast.

I stop breathing. Conflicted. Because the feeding is already a little bit sexual and this is just adding to it. I’m not sure I want to associate drinking my blood with sexual arousal.

But I can’t deny that I like this switch in position. I like the feel of his body next to mine and his hand on my breast. It’s not like I want to stop all this closeness and touching, it’s just disconcerting that I find it enjoyable, given that he’s literally eating me.

I don’t have time to ponder this further, though, because that hunger of his is coming at me like a wave and my whole body picks up on his cravings. There doesn’t seem to be any way forward except for surrender. So I let out a breath and lean my head to the side. Closing my eyes as he presses his mouth to the soft, tender skin just below my jaw.

I expected a little more hesitation. A few more awkward moments. More effort, on his part, to protest the unfairness of it all. But almost immediately I feel the sharp twinge of his teeth piercing my skin. It’s like two needle pricks. Jolting, a little bit painful, but over quickly.

He pauses here. This has been his little ritual since he woke up. When he was mostly unconscious, he didn’t pause. He sank them in deep and took. So the pause is his conscious effort to make it easier on me. I’m not sure it does, though. It might just prolong it. I might just prefer he be rougher and get it over with.

There is a little bit of pressure now. And this is what triggers the hormonal response, I think. Because new feelings rush through me. And the slower he goes, the more I feel them.

His hand is on my breast, gently squeezing it, when he takes the first pull.

I almost come undone from the warmth that floods through my body. His lips on my neck, the pulling of the blood, his hand on my breast—it’s more than just a little bit sexual, it’s erotic and I’m getting turned on. My breath is coming faster, my heart beating quicker, and for a moment, I think I might come.

Then I’m sure of it, but just before I do, he stops. Pulls back. Sighs.

And all the feelings inside me go with him.

I let out a long breath, feeling very embarrassed at what almost happened, and then open my eyes. Ryet’s head is resting back on the couch cushions, his eyes closed, his lips smiling. Like he just came as well.

I bite my lip and squirm until I’m off his lap and back in my own space. “Feel better?”

“Mmmm-hmmm.” He can barely talk. “Much better.”

I watch him for a few moments, captivated by the expression of bliss on his face. Picturing myself with that same feeling if he had just fed on me for a few more moments. The most confusing part of this is that I’m not sure if I’m upset that he’s feeling this way and I’m not, or I’m just resentful that it’s so enjoyable for him.

Ryet sighs, then opens his eyes. “Thanks. I really do feel much, much better.”

“How come you don’t feed longer, Ryet? I mean, instead of taking frequent little sips, couldn’t you just… take a lot and need it less often?”

He sinks into the cushions a little. Like he’s getting comfortable. His eyes are lazy and low. Like he might sleep. “I don’t really have control of it.”

“What do you mean?”

“I need it. I get it. And the moment my teeth sink into you and the blood flows, I lose control. The need goes away and then… I don’t even make a decision to be done. I just pull away when I am.”

I’m not sure if I should be horrified about this or… no. Actually, horrified is the only appropriate response to what he just said. “What if you…” I can’t finish. I don’t want to have this conversation and I’m instantly sorry for asking the question.

“What if I kill you?”

I shrug up one shoulder. Might as well get the answer to this now, rather than later. “What if?”

He forces himself to sit up straighter and open his eyes wider, looking at me. “I don’t think that’s how your death works, Syrsee. Maybe, before you fed me, you could die like other people. But now?” He shakes his head. “You need the long drink. That’s when you feed on me, and then I feed on you, and we pass the blood back and forth until…” He gives up on the explanation. “It’s not an easy thing to do. It’s not quick, either.”

My head turns away from him automatically. I don’t mean to do it, but I’m glad it happens. Because I don’t want him to see the look on my face. I can’t hide it anymore. I can’t hide the resentment and the horror.

I don’t want to resent this. I don’t. I like Ryet. I don’t want to be anywhere else right now. I want to be with him.

But how will this relationship ever be about anything other than his needs?

We will stay together. But it won’t have anything to do with liking each other, let alone loving each other one day. We will stay together because of my blood and there is no way to change that.

I resent that I am the only way he gets to stay alive and I resent that I am nothing but a hen to him. Feeding him eggs. Until one day, I’m too old to do that. And on that day, he will give me something called the long drink. And that’s when I will be released.

That’s when I will go to Hell.