Page 30 of Blood Lust

MoonDance77!

I recalled the cryptic phrase scrawled on the drawing: “The woman dancing on the moon.” And here she is, flesh and blood, living proof that Bruce’s drawings were indeed a glimpse of the future.

But everything about her presence hits different.

Like gravity’s bending slightly in her direction, and as she walked past me, no, floats past me, itreallyhits me:her smell.

It’s not soap or perfume. It’s blood, subtle, faint, like old pennies in a can.

My heart does something weird. Skips, then sprints.

It’s her.

MoonDance77.

The woman I’ve been messaging for weeks. The woman I pieced together from clues, like she wanted to be found but didn’t know it. The one who said things like, “Sometimes I daydream about flying. Is that weird?”

I didn’t just read her words; I inhaled them. Ate them. Built a life around them.

And now she’s ten feet away.

Rico doesn’t look surprised. Just nods at a familiar face and pours her the usual. White wine, no words.

I found her. The Universe conspired to make it happen. Hell,Imade it happen.

But it still doesn’t feel real.

She sits in the far corner, facing the door, one elbow on the table, one hand wrapped around the glass like it’s the only thing anchoring her to this world.

She doesn’t smile. Doesn’t check her phone. Doesn’t flirt or fidget or pretend to care what song’s playing.

She’s watching, waiting, cocking her head. Wait, she’slistening.

I wonder if she feels me staring at her like a lunatic from theshadows.

I wonder if sheknows.

That the weird, quiet kid who’s been venting in late-night chats about blood and loneliness and hunger is now breathing the same air she is.

I don’t approach. I wouldn’t know what to say if I did.

Hi, I’m Fang950. I’m the one who figured out where you live because I’m crazy and obsessed and starving.

Nope, not the move.

Instead, I lean against the wall and pretend to scan the crowd. One eye on the pool table. One on her.

She sips her wine slowly, like she’s measuring time with each taste.

My fingers itch.

I want to talk to her, message her, sit next to her. Ask her the one question I’ve never dared type:

Are you really, truly, a vampire?

And maybe, just maybe, if I stare long enough…

She’ll look back at me.

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