Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 85029 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 425(@200wpm)___ 340(@250wpm)___ 283(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 85029 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 425(@200wpm)___ 340(@250wpm)___ 283(@300wpm)
Really, Syrsee? That’s your lame excuse? He was seducing you?
Fine. I will admit this, to myself, at least, that I was… turned on.
But I’ve been betrayed a lot of times over the past few months. I’m learning. I might not be the quickest woman when it comes to untwisting the twisted plans of the Guild and Paul, but I’m learning.
I’m not going to set him free. It’s still possible that I can just… walk away from all of it.
Even… Ryet. Potentially. I mean, he’s pretty sick. He could still die. And if he did—
“Oh, Syrsee.” I shake my head. “That’s not the answer and you know it.”
Maybe I could get away. Leave Paul in the purple, let Ryet waste away, pretend that I never knew Zusi. Maybe… do some magic to cloak myself the way my grandma did. Somehow figure it out. Find a… a bookstore witch who knows more than most to help me. If I put my mind to it, I think I could make it work.
But I would be alone again. And while I wasn’t alone all growing up—I was literally in the middle of a magical school filled with other magical kids—I felt alone. And it was the worst feeling ever. Zusi made it better, but that was a lie. And I don’t even think I could take a lie right now, let alone a truly singular existence.
A bookstore witch who knows more than most isn’t going to fill the emptiness inside me.
Ryet could, though.
And, I have to reluctantly admit, Paul could too.
He’s not lying. Not about this. He’s telling me the truth. He’s trying to, at least. I’m sure there’s more. A lot more. And I don’t think I’m ready for more right now. I’m still trying to deal with what’s in front of me.
So I understand that Paul is tricking me. I know it. I feel it. And even if Ryet isn’t, Paul is tricking him too. Tricking him into tricking me.
I get up and go back inside. The smells are still there and my stomach is still upset, but I can’t run from this. I need to figure it out right now.
This is when I remember the vials on the kitchen counter. I walk over to them, picking them up one at a time so I can study their labels. ‘Despair.’ ‘Loneliness.’ ‘Regret.’ ‘Contempt.’ ‘Estrangement.’ ‘Fear.’ ‘Shame.’ ‘Guilt.’
All things I feel in this very moment.
Then I glance at the jars. They are empty, but they still have their labels on them. ‘Thirst.’ ‘Hunger.’ ‘Gasping.’ ‘Purging.’ ‘Chills.’ ‘Sweats.’ ‘Fatigue.’
They are all physical symptoms. And Ryet ate them all.
I look towards the bedroom and see his sweaty bruise-colored body lying face down on the bed. Those wings of his draped over his shoulders. The one on the side facing me is drooping over the side of the bed, spread out along the hardwood floor.
I don’t know what these jars are about, but before he ate them, he looked like a man. Mostly. And after he ate them, he looked like this.
A demon. A vampire. Because that’s what he is.
No, Syrsee. That’s what he’s always been.
It’s Paul’s voice in my head now. Real or imaginary, doesn’t matter. Because it’s true. Ryet was never a man. He was always a potential vampire.
And now, after a long sequence of events that culminated with the eating of whatever was in these jars, he’s reached some kind of… stasis. A state of… completion?
Doubtful. But he’s much further along than the last time I was awake.
I look down at the vials again. Maybe if I drink these potions it will change me into whatever I’ve always been too? Isn’t it better to just embrace the inevitable? So I can get past it and move on?
Before I can talk myself out of it, I uncork the tops and line them up on the counter. Then, one by one, I drink them like I’m doing shots of tequila.
They are very small amounts. Maybe a teaspoon each. So it’s all over in a matter of seconds.
I wipe my mouth, trying to decipher the lingering aftertaste.
It’s not bitter. It’s actually kind of sweet.
This is when I hear the crunching of gravel outside. I go to the window, pull the curtain back, and see a matte-gray Jeep, almost glowing in the moonlight. It looks more like one of those tricked-out off-road things than anything one might drive on the daily.
The driver’s door opens and Tristin steps out.
“Holy shit.” These words come out on a breath as I’m rushing to the door. He cannot come in here. I know he understands that Ryet is here, and he probably knows a lot more than me about what Ryet actually is—but he is not coming in here.
I pull the door open, step outside, and close it behind me.
Tristin is already walking up the stairs. So we’re looking each other in the eyes as this all happens.