《The Devil's Flock》


 Chapter One: The Raven

    The treeline finally breaks into an open meadow from the previously explored forest. A sense of freedom washes over me as I lose myself in the thick scent of wildflowers and fresh-cut grass. My eyes train in on the fireflies as they begin their nightly dance across the field, glowing a soft green- their light replacing the heated glow from the sun as it disappears from view.


    Today was sweltering, our hottest day of summer yet. This would explain the lack of campers and hikers that usually clutter the national forest surrounding this mountain. There''s typically plenty of humans to pick off, but lately, they¡¯ve been scarce.


    I take a final drag from my cigarette, holding in and savoring that final puff before dropping it into the tall grass and snuffing out the cherry. The land surrounding me should bring me peace but nothing seems to relax me anymore.


    This hunt has been extremely long and not at all fruitful. Unfortunately, this means I will be coming home empty-handed; again. Micah searched in the opposite direction so I can only hope that he came across someone or something.


    Hell, I¡¯d even settle for animal blood at this rate. My mouth begins watering at the thought and hunger pangs deep inside my gut, causing me to wince in discomfort. I can¡¯t remember the last time I was this hungry.


    As the hunger pain begins to fade my nostrils are met with a pungent, undeniable scent that is tainted with so much nostalgia it almost knocks me down to my knees. Breathless, I attempt to suck in the air and follow it before it fades away completely.


    It can''t be¡­


    My nose forces me away from the safety of the treeline and I begin to wander. The meadow opens up to my right, revealing a quaint two-story home that looks like it was built in the early 1900s. Its green window panels are chipped and worn from years of weathering with a bright red metal roof that¡¯s riddled with rust spots.


    The back porch bows in the middle with old washed-out wood and a broken step leading out into the backyard. The place almost looks abandoned except for a light shining through a small window directly beside the porch.


    My feet carry me closer to the house against my will, curiosity and the overwhelming scent luring me closer to the source. This scent, I¡¯ve only come across it once before. My chest warms at the memory of her only to be immediately snuffed out by the icy chill of losing her. I shake my head like a dog trying to rid itself of an awful smell, doing my best to compose myself before taking a few steps closer to the old farmhouse.


    If I had to guess, whoever¡¯s inside is probably elderly, alone, and unsuspecting. The exterior of the house screams ¡°an old woman lives here¡±. Which is perfect because that means she won''t put up much of a fight and I won''t have to exert what little energy I have left.


    We¡¯ve been starving due to all of the wildfires closing down the local campgrounds. No campers means no food. While we can feed on animal blood, it doesn''t sustain us. Human blood is the main staple in our diet and without it we die.


    Which puts a lot of pressure on me to find something, anything, to bring home. I¡¯ve always been a hunter, and I¡¯ve always done well at it. Lately that hasn''t been the case, but today I might have found the motherload.


    As I approach the back of the house I notice something shift around the corner of the porch. The scent wafts even stronger as the figure disappears from view. The animalistic part of me wants to chase it down, but I realize how stupid that is.


    ¡°Take your time, be patient.¡± My father''s voice drones in the back of my mind. I roll my eyes at the thought of his voice regardless. I¡¯m very aware that rushing in can get you injured or killed, and while I am powerful I am not invincible.Enjoying the story? Show your support by reading it on the official site.


    I decide it''s better to fall back, taking my chances on staying hidden inside the tree line to feel out the situation before barging in. Who¡¯s to say this person lives alone? What if they¡¯re armed? It¡¯s better to play it safe and watch from a distance, waiting to strike when the time is right. I¡¯ve gone this long without sustenance, what''s a few days more?


    I wait a few minutes, my keen hearing picking up on movement from within the home. A faint heartbeat raps in the distance, quicker than any heartbeat I¡¯ve ever heard from a human, and I grow more curious. My body leans closer in anticipation, eyes locked in on the little window that peers into the kitchen.


