Page 26 of A Most Abhorrent Vessel

“You are not the only creature roaming these streets, dove, for I am blessed with healing ichor.”

“You are a god?”

“Alas, I am not. But my lifeblood might help you even without godlike powers. Would you care to try?” He crosses one leg over the other, thinks better of it, and plants his feet wide once more.

I want to ask him what sort of creature he is or how blood could possibly heal, but instead, all I say is, “I will try anything.”

A wicked grin spreads across his features. It’s too beguiling. “I hoped you would say that.”

The man stands up faster than any human might, then fetches something from a darkened corner.

The bronze goblet gleams in the firelight. Small beastly paws circle the bottom. He unfastens his collar and top button, then pulls a necklace from below the folds. A small sheath dangles from a golden chain. With swift fingers, he pulls a minuscule sword covered in intricate metalwork from within.

With this small blade, he cuts his wrist. Brown skin splits. Red blooms from the gash. Droplets disappear into the goblet.

When he’s finished, he slowly licks the wound and hands me the cup.

I stare, fascinated and enthralled.

Moments pass before I accept his offering. Inside, dark liquid awaits at the bottom.

“My name is Moreau, by the way. It’s only proper to introduce oneself before offering one’s blood.” He flashes that dazzling grin of his.

“Moreau?”

“I know. Isn’t it amusing? So perfectly pointed,” he laughs.

“I’m Orlando.” I stretch out my hand, but he doesn’t take it.

“What a beautiful name you have, Orlando. A pleasure,” he says, inclining his head like a prince.

Moreau is utterly strange and fascinating. With his casual nature, he breaks all propriety and conventions, but he’s simultaneously the most elegant man I’ve ever encountered.

“Go ahead, drink it.”

I place the goblet to my lips and drink Moreau’s blood.

Thick, tasteless liquid coats my tongue. And then, the last drop. The goblet is empty. Nothing happens. Seconds pass, minutes, and then…

Spiced meat drenched in cinnamon. Roasted tomatoes and mushroom mince. Soft and fragrant Christmas pies.

Blood? No. The ichor.

Suddenly, it’s hot, too hot. The smell of ashes coats my lungs.

Moreau watches me intently, his head shifting like a bird’s.

No, like a wolf.

My pulse rushes through my ears, my breath catches. Perspiration appears across my skin. My cheeks blush, a fire grows from within.

Moreau’s lips—such soft, full lips—part over brilliantly white teeth. The smile of a predator. Infinitely alluring, yet promising exaltation. It’s dazzling, hypnotising. I can’t look away. There are no more words, only—

My stomach groans. I feel hunger. Thirst. But wait, there’s something more. The deepest longing, a yearning for—

“Look at you, Orlando, you are even more exquisite than I could have imagined,” Moreau murmurs.

The words are so soft, I can almost feel them caressing my skin. His gaze drops to my lap. My fingers are still grasping the goblet’s neck. My eyes catch on my hands. My ordinary hands. Pale skin enveloping too-long fingers. Not graceful like a pianist, but rather thick like a cobbler’s.