Soulless (The Heartless Series Book 2) by Kelly Martin Page B

won’t try to off myself. I suppose it doesn’t matter. If he’s telling the truth, that’s a problem for the world—and for me—but it also means that I don’t have to drink the blood. I can pretend I don’t need it and go on with my life.
    But Hart also said there were worse things in the world than death. All I can think of, while I smell the blood calling to me, is one of those shriveled up old mummies or Lestat in Interview with the Vampire after the fire. Is that what Hart means? Is that what I will become if I don’t drink the blood? A wrinkled, dry corpse-thing. I don’t want to be a wrinkled, dry corpse thing.
    The blood smells so good.
    It’s not that I want it, I tell myself.
    It’s not.
    It’s because I need it.
    I need to not become a walking corpse.
    Or whatever I’d become if I don’t drink it.
    I go back and forth in my mind until finally I realize I’m actually standing in the kitchen with the bottle in my hand, which is shaking. It’s so hard. I want to throw it down and walk away. I want to not want it. I try my best to think about those bodies in the backyard. Those demons who were people, like Aunt Willow.
    She recovered.
    Why couldn’t they…
    Why?
    My hand is shaking, and my stomach is turning, wanting me to turn the bottle up and swig it down. Every last drop. Every last particle of blood. I want it.
    My heart beats in my ears. Everything else seems to fade away, all those thoughts in my head telling me this is a bad idea, all the images of the people in my living room, everything Hart said. It all fades into the background like voices in a restaurant. Just mumbles. That’s all I hear… mumbles.
    The blood is in a glass, and the next thing I know, I feel it sliding down my throat. It’s cold, but it’s wonderful. Pure, not like that red wine Hart used to fix for me. It had blood in it, but I never knew.
    Or maybe I did know. Maybe this entire time I knew something was wrong, but I did nothing about it. The ostrich is my spirit animal.
    It’s not just the taste. It’s the feeling it gives me. It makes me feel strong. There’s a feeling that the darkness inside of me is filling up.
    Eating away.
    Having its fill.
    Having its fun.
    I hate this. I love it.
    I finish my drink and pour myself another.
    The phone starts ringing in the background, but it’s there with the voices. I don’t care about the phone or the voices or anything. I only care about the feeling. I’m strong. I’m invincible. I’m… a monster.
    By the time I drain the bottle and lick the remaining blood off my fingers, I’m brought back to reality by the feeling of being watched. A person can always tell when they are being watched, or most of the time anyway.
    The hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. I know. He’s right behind me. He’s probably seen everything.
    I imagine he’ll smirk at me when I turn around, all proud of himself for being right. I tried to fight it. I did. And I lost. I’m just as much of a monster as he is. Maybe I’m worse. He’s a demon. He’s dead. I’m very much alive.
    An excuse. I need an excuse to tell him before I turn around. It was a mistake, maybe. I didn’t know what I was doing. I thought it was Kool-Aid. I slipped. Something. Anything.
    I have nothing.
    When I turn around, Hart isn’t smiling. He’s not smirking. He’s not even grimacing. What he is is pale. Very, very pale.
    Now that I think about it, in all the years I’ve known Hart, I’ve never known him to be sick. Back when he was Aunt Willow, she never got sick when I was a child. And neither has Sam in the entire time we’ve dated.
    You’d think that would’ve been a red flag. I guess I thought he took his Flintstone Vitamins.
    Now, he looks sick. Pale with black circles under his eyes. He’s standing there with my phone shaking in his hand, and he’s biting his lip. My thoughts shift from euphoria from the blood coursing through my veins to embarrassment from being caught to concern—I