    A full head of golden waves pops into view first, taking me by surprise. This person is way too short to be an adult. Is it a child? My heart sinks at the thought. I can¡¯t kill a kid- I won''t. No matter how hungry I am.


    Eyes gradually peer over the windowsill before the girl, a woman, slowly rises to a full stand. Her entire upper body comes into view and I feel myself stiffen. Her hair, her eyes¡­ her scent;


    Rue? It can¡¯t be...


    I feel myself lunge forward, ready to bolt out of the woodline and tackle down the glass door leading into the back of the house until I realize what¡¯s missing. The red birthmark Rue sported from her shoulder to the underneath of her chin is missing.


    This girl is just a stranger, a look-alike that could pass for the girl I loved so strongly all those years ago that it killed her. Shame weighs my body down to the soft grass below as the memory of her flashes before my eyes, only for a moment before I¡¯m snapped back to reality.


    Questions pick at my brain the harder I stare. Is this a second chance? A way to redeem how foolish I was as a teenager? Does she live here alone?


    I dare a step closer, bringing my ear as close to the house as possible without being spotted when I hear a crash from inside. My brow furrows, recognizing the scent of a man inside and my excitement dwindles but doesn''t fully disappear.


    There¡¯s a fear in her eyes now, widening her eyelids around the whites and exposing those steel blue irises¡¯ that almost perfectly match Rue¡¯s. Her head shrinks into her shoulders like she¡¯s anticipating a blow to the back of her head when a man steps into view of the window.


    A tall, thin man rushes up from behind her. He grabs her by the hair at the back of her head violently, ripping her backward as he presses his mouth against her ear. The whites of my knuckles practically break through the skin with how tightly my fists are clenched. I¡¯ve never met this girl, but it already feels like I¡¯ve known her for a lifetime. With how closely she resembles Rue, it fills me with a heated rage to see some asshole manhandle her like this.


    The way she clamps her lips shut and doesn''t make a sound-- doesn''t beg for mercy or cry out for help. She¡¯s been through this countless times and knows better than to satisfy his violence with her weak cries.


    As much as I¡¯d love to barge in and slaughter this asshole, I hunker down and watch from a distance. Taking a mental note to make his death slow and painful once the time is right.


    There is a thud inside the home, indicating that he¡¯s brought her down to the floor. Seeing my moment to leave the treeline and use the darkness to my advantage, I sprint over to the other side of the house. Ducking down to hide from view behind an old tractor that¡¯s close to the house but not too close.


    He has her pinned down on the tan-colored tile floor, blood beginning to pool from her mouth from a busted lip. My mouth waters- my body aching to have just a taste as it streams down the fullness of her lips. It takes everything in me not to burst inside and kill this fucking bastard and drain her of every last drop of blood coursing through her veins.


    I watch as the light in her eyes fades, hazed over like her soul has left her body temporarily and my heart closes in on itself. Any motive to drain her dry is now gone. I watch hesitantly as he shoves her dress up, pressing her head down against the floor as he has his way with her and my blood boils.


    What am I doing? I should rush inside and rescue her¡­ but then what?


    Once human blood is involved I turn into something that would send most people running to find a weapon. If I killed him in front of her, she¡¯d likely be terrified of me for more than just murdering her husband right in front of her.


    The only human who accepted me for who I was is long gone, and just because this girl looks identical to her, it doesn''t mean she feels the same. I have to take my time with this one, but I¡¯ve already made up my mind.


    She¡¯s coming home with me and I¡¯m going to do things right this time. Micah and Dad will have to get over it.

 Chapter 2: The Hummingbird

    I know what I saw that night. Ever since then I have rarely felt alone when John leaves for work each day. Only recently have I begun to feel safe enough to lounge on the porch again during the day. Today is different, though. I don¡¯t feel like there are eyes watching me from beyond the meadow. It feels peaceful outside for once, and my tense muscles finally begin to relax.


