Page 86 of The Blood we Crave: Part Two

This is not remorse.

It is a game.

A chameleon turning colors in order to evade death. He knows the bonds that tied us together have collapsed, that I’m walking away and will never return. This is his final opportunity to lure me back in.

The guard’s keys jingle just outside. Our time together has run out, the sands of time finally drained. I hear his voice once more just before the door to his coffin shuts again, and I leave him to rot.

One last gift from the Butcher of the Spring.

It might very well be my favorite.

“Conner Godfrey.”

NATURAL-BORN PREDATOR

TWENTY-FOUR

Lyra

“Finished!” I shout, shooting up from my sitting position. My thin-stripe T-shirt rises to just above my belly button, a cold draft breezing across my exposed skin.

The smile on my face falls a little when my only company is the sound of Edwyn Collins playing through my speakers. I have no one here to celebrate with me, which only makes me think aboutwhyI’m the only person in my home right now.

Working on the spider design was supposed to act as my distraction.

I look down at the ornate black Victorian frame, my fingers tracing the swirling pattern. Behind the glass is my artificial purple web that took far too long to make. The entire time, I just kept thinking about how talented spiders have to be to weave them so effortlessly.

Several spiders are situated on top of the web, sideways, upside down, right side up. They’re sprinkled around so the final project looks complete and full. I wonder if Thatcher would let me hang it up in his room since he was the one to purchase most of the specimens inside this glass frame.

Probably not.

He could buy them, but as for staring at them every night? Doubtful. I still hadn’t convinced him to feed Alvi, who, mind you, is the sweetest snake on the planet. It was slow progress trying to convince him that all my creatures and insects weren’t that bad.

My phone buzzes on the table, reminding me that I need to update it, and the time flashes at the top of the screen.

Almost midnight.

It’s been hours since he left, and my worry has only escalated the longer I’ve sat here. I want him to walk through the door, whole and alive. But I’m terrified of the version that will darken my doorstep.

Sweets. I want sweets. The only logical response to this stress is to fill up on as much sugar before going into a diabetic coma.

I pad through the living room and into the kitchen, my bare feet tapping against the hardwood floor as I shimmy my way to the pantry. A grocery trip has moved up on my list of things to do very soon because my shelves are practically empty.

I scan through the boxes of oatmeal that I’ve never touched—I think I only bought them because I told myself I’d start eating healthier, which lasted approximately two days.

“Bingo,” I whisper to myself.

I stand on my tippy-toes, stretching for the Queen Anne cordial cherries on the top cupboard. The container grazes my fingertips, and I reach a little taller, extending my body as far as it can go.

Almost…almost…

THUD. THUD. THUD. THUD. THUD.

A scream erupts from my lips. My heart leaps into the back of my throat, the uneasy rhythm making the fine hairs on the back of my neck raise. I press a hand onto my chest, willing my heart to slow down.

I face the opening of the pantry, ears on high alert. My fingers curl around the frame, peering into the living room and at my front door.

Music continues to play as I stare at the door, waiting, blinking, hoping the sound is only a figment of my overactive imagination. The song comes to an end, trickling off the speakers before there is a brief pause of silence.