“You’re a survivor. Like me.” The cat was missing the tip of one ear, no doubt lost in some alley fight. It was no great beauty, yet something in its eyes touched Phoebe’s heart—a weariness that spoke of struggle and a longing for home.
Phoebe wondered whether, one day when Freyja and Miriam finally allowed her to have a mirror again, she would see the same look in her own eyes. Would her eyes have changed? Would they continue to do so, growing hard and haunted, looking older even though the rest of her did not?
“Stop.” Phoebe said it loudly enough this time that the word echoed slightly in the sparsely furnished room. After two days of having people run to her aid whenever she so much as sighed in disappointment, Phoebe found the lack of response from the household both disconcerting and strangely liberating.
Miriam and Marcus had assured her, weeks ago, that her first attempt at feeding from a living creature would not be tidy. They had also warned that whatever unfortunate being Phoebe fed from the first time would not survive. There would be too much trauma—not necessarily physical, but certainly mental. The animal would struggle in her grip and probably frighten itself to death, its system flooded with so much adrenaline that the heart would explode.
Phoebe studied the cat. Perhaps she was not as hungry as she thought.
* * *
—
FOUR HOURS AFTER the cat arrived, Phoebe was able to scoop it into her lap when it was sleeping. She picked it up, all four limbs hanging as if they were boneless, and climbed onto the bed with it. Phoebe dropped into a cross-legged position and deposited the cat into the hollow between her thighs.
Phoebe stroked the cat’s soft fur, keeping her touch featherlight. She didn’t want to break the spell and send the cat, hissing, to its former retreat behind the wardrobe. She was afraid her hunger might overwhelm her and that, in an effort to get to the beating heart of the cat, she might upend the wardrobe and crush the animal to death before she was able to drink from it.
“How much do you weigh?” Phoebe murmured, her hand continuing to work along the cat’s spine. The cat started a low purring. “Not much, even though you’re being well fed.”
The cat couldn’t have much blood, Phoebe realized, and her hunger was considerable—and growing. Her veins felt dry and flat, as though her body didn’t hold enough life-giving fluid to round them out to their normal circumference.
The cat pushed slightly against Phoebe’s legs before forming itself into a slightly more relaxed loop. The cat sighed, contented and warm. These were instinctive gestures of nesting—of belonging.
Phoebe reminded herself that the cat wouldn’t survive what she was about to do.
And for God’s sake, don’t name it. Miriam’s warning echoed in Phoebe’s mind.
* * *
—
PHOEBE HADN’T BEEN fed for twelve hours, sixteen minutes, and twenty-four seconds. She had done the math and knew that she was going to have to feed soon or risk becoming frenzied and cruel. Phoebe was determined not to be that kind of vampire; she had heard enough stories of Matthew’s early days, told with great gusto by Ysabeau, to want to avoid such unpleasant scenes.
The cat was still sleeping in Phoebe’s lap. During the hours they’d spent together, Phoebe had learned a great deal about the animal—including her sex, which was female, her fondness for having her tail pulled slightly, and how much she disliked having her paws touched.
The cat still didn’t trust her enough to let Phoebe stroke her belly. What predator would? When Phoebe tried, the cat scratched her in protest, but the scratches healed almost immediately, leaving no mark behind.
Phoebe’s fingers still moved, repeatedly and rhythmically, through the cat’s fur, hoping for some further signs of yielding, of friendship. Of permission.
But the contrapuntal sound of the cat’s heartbeat and the hollowness in Phoebe’s veins had gone from insistent, to alluring, to maddening. Together, they had become intertwined in a song of suppressed desire.
Blood. Life.
Blood. Life.
The song pulsed through the cat’s body, one heartbeat at a time. Phoebe bit her lip in frustration, making it bleed for a fraction of a second before it healed. She had been gnawing at her own lips for the last hour, tasting the salt, knowing it would not satisfy her hunger but unable to stop herself.
The cat opened her eyes slightly at the rich scent, her pink nose quivering. Once the cat determined it wasn’t fish, or a piece of meat, she fell back into slumber.
Phoebe bit her lip again, harder and deeper this time. The taste of salt flooded her mouth, savory but empty of nutrients. It was a promise of nourishment, nothing more. Phoebe’s mouth watered at the prospect of a meal.