    My little bluejay has stopped by the bird feeder, pecking away at the seeds I added in early this morning. I wiggle my finger at him, afraid I might scare him off. He tilts his head in my direction, giving me a onceover before snagging a few seeds and flying away. I feel myself grin, a foreign feeling as of late.


    The smile quickly fades as I notice some movement in the treeline past the meadow. My defenses return full force and I jump up, ready to retreat indoors if need be.


    When the doe and her spotted fawn emerge from the forest I let out a breath I didn''t realize I was holding. The two walk side by side and find a safe place to graze and I feel my heartstrings tug. My son would be five years old now, had the pregnancy gone to term. I look down at the empty space beside me wondering what he¡¯d look like now- if he¡¯d share my freckles and curly blonde locks.


    Watching the mother carefully clean her baby, giving it tiny little kisses on its head before going back to grazing creates a painful sting behind my eyelids. My arm wraps around my empty stomach, clutching to the fabric of my dress tightly. It''s only a matter of time before it happens again, and I¡¯m not sure I¡¯ll be able to survive another loss.


    Why do I continue to suffer like this? What did I do to deserve it? I wanted my son more than anything- but now he¡¯s gone and I¡¯m left with this gaping hole in my heart. It was truly the only thing I had left to look forward to. I curse John under my breath for being the cause of my loss, doing my best to erase the pain from my memory. It''s been years but my resentment only festers.


    Thunder rumbles in the distance, alerting the mother deer and her head rises up from the tall grass. Her ears turn each way, listening out for danger. In her own language, she guides her baby along with her and retreats on the other side of the meadow back into the forest.


    I gaze out from under the porch to take a closer look at the sky, noticing dark clouds looming in the distance. I sigh, knowing the meadow desperately needs a good rain but not looking forward to being trapped inside. I grab my coffee cup and reluctantly go back into the house.


    The wind blows violently from the storm beginning to roll in. I watch it mindlessly as I stare from the kitchen window perched just above the sink. My hands scrub the same dingy pan in a circular motion, brain buzzing with this unexplainable hum that''s plagued me since I married the devil.


    I thought marriage would be an improvement to my life, a way to prove that not all men were like my father. The very man that put his hands on me countless times before I met John. Instead, I ended up marrying someone exactly like my father. Had I not been so naive and desperate to escape the farm, I would have completely avoided this prison sentence of a marriage.


    As if it was prompted, the words ¡°I do¡± slipped from my lips and that''s when the abuse started. The manipulation began long before then, but I was too young and gullible to notice. Now I¡¯m trapped in a loveless marriage with a predator.


    ¡°God damn Salem, this house is always a wreck!¡± I think I hear him say, rolling my eyes and hoping he won''t notice the gesture. I hear him mumble something under his breath about ¡°What I do all day while he¡¯s at work¡± but choose not to dignify the response. Nothing is or ever will be good enough for him. The persistent ringing in my ears drones on, muffling any racket happening behind me. He typically comes home from work with this same attitude daily. One full flask of whisky consumed and ready to accuse me of anything he can to find as an excuse to hit me. Or worse.


    That is, unless he¡¯s been taken care of already. He¡¯s always cheated, and I¡¯ve always turned a blind eye to it. Well- most of the time. We¡¯ve had our fights but I learned quickly that I have no control over what he does. He¡¯s made that very clear.


    The water to the sink shuts off with a loud squeak, snapping me out of my daydream when I hear something crash to the floor. It''s the shepherd''s pie I¡¯d made, the white hand-me-down casserole dish shattering against the tile floor and splattering the food against John¡¯s slacks. I cringe at the sight, knowing this will set him off more.


    ¡°Why in the hell did you make this again?¡± he hisses.


    I shrink down, knowing any response I give will anger him further. But not responding at all sometimes makes matters worse. He won''t allow me to grocery shop without him, or go anywhere without him for that matter. Between his long work hours and no way to leave the house, shepherd¡¯s pie was all I could make with the leftovers we had.


