Page 34 of Blood Lovers

“Come now.” Paul slides his hand around the back of my head, pulling me into him. “I need you to drink so I can be sure things are still good between us.” I don’t know what that means, but I don’t care, either. The scent of his blood is so powerful I’m salivating before our lips even touch.

And then there it is. The tangy taste of him on my tongue.

But it’s only ever a taste. He denies me anything more than a drop or two. I eagerly kiss him back, trying to get every drop before his lip seals back up, healed.

And when it’s over, my head is on his shoulder like I’m about to weep. And I am spent.

“There you go. That’s all you needed. Tell me now. Do you feel better or worse?”

When I don’t answer him, he asks again. This time with more force.“ Ryet. Better? Or worse?”

“Better.” It’s barely a whisper.

“Good.” Then he sighs. Like he’s relieved. He guides me over to the bed and helps me lie down. He gets in next to me and plays with my hair.

I am too weak to move. But this is euphoria. This is bliss.

The blood is a powerful drug. Better than anything out there on the streets.

And I am just an addict.

Paul kisses my forehead. I can’t even manage to open my eyes.

And the last thing I hear is, “Sleep now, blood lover. Sleep.”

My second life started the moment I opened my eyes in that hotel room in San Francisco. That’s when I was born. In that fucking room.

A gorgeous place. Don’t recall the name, but it went out of business decades back.

I had no memories at all. Not a single one. I didn’t even know my name. Still don’t. He calls me Ryet. He insists my full name is Zecharyet, but it’s not. I don’t know who that guy is, but it’s not me. I feel that deep down in my demon bones.

I looked that name up online once the internet became prevalent, and many times since then, just in case it was an old record that took time to get entered into the databases. There is no such name as Zecharyet. It gets zero hits on Google.

How is that even possible? How has this combination of letters never come up before in the entire history of the world?

I don’t know, but it feels like a clue.

Or a lie.

Or a mistake.

Or maybe it was deliberate. So I would know he was lying to me. Because if I was the man he claims me to be, then there would be a birth certificate, wouldn’t there? A death certificate, maybe. That one depends on whether or not anyone was seriously looking for me after I disappeared from… wherever it was I came from.

The point is, if that name was real, was me—then there would be a history.

And there is no history.

Well, that’s not entirely true. I have one thing with this name on it. A deed to some land back east. But it was part of the waking up with Paul in San Francisco, so I’m not sure it’s an actual clue, or a planted one.

That day was pretty confusing. We were in bed together, both of us naked.

I don’t think I had feelings about that, which seems wrong, just like the name. Because I am not attracted to men. Paul doesn’t count. He’s not a man. He’s a monster.

It felt pretty natural, though. Like sleeping naked together is just something he and I occasionally do.

But that was wrong as well.

He was not my boyfriend.