Chapter 12 #2
“I’m good,” Sylvia said, in that fake-charming voice she was so masterful at. “But my friend might actually be interested.”
Aster gaped at her. In what fucking universe?
Sylvia gave her an impassive look, but she arched an eyebrow that communicated the message—use this one. This was equivalent to Sylvia handing her a blood bag.
She seriously thinks drinking fucking Mark Zuckerburg’s blood over here is going to cure me if wanting her? It was almost so insane that Aster laughed in their faces.
“No thank you.” Aster gave them a not-very-polite smile.
The taller of the two stepped between her and Sylvia.
“Aw, sweetheart, you sure? Just one dance?”
He wrapped his arms around Aster’s waist.
Usually this sort of crime would constitute Aster breaking his neck and maybe eating his mother and father, but she refrained, choosing instead to humor Sylvia’s stupid idea for two seconds.
Aster was a lesbian regardless (going on one thousand years of not giving a fuck about men, and counting), so this wasn’t going to go anywhere except possibly into the alleyway behind the club where she’d drain his veins with a straw.
But, she thought, if entertaining this whole ordeal meant she could possibly catch a glimpse of jealousy from Sylvia, that would be worth enduring a few moments of this caveman’s groping.
She was viewing the whole thing as field research.
“Sure, why not,” Aster said, lying through her teeth.
Sylvia’s eyebrows shot up in surprise, but she didn’t intervene. Aster wondered if she’d choose to dance with the scrawnier of the two—the smaller man certainly looked hopeful—but Sylvia just laughed when he tried to get closer to her.
“Go get me another drink and then we can talk,” she said to him.
“I’m Vincent,” the man said into Aster’s ear. His breath smelled like alcohol.
“That’s great,” Aster muttered, her eyes still on Sylvia’s.
Sylvia, who was watching them like a hawk.
Interesting. But her face was completely impassive.
Unreadable. The music switched to another dance-pop track, and the three of them danced in close proximity—Vincent holding onto her like a life jacket and he was lost in a storm.
Sylvia dancing to her own rhythm, eyes following every movement of Vincent’s fingers.
It continued like this for several minutes until the smaller man returned.
“Your drink?”
Sylvia downed it in one gulp, then shoved it back at his chest.
“Another one,” she said, then smiled prettily. “Please.”
The poor boy probably got her four more drinks before he slunk away somewhere else in the crowd.
The entire time, Aster barely registered Vincent’s hands on her—he was like a poorly painted backdrop to a much more enticing musical that sat in front of Aster.
Sylvia’s eyes had gotten much redder now, a silent something building behind them.
Aster so desperately wanted to peek inside of her mind and know what she was thinking. But Sylvia didn’t so much as make a sound.
Fuck it. Fine. I’ll make her.
“Vincent,” Aster said, patting the man on the cheek. “We’re going outside.”
The man brightened like a light bulb, nodding quickly as Aster took him roughly by the hand and started leading him toward the back exit.
She risked a glance back at Sylvia and mouthed be back in a minute, before the door to the club slammed behind them, and the cold air rolling off the Manhattan coast blew over her shoulders.
She walked them past the groups of people smoking cigarettes and toward a wall that was mostly unoccupied, where they then stood silently, Aster continually checking behind her to see if Sylvia would come bursting through the door.
But even after a whole minute, she didn’t.
Aster scowled.
“So…” Vincent wrapped his arm around her waist again. “Shall we?”
He aimed for her lips, and she made an audible noise of disgust, dodging the attempt.
“Jesus Christ. Not in your wildest dreams.”
He stepped back, stunned.
“The fuck? Okay, bitch. Suck my dick, then.”
Before Aster could react to that, a six-inch heel was being lodged in the man’s eye, and he was screaming bloody murder.
She followed the shoe to find a hand—fingernails painted red—then a wrist—a bracelet with fifteen diamonds and as many pearls—and finally a face, a gorgeous, gorgeous fucking face with the most grotesque expression Aster had ever seen on Sylvia Maroven.
Murder became her, that was for sure.
“Shut the fuck up,” Sylvia said coldly, as if they were only having a mild disagreement, and sliced across the man’s throat.
He grabbed around his neck as it gushed blood, before ultimately falling to the ground.
Sylvia’s chest was heaving above him, her eyes red as blood moons.
She quickly turned to Aster, cupping her jaw.
“Did he do anything to you?” she asked urgently.
“No, I’m— I’m fine.” As if any mortal could ever injure her. “Totally fine.”
Sylvia swallowed, nodding as if to digest the information. She released Aster’s cheek, then bent down to where the man was lying in a red puddle, and—Aster’s mouth opened in shock—dragged her fingers through his blood.
She was so stunned by the action that she barely noticed as Sylvia rose up, stalked forward, then pressed Aster flush to the cold brick wall behind them, hovering her bloodied fingers by Aster’s lips.
“Open up,” Sylvia whispered.
“Wh—what?”
“Open up, Aster,” she said, even quieter then. But her fangs were protruding over her lip.
Feeling like she might just do anything if Sylvia asked, Aster begrudgingly opened her lips, and Sylvia inserted them languidly.
Sylvia’s breath hitched when Aster’s tongue darted instinctually to the blood—licking it clean without even meaning to. It was simply habitual. And ugh, she immediately regretted it—it tasted terrible and moldy and dry, like beer that had been sitting in the sun.
Sylvia’s pupils were completely blown when she shakily asked, “And?”
Aster’s tongue circled Sylvia’s fingers once more before Sylvia dragged them out.
“And… what?” Aster asked, heartbeat thudding.
Sylvia’s eyes darted down to her lips, then back to her eyes.
“Did it work? Do you feel… different? Less… desperate? Like normal again?”
Oh.
Sylvia was asking if this had fixed her.
Aster was too high, drunk, and frankly, over it to say anything else then—
“You’re asking me if I still want to bury my teeth in your neck?
Sylvia sighed, and it sounded involuntary.
“Yes.”
“Oh. In that case.” Aster licked her lips. “Yes, I still want to do that. Very much so. Maybe even more now, because that man tasted like the fucking gutter. But also—”
She put her hands on either side of Sylvia’s face, cupping her cheeks. She wanted to hold Sylvia in place so she truly understood the gravity of the point she was making. So she couldn’t escape it, evade it, try to look away—
She breathed in raggedly. “I think I’m beyond fixing, Sylvia. Whatever you did—whatever you activated—it's permanent. It’s not going away. It’s terminal.”
Sylvia blinked. She looked properly dumbfounded. Speechless.
“I see,” she said, finally, like some kind of fucking medical doctor.
But then, she pressed Aster harder to the wall, and slotted her thigh between Aster’s legs. Aster couldn’t help but groan at the contact, arching to meet her. Sylvia whimpered in her ear as she pressed her mouth to Aster’s neck, and whispered something like a confession:
“I think it might be terminal for me, too.”
Then she drove her fangs into Aster’s neck.