    If I had made nothing for dinner, things may have gone even worse than they already have. So I swallow down my heart that¡¯s managed to leap up my throat in fear and begin to clean up the mess in silence.


    ¡°Are you mute? I asked you a question!¡± He yells, kicking the food in my direction hard enough for it to end up splattering on my face while I¡¯m bent down to pick up the pieces of my dish.


    ¡°That''s all we have here.¡± I say, not giving him the satisfaction of seeing the mess he kicked into my face. I take my arm and wipe away the splattered food that''s made its way into my right eye.


    ¡°Are you trying to say that I don''t provide you with enough to make me a decent meal?¡± He sneers, kneeling to my level with his arms resting on his knees.


    ¡°I¡¯m saying you won''t let me go to the store without you, but you¡¯re never here to come with me. You drive the only car we have to work each day, so what would you like for me to do, John?¡± There is a hint of sarcasm in my voice and he picks up on it. Smacking me hard across the cheek.


    My hand jolts up, covering my face where he struck me and absorbing the sting as it settles into my skin. Pain is the only thing that feels real anymore. It''s like an old friend- and he provides it daily.


    To think that at one time I had thought I¡¯d hit the jackpot finding someone like him. He was a hard worker, handsome, and even had a nice car that he¡¯d pick me up in after work. Turns out he was a wolf in sheep''s clothing.


    They all are.


    He managed to always find a seat in my section at the diner I was working at trying to make ends meet while living on my own, which was brief. It didn''t take long for me to notice his beautiful blue eyes. They captivated me the moment we locked in a stare.


    He was cunning, dressed in a nice suit with his hair shaved clean on the sides and long on top. I would fumble my words, barely able to take his order with how enamored I was with him just from one look. He was older, but that somehow made him more desirable. Blame it on my daddy issues or the chronic need to feel seen. Regardless of the reason, it was the worst mistake of my life.


    A handful of years later and here we are. Here I am. Back to square one with no money, no job, and countless bruises and fractures that have never seen a doctor or x-ray. Almost as if God thought it would be a funny joke to play on me. Plucking me from one abusive bastard to another who might be worse.


    At least my father never raped me.


    I didn''t think a husband could rape his wife until I found myself in that horrible situation the first time. Then it continued to happen over, and over. There has never been a time that I felt I was willing, not even the first night. I saved myself for marriage, for what? For this. To have it forcefully taken from me without my consent.


    A tear spills over my cheek and I quickly wipe it. He seems to find pleasure in seeing me suffer; almost like he feeds off of my tears. I refrain from screaming or crying because that tends to make his actions rougher. So I pretend to feel nothing even when I feel it all.


    ¡°Clean this up, and try again.¡± He says calmly, rising to his feet.


    I wait for him to leave before rising to a stand, wondering how I can still find him handsome after all the pain he¡¯s put me through. He¡¯s damn near perfect to look at, which is what makes him so damn dangerous.


    I take my apron and wipe off the potatoes he¡¯d kicked into my face with a scowl. He doesn''t know it, but I¡¯ve daydreamed about his death almost every night. I find solace in knowing that one day he won''t be around anymore and hopefully one of our deaths will come sooner rather than later.Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings.


    The revolver on his nightstand has been singing its siren song, and it¡¯s becoming increasingly harder to ignore. Each night that he passes out drunk after forcing his way with me, I lay in bed as still as possible, wondering what it would be like to end this once and for all. I imagine killing myself, somehow making it look like it''s his fault. Or better yet, taking his life instead.


    But I know full well I wouldn''t last in prison. My weak frame and even weaker mind wouldn¡¯t withstand the abuse the other prisoners would force me to endure. Or maybe I¡¯m not giving myself enough credit? My father always said I was a ¡°persistent little shit¡±. Maybe prison wouldn¡¯t be so bad? Hell, I could probably make a friend for once.


