Once again, the cat lifted her head, her green eyes fixed on Phoebe.
“Want a taste?” Phoebe ran her finger over her lip, smearing it with a bead of blood. The skin knit together behind her fingertip. Already the blood on her finger had darkened to a rich violet. Moving quickly, before it dried to black, Phoebe offered it to the cat.
Curious, the cat’s pink tongue lapped at Phoebe’s finger. Its sandy texture made Phoebe shiver with hunger and longing.
Then something extraordinary happened.
The cat’s eyes drifted closed, a tiny bit of pink tongue extended.
Phoebe poked at it but the cat didn’t stir.
She ran her fingers lightly over the cat’s belly.
Nothing.
“Oh, God, I’ve killed it!” Phoebe whispered.
Phoebe poked it again, trying to rouse it, and felt a sense of panic. No one would come to save her—not for hours or days. Miriam—her maker, the woman who Phoebe had chosen to give her a new life—had made sure of that. Phoebe would pass out from hunger, the dead cat in her lap. She couldn’t feed from a dead thing. It was worse than necrophilia, an abhorrence to a vampire.
Blood. Life. Blood. Life.
The pulsing beat of the song continued, though its cadence was slower.
Dimly, Phoebe recognized it.
A heartbeat. Not hers.
The cat wasn’t dead.
It was asleep.
No, Phoebe realized, the cat was drugged. She looked down at her finger, which still held traces of purple.
Her vampire blood had put the cat into a state of suspended animation. Phoebe remembered Marcus and Miriam talking about this, and how some vampires abused the soporific effects of their blood, doing unspeakable things to warmbloods after they fed from them.
Phoebe lifted the cat to her nose, the animal’s body feeling even more boneless and peltlike than it had before. The cat didn’t smell particularly appetizing. Its scent was musky and dry.
Blood. Life. Blood. Life. The cat’s slow-beating heart sang into the quiet room. The sound was tempting, tormenting.
Phoebe pressed her lips to the cat’s neck, instinctively seeking food. Surely the blood was closest to the skin’s surface there. Why else would so many human stories about vampires focus on the neck? Freyja and Miriam had gone over the circulatory system of mammals with her, but, in the hunger of the moment, Phoebe wasn’t able to recall a single relevant piece of information.
The cat squirmed in Phoebe’s hands. Even under the influence of vampire blood, its instinct to survive hadn’t dimmed. The cat sensed a predator—one far more dangerous than she.
Phoebe’s mouth moved across the cat’s shoulder, taking in the texture of the fur. She grasped a tiny fold of skin between her teeth and bit down a fraction of an inch—the tiniest amount possible—and waited for the blood to fill her mouth.
Nothing.
Don’t worry about the mess, Phoebe dear, Freyja had said last night when she checked on Phoebe, sounding almost cheerful at the prospect of a bloodbath. We will clean it up afterward.
After you destroy this cat, Phoebe thought. After you feed. After you survive at some other creature’s expense.
Phoebe’s civilized mind rebelled at the prospect, and her stomach followed, heaving and clenching in a futile effort to expel its contents—but it was empty.
There had to be something to eat besides the cat, Phoebe thought. She had drained the carafe hours ago, and the two bottles of Pellegrino that Fran?oise had given her when Phoebe complained that the flat water tasted unpleasantly metallic. Phoebe hadn’t been able to stomach wine—not even wine from Burgundy, which had always been her favorite—so Freyja had taken it away.
Phoebe had even downed the water in the vase on the windowsill. She eyed the flowers strewn on the carpet, wondering whether she could snack on the stems as she had once done on celery, but the thought of so much greenery made her stomach revolt.
She got to her feet, placing the cat on the bed, and searched through her purse. There had to be something in there to eat—chewing gum, a throat pastille, a piece of stale biscuit that had fallen out of the wrapper. She tipped the contents onto the bed around the slumbering cat.
Tissues, crumpled.
Receipts, folded in half.
Driver’s license.
Passport.
Notebook for jotting down tasks.
A single grubby Polo mint, some fluff and a curl of pencil shaving stuck to it.
Phoebe’s hand moved like a snake and snagged the mint. She pried a one-cent euro off the back and popped the mint into her mouth. She closed her eyes in anticipation of the rush of peppermint and sugar.