Page 66 of The Cannibal

“Growing pains.”

“She’s ill?” His brow rose. “Hopefully not defective.”

“Just a bit of an adjustment,” I admitted, but downplaying honest answers was the only way to make it sound true.

“Well, that’s no good,” he said, as if it wasn’t dire.

“A lot of stress,” I smiled.

“Of course,” he said. “Let’s hope so.”

“It is,” I insisted.

He shrugged. “You know what happens to horses with broken legs. It’s cruel to keep them alive like that.” He clicked his tongue to the back of his teeth. “As their keepers, we must make hard decisions. That has always been the burden of superior species. Like God and the flood, it is necessary.”

“Father,” I said, my tone a warning.

But I swallowed the attitude back when he stilled.

“Oh.” He smiled, the tips of his mustache turning up, and I could see a flash of his fangs, gold covering the tips. “God, how you’ve matured.”

I exhaled, relieved he wasn’t insulted.

Then he reached forward. I thought he was going to take my hand, but a splitting pain shot through my knuckles.

I looked down. His rings glistened in the window light, fingers curled around a fork.

The tablecloth under my palm bleeding black.

My heart puttered. I thought it may quit if I moved.

He let go of the silverware, slowly leaning back in his chair.

“Do not raise your tongue at me, young lady,” he nagged, gesturing far off to the waitstaff. “Speak to me in such a way again and I will nail your tongue to the floor.”

I had to grip the fork to unstick my hand from the table, wrapping it quickly in a napkin.

“My daughter spilled my coffee,” my father said, standing as he pulled a bill out of his pocket, tucking it in the waiter’s lapel.

I couldn’t hide the tears, but I tried to smile politely at the staff member who tidied the cup. It was obvious that the mystery stain was no coffee, but my father had an air to him that scared even those who are oblivious to his distasteful personality.

With every meeting, I was sure I had made a mistake by reaching out. All I wanted was to bridge the gap. I clearly underestimated the sentimental stakes my father had, or rather, was missing.

21

THE CREATURE

Blood sputtered as I forced it down my throat.

The basement was dimly lit by morning light creeping through the high windows. The entire kitchen was bland and spotless. No one to disturb me as I rifled through the icebox of stored blood.

Every swallow a burden to my body despite needing it so dearly. The only thing that made it easier to stomach was the image of her.

Feeding had become ever harder since Alina had imposed herself on my life. Just as I thought I’d cured myself of this disordered stomach, I couldn’t seem to feed on anyone else. Bottled was fine, bloodwine was best, but somehow the dysfunctional feeding persisted and, eventually, worsened no matter the form I fed from.

When she left me the first time, I lost nearly four stones in a handful of months, then gained them back in muscle the following year and a half after heavy conditioning. My body is not a temple, it is an insatiable engine that burns through everything and anything. Even with leaner muscle, better form, sharper mental focus, I could barely feel myself after she died before my eyes.

My rage channeled at Luka for a short run.