    The dish rag sops up the remaining potatoes and juices from the ruined meal as I push my evil thoughts aside. My face continues to burn from the slap and I pray that¡¯s going to be the worst of it when I hear the cracking open of a beer can. My heart sinks. He¡¯s already become aggressive and the night has just started. A sigh escapes my lips quietly, loud enough only for me to hear.


    Maybe tonight I will get lucky and he will pass out in his chair. Leaving me to have the bed all to myself. I crave nights like that. They don''t come often enough.


    Those are the nights I sneak outside, unbeknownst to him, and draw on the porch. I¡¯ve managed to scrounge up some extra change without his knowledge. Just enough to buy myself some pencils and a sketchbook while we were in town one day.


    I love drawing, it''s my only escape from this hellish reality. My pencil carries me out of this house and into the open meadows that surround the land we own. In the spring, the wild flowers sprout up into the field beside the house attracting all sorts of creatures that are perfect references for my sketches. In between my chores, I will sit out on the porch with my coffee and sketch whatever my eyes can take in. I¡¯m beginning to fill up the book completely.


    Only lately I¡¯ve been too distracted to draw, honestly. Knowing that I¡¯m being watched makes it harder for me to focus on my craft. How can I fully immerse myself in it when I need to be on high alert? I warned John that I felt as if the house was being watched, but he waved off my concerns. Calling me paranoid and crazy for thinking anyone could find us out here.


    Maybe he¡¯s right?


    The living room is quiet now except for his show flickering into the entryway to the kitchen. He always listens to the TV far too loudly. He hasn''t made a peep since cracking open the last beer around an hour ago and I pray that he¡¯s fallen asleep.


    The soup has been simmering for around the same amount of time, mostly because I¡¯ve lost my appetite and haven''t felt implored to wake him if he¡¯s sleeping.


    I managed to scrounge a few potatoes, a can of green beans, some peas, and very little ground beef and combine them into a stock pot. Creating a vegetable soup of sorts. It smells as good as it sounds, which isn''t that great. My hopes were that the added seasonings may have made a difference in its blandness but I honestly think the pie would¡¯ve been better.


    Too bad it''s been tossed in the trash, along with my favorite dish.


    It was my grandmother''s dish. One that she used every chance she could. She left it to me, along with her house after she passed. Even after death, she managed to be a blessing to me. Leaving me her home along with the only pleasant memories I had during my childhood. Now it''s basically become my holding cell and I¡¯ve almost grown to hate the place.


    I walk over to turn the burner off of the soup and reach to make myself a bowl quietly. The ceramic clinks against the other bowls and plates crammed in beside it and I wince, praying it didn¡¯t wake him. When I don''t hear any movement, I continue my journey to make myself some dinner - late dinner. It''s past nine o¡¯clock at night and I had the first meal done at six just in time for him to come home. Beer sounded better to him, I guess.


    Steam rolls off the top of the brown liquid, hints of bay leaf and bouyon wafting into my nostrils. I close my eyes, allowing the scent to carry me away from here and hopefully warm my soul. The bowl rests on the counter while I turn my attention to the silverware drawer and quietly dig out a spoon to use when a chill runs through me.


    My body freezes in place, feeling eyes on me from somewhere in the house. Or maybe even outside of the house. Every hair on my body stands on end as that same familiar feeling of being watched dominates me.


    Fight or flight instincts are completely ignored and I freeze instead. My eyes turn with curiosity while my head stays in place, my body frozen with fear. A fear that I¡¯ve never experienced before, somehow.


    That¡¯s when I see it. Something, or someone, is standing right outside my kitchen window. A scream begs to escape but the person standing in front of me brings up their finger to their masked lips, shaking their head slowly. I cover my mouth as the scream catches in my throat. Making eye contact with the person who¡¯s somehow tall enough to see directly into the window despite how far it is from the ground. The top of my head barely reaches the bottom of this window from standing outside.


