12 #3
“It’s something.” She shrugged. “But I work all over. I can just leave if the benefits don’t outweigh the pains.”
“Are there many opportunities in the city?”
She laughed at the question.
I suppose it was obvious now that I thought about it. Of course there are opportunities here, it’s a sea of competition. This isn’t Buffalo, it’s vast.
“I float from one Guild to the next, sometimes a guest when Nests need more Hosts for a special gathering,” she said.
“All of the Nests?” Something fluttered in the pit of my stomach. I hadn’t considered it before, that she may very well have been to my new home. That there was a possibility Silas would have fed on her, on others, on anyone.
“Not all,” she corrected herself, “not Chimera.”
If I had the ears of a fox, they may have perked straight to the sky. Even with the surprise of the mention, it gave me a bit of ease.
“Why not?” I dug my grave further, and happily so.
“Some say their formation is problematic,” she explained. “If you are approached by them to join, be wary.”
“I’ve never heard anything of the sort,” I said, “but if you could tell me more?”
“Some of these Nests—the Jewel in King’s, the Eagle Crest in Queens, and the one that shares this building, North Star—they all have been here since the city was small. Growing with their communities, building their neighborhoods’ infrastructures, and becoming what they are today.”
She leaned in, like she was telling me some tall tale, the folk and legends of the city itself.
“Then Chimera was formed, not even two years prior. Suddenly there is a new building on Fifth, men in black propositioning for Host work, and an unaccounted amount of money poured into it.” She was getting a bit red in the cheeks as she worked herself up.
“The Sire is Silas Forbes, heir of Leviathan.”
“Leviathan?” I leaned back.
The staff brought that gin I nearly forgot about, just in time to hear the story.
“A man older than the dirt that stirs beneath the foundation of the city, and of cities much older than this,” she said carefully.
“Some say he is dead, some say he is the first of our species, and some do not believe he is real at all. But his legend is padded in unimaginable wealth and power, which is scarier than believing a single man exists.”
“So Leviathan is an ancestor?” I asked. “Apologies, I’m not familiar.”
She nodded. “There is no knowing what rumors are true, but there is talk of nothing but evil behind their charade.”
“Well, what is their charade, exactly?”
She scoffed before taking another sip from her glass. “They proposition promising such community and belonging, it’s too good to be completely true. They say all the members are selected on skill instead of bloodline, which is what most Nests here do.”
“Of course, it seems like they are trying to reinvent the wheel a year too late.”
“Exactly,” she put emphasis on the word, “the running theory is they are just building to sell off and disperse.”
“How so?”
“Based on their criteria, I reckon they’re priming their Nest as top pickings for the highest bidder. Word is out that they’re going for an Appraisal. But they risk bringing unwanted attention to the others in doing this.”
“That’s to become an official Nest, is it not?”
She shook her head with a smirk. “That’s what they say, but I am going to bet my week’s wages they are only doing it for breeding contracts. The Nest will dissolve and everyone will spread across the globe to the other established Nests, never to be seen again.”
The idea was nearly as hard to swallow as the gin that caught in my throat.
Breeding contracts.
“Are those . . . normal? The . . . contracts?” I looked for Luka in the room again, but the bastard was nowhere to be found.
“Between established Nests, yes. Most Appraisals are negotiable. It has been a hundred years since a new Nest was inducted. Most settle for placements in the other Nests,” she explained. “But that’s the thing, they are so isolated and inbred that they must trade to keep bloodlines strong.”
“It sounds more complicated than it has to be,” I admitted. “But what if they do it?”
“Do what?”
“If Chimera is inducted.”
“Then you may take my head, because it won’t happen,” she joked, then turned to me to twist her finger playfully in my necklace. “I take it you don’t belong to a Nest.”
“No,” I lied, “I’m not against it if someone invited me.”
“I could give you a proper introduction,” she offered, her fingers dancing up my collar and to my earrings. Pump. Pump.
A heartbeat in my ears, and it wasn’t my own.
