Page 8 of Sore Throat, Slight Fever

“No,” he says harshly, his voice echoing against the stone walls. He glances away briefly, before turning back to her. “I didn’t—I wouldn’t—it wasn’t feeding. I drank only what I needed to begin the process.”

“You Turned me?” she asks, giving the process the capitalization her grandma always gave it. Her teeth feel sticky with the word.

“It was the only way to make sure the bullet wound healed properly.”

“The aftertaste?”

“My blood. Vampire blood. It’s how vampires are made.”

She purses her lips as she looks at the glass of water, reaching out with shaky hands, dirty fingernails crusted with blood.Herblood. Or his blood. Or maybe even both.

“It’s cold,” he says, watching her bring it up to her lips. “It’ll probably feel good on your gums, at least. But don’t swallow it.”

She raises an eyebrow, cheeks puffed out with water.

“Just spit it back into the glass,” he clarifies.

She does as told and grimaces at the red-tinged water. The relief is marginal. Her mouth still hurts as if she has been grinding her teeth in her sleep. She’s beginning to acknowledge the red-raw pain in the back of her throat, too, as it pulses down to her clavicle andagainst her sternum. It feels like there is something she needs to cough up, like she swallowed poison, and it burned her throat all the way down only to sit, like lead, in her lungs.

“Why am I chained up?” She holds her hands in front of her, showing him the heavy metal of her bindings.

“Youngling vampires are unpredictable,” he offers hesitantly. “You’re not a prisoner, but—” She gives him a sharp look “—I need to keep you contained until…everything is complete.”

She lets her head dip back until it rests against the wall. “I’m a witch. I know about your kind.”

Rory’s scowl deepens, and he seems to be wrestling with something, unsaid words rolling around in his mouth. She tries to remember if there are any rules against Turning other supernatural creatures. Who makes the rules for vampires these days? She hasn’t had contact with any other magical communities since she got married.

It’s Kane who replies, however, hopping forward and cocking his head to the side. “You’re not a witch anymore. You’re a vampire.”

“Can’t I be both?”

Kane flaps his wings twice, flustered. “You can only have one kind of magic in your blood, Calliope,” he says, gently. “The curse of a vampire is always dominant.”

Instinctively, she reaches again for the Ether andfinds its coolness at her back, like the concrete wall behind her and yet more welcoming, pliable, ready to accept her. She’s not sure how to explain the Ether to them. Vampires can’t do magic—not like witches can—and the Ether is unknown to them; it is a witch’s most sacred secret.

She looks down at her hands, clenching and unclenching. She can feel Rory looking at her, his apprehension almost like a physical thing being placed upon her shoulders. “You can unchain me. I’m not going to go on a killing spree.” She looks up at him, daring him to contradict her.

A lock of hair, dark but streaked with gray, falls across Rory’s forehead as he looks at the manacles around her wrists. The symbols flare orange with a soft sizzle. “I think you should drink first.”

“I’m not thirsty,” she says evenly. “You can’t keep me chained up down here.” She clenches her fists again, chains rattling.

Rory’s mouth is set in a firm line. “It’s only for a couple of weeks or so, until you get a handle on your cravings. Then you can do whatever you want.”

“I don’t have any cravings.”

He raises an eyebrow, his expression mildly challenging. “I don’t want you killing anyone,” he says, firmly.

She pushes away from the wall and leans closer to him. “You can’t keep me here against my will.”

He sighs deeply, which she finds curiouslycharming in its lack of necessity. But then his eyes flash back toward her, and he leans forward to match her gaze, so fast her eyes can’t track the movement. When he talks, his voice is pitched low, almost a whisper, and his words are far from charming. “Is your throat on fire? Do your teeth ache?”

She swallows, pursing her lips with a retort. But he continues talking, leaning so close to her, she can feel his words in her belly, feel them against her cheek like ice. “That’s called hunger. And it will consume you until it tears you apart. And when that happens, you willache—” A shiver runs down her spine, “—acheto feel another’s heartbeat in your mouth and you willlaughas their life spills down your pretty little skirt.”

A quick flash of the gas station. The bang of a gun. Pain. His mouth against her neck. He leans closer, so close she wonders how his words don’t touch her lips, and she can smell him, the same vetiver and wood smoke that sits at the back of her throat. Because of his blood.

She drank hisblood.

Her mouth goes dry, and her eyes flutter down to his neck, marveling at the smooth skin. She leans closer, marginally, licking her lips. Her head feels fuzzy. Her eyesight narrows. His neck—and what lies underneath his skin—the sole focus of her mind. She knows he doesn’t have a heartbeat, so what is that noise in her head? The pulsing beat against her sore throat, the rushing of liquid in her ears? Her gums ache. For amoment, the coppery aftertaste lifts, and she remembers the rush of his blood down her throat, coating her teeth like honey.

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