Chapter 4 The Thirst

Thad walks like someone who’s never been told no in his entire life.

I follow him down a hallway lined with paintings I don’t recognize. Old portraits. People in clothing from centuries ago. They all have the same pale skin and the same dead eyes, and I don’t want to think about what that means.

The burns on my arms are healing by the second. I can feel it happening—the skin knitting itself back together, the pain fading to an itch and then to nothing. When I look down, the blisters are gone. Pink new skin has replaced the damage, smooth and unmarked like I never stepped into the sun at all.

“That’s not normal,” I say out loud. “That’s not remotely normal.”

Thad doesn’t respond. He just keeps walking, and I have to hurry to keep up with his stride. The carpet is soft under my bare feet. I still don’t know where my shoes are. I don’t know where anything is.

We end up in a sitting room with velvet furniture and books crammed into every available shelf. A fireplace takes up most of one wall. Thad points to a chaise lounge in the corner, and I drop onto it because my legs are done cooperating. The cushion sinks beneath me, and I latch onto the armrest hard enough to feel the wood creak under my fingers.

“Stay here,” he orders.

“Where else would I go? I can’t exactly take a stroll outside.”

His grey eyes hold mine for a beat too long, and my stomach does something stupid. Then he disappears through a door on the far side of the room.

I press my fingers to my forearm where the worst of the burns were. Nothing. No trace of damage at all. My skin feels brand new, like I just peeled off a layer and found something better underneath.

“Okay,” I mumble. “Super healing. Add it to the list.”

The list is getting long. No reflection. Superhuman strength. Sun allergy from hell. And now this.

I look around the room while I wait. Heavy curtains are blocking the windows. Leather-bound books that look older than my grandmother are stacked around the room, along with a chess set on a side table with pieces carved from what might be ivory. Everything in this house screams old money. Old everything.

Thad returns carrying a crystal glass filled with dark red liquid. Wine, I assume. It looks expensive—deep burgundy, almost black at the center. He crosses the room and holds it out to me without a word.

I take it. Our fingers brush, and I notice how cool his skin is. I also notice the way his sleeve pulls against his forearm, the muscle there, the silver cufflinks at his wrists. And I want to punch myself in the face for noticing anything about him at all.

“Drink,” he instructs.

“I’m not really a wine person.”

“Drink it anyway.”

I bring the glass to my lips because I’m too tired to argue. The liquid touches my tongue, and the taste hits me before my brain can catch up.

Copper. Salt. Something rich and thick that coats my mouth and slides down my throat.

Not wine. Definitely not wine.

I should stop. I should spit it out and throw the glass at his head and demand to know what the hell he’s feeding me.

But my body has other ideas.

The hunger I’ve been fighting since I woke up rushes forward and takes control. I tip the glass back and swallow, and every mouthful makes the emptiness in my stomach recede. The ache in my bones fades. The fog in my head clears.

I drink until the glass is empty. I drink until I’m scraping my tongue against the rim trying to get the last drops. When I finally lower it, I’m panting, and my hands won’t stop shaking.

Thad watches me the whole time. He’s leaning against the doorframe with his arms crossed, his shoulder pressed to the wood. I can’t read what’s happening behind those pale eyes. Something between satisfaction and pity. Like he expected this. Like he’s seen it a hundred times before with a hundred other people.

“What was that?” I ask. “What did you just give me?”

“Something you needed.”

I lick my lips and taste copper. My stomach is still growling, still demanding more, and I hate how much I want to ask for it. I hate how good I feel right now—better than I’ve felt since I woke up in that bedroom. I feel alive.

Or whatever I am now.

Thad pushes off the doorframe and walks toward me. I know I should back away and put distance between us and keep it there. Instead, I stay frozen on the chaise while he stops close enough that I have to crane my neck to look at him.

“You’ll need more soon,” he tells me. “The first days are the hardest.”

“First days of what?”

He doesn’t answer. He just looks at me with those grey eyes, and I feel heat creep up my neck. Which is ridiculous. I’m sitting here in clothes I don’t remember putting on, I just drank something I definitely don’t want to identify, and I’m blushing because a tall man in an expensive suit is standing too close to me.

Get a grip, Thelma. Seriously.

“I want answers,” I demand. “Real ones. Not cryptic nonsense.”

“I know you do.”

“Then give them to me.”

He reaches down and takes the empty glass from my hand. His fingers brush my knuckles, and I feel the contact all the way up my arm. I hold my breath without meaning to. Annoying. So incredibly annoying.

And then he turns and walks out of the room before I can argue.

I sit there alone, licking copper off my lips, trying to convince myself that I’m not already counting the minutes until he comes back.