With hesitance, my eyes were led to her neck. The jugular pulsed, the skin was as soft as the silk of her gown, possibly just as radiant. The skin appeared untouched, despite knowing it may have been bitten many times before.
Her scent held sweet notes, that melodic ringing in my ears heightened the more aware I was of its presence. It was like the kick of clover candy to hide the bitterness that would clear the sinuses. Every breath of mine became irritated as my hunger registered.
She tilted her head, leaving a kiss on my neck before she slipped off the arm of the chair and into my lap.
I froze, but I was salivating.
She pressed her cheek to mine as she whispered in my ear, “Take a taste.”
My heart was racing as fast as her pulse. My fangs were involuntarily peeling themselves from the roof of my mouth to flick forward, disturbing the still-raw flesh from where they sprouted.
My hand came to the other side of her neck. She was feverishly hot. Or I was unnaturally cold. The contrast in temperatures was so vast I thought we may produce steam.
This doesn’t feel right.
It doesn’t feel good. This is wrong.
But, by God, the hunger was emphatic.
Nothing could ever prepare for the sensation of breaking flesh, like a pop when you bite through a plum. Even as I’ve done it before, I may go on to do it hundreds of times before I would ever not be disgusted by it.
The blood flooding my mouth made me want to jump back, to pull away, but I was already overtaken by the first swallow. It stung, burned, bitter like citrus rinds. I am going to be sick.
Releasing her neck from my teeth, followed by a hiccup, I quickly made for the washroom.
The room, then the hall—all a blur.
I was either about to faint or . . .
The stall door slapped as my hands found the rim of the toilet. The heaving hurt my chest as much as it did my throat and stomach. A fight for an expulsion, as well as air. It stung like swallowing an entire peppermint.
My hair stuck to my face . . . then it was dragged back behind my head, the pressure of fingers gathering it as I coughed. When I had a moment to breathe, my head pulled back.
Luka peered down at me, half in disgust, half in pity. The damage to his face didn’t let it move as easily, but the healthy side was expressive enough to make up for it.
“Did your nerves twist your stomach?” he asked.
“This isn’t anxiety,” I said firmly, as I wiped my mouth with my sleeve, “the taste is foul.”
“Foul?” He let go of my head.
A breathless nod was my answer, then I spit into the bowl as if it would help me rid the taste. The crimson red filled the bowl and stained my saliva.
Luka got up to gather a hand towel, wetting it before returning.
I sat with my back against the stall, staring at the blood in the bowl.
He took my face in one hand, wiping roughly across my mouth with the other.
I swatted at him, pulling my face from his grip. “I’m not a child,” I hissed.
“I think the problem is you think too much.” He knelt before me.
I shook my head. “It was the taste,” I insisted.
“What taste?” he frowned.
“Like something went rancid,” I mumbled.
“You would think with the price they’d have better-tasting Hosts,” he mumbled, folding the dirty towel neatly.
“I . . .” I considered my words carefully, unsure if this would be a situation to panic or not. “I don’t think it was her.”
“Then we will try another.”
“The man in the gardens tasted the same.” I swallowed back tears. “Something is deeply, terribly wrong, Luka.”
He stared at me. It could have been anger or stress, but he did not take my words lightly. He twisted the rag between his hands mindlessly, then bit the inside of his dimpled cheek as he glanced back at the door.
“Look,” he said and turned back to me, coaxing me to stand, “we will go home, figure something else out, yeah? Relax, recover.”
“What do you think I’ve been doing all this time?”
“Watch it,” he warned, escorting me outside the washroom. “I’m helping.”
The only comforting thing about tonight was knowing that I didn’t have to figure it out alone.
Yet the problems just kept building, threatening to burst if I collected any more.
Even if I could keep blood down long enough to digest, there was this pestering feeling that it wasn’t going to happen.
That something was wrong, and it was completely out of my control.
Everyone has problems, but whether or not we had the means to solve them was as unknown as what would happen if my time ran out.