    Who¡­ How?


    The person is most definitely a man based off of stature alone but his features are hidden behind an expressionless mask. The type of Halloween mask that is left blank for children to color and make their own. A white slate begging for creativity, but this person is using it as a fear tactic or perhaps to cover something hideous underneath?


    He¡¯s the one that¡¯s been watching me. I knew I wasn''t crazy!


    My hands slowly drop down to my sides. I cock my head to the side with narrow-eyed confusion, wondering how this man even found me out here when we don''t live anywhere near civilization. Our nearest grocery store is thirty minutes away. He must live close by, or maybe he followed John home from work? None of these options provide comfort.


    For some reason, he doesn''t move. He stands completely still but my heart never ceases its rapid assault inside my chest but I remain just as still. The two of us stare into each other''s eyes, only his are hidden under the shadow of his mask. That still doesn''t prevent the burning feeling of them boring into me.


    My gaze breaks from his and flashes over to the sliding glass door, wondering if it''s locked. It usually never is until I do my night rounds of the house and dread washes over me. When my eyes flick back over to the window, he¡¯s not there. Shit.


    Panic fuels my movements as I rush over to the glass door, heart pounding in my ears when my gaze is met with a broad chest covered with an old, ragged white tank top.


    My fingers play with the lock, knowing fully well that his hands are already on the handle ready to sling the door off its track. This man is massive, and his shadow engulfs me inside of it. Coffee brown curls rest on his muscular shoulders, a few pieces dangling in front of his white mask. He presses his forehead against the glass, causing a dull thud to rattle the glass door and I startle back allowing the door to remain unlocked.


    Maybe my prayers have been answered and he¡¯s here to take John and I out of our nuptial misery. At this point, I¡¯d almost welcome death with open arms. Life has been nothing short of dreadful since the moment I was forced from the womb. The man standing before me should be a bad omen but instead he¡¯s a stairway to freedom. I would say heaven, but I don''t believe in such a place.


    Against my will, my feet step toward the glass door which appears to intrigue the giant before me. My entire life has been filled with dangerous men. Abusive men. This one is no different, only much larger and capable of taking me out faster. His hand reaches up to just under his chin, knuckles brown and purple tainted with bruising and possibly mud. Or blood.


    I shiver at the thought. The red splatter against his off-white shirt confirms it''s the latter and my stomach churns. I watch as his index finger and thumb meet just under his chin, while the other three fingers stick straight out. His hand turns like a key before moving his hand up to his face, flicking his finger at his nose.


    He¡¯s¡­signing?


    ¡°Curious mouse.¡± I whisper to myself. Confirming his silent words. My grandmother became deaf before I was born, so sign language is not foreign to me.


    My cheeks heat and I quickly lunge forward to lock the door. Wondering why it took so long for me to do it to start with. I don''t dare glance back up, knowing full well that there is only a sheet of glass between us but still feeling safer that he¡¯s on the other side of it. His knuckles tap the jingle of ¡°match in the gas tank¡± against the glass and my eyes bulge out of my skull.


    Lightning crashes behind him and I suddenly regain my will to live. I race toward the counter and snatch the largest butcher knife we have out of the wooden block and dart toward the door to warn him that I¡¯m not afraid but he¡¯s already gone.


    What would I have done with the damn knife against someone his size? I don''t know. I won''t go down without a fight though, without leaving plenty of evidence of who my killer was behind.


    My hands tremble with the knife white knuckled into my fist as I press my face against the glass, not seeing any semblance of a person in the woodline or movement in the trees. Almost as if he was never here. Rain begins to finally proceed with it''s promised downpour and I¡¯m left wondering if any of that was even real.


    Perhaps I¡¯m losing it? Maybe there¡¯s lead in the old pots and pans left behind by my grandparents and I¡¯m slowly killing my brain cells with it. I shake my head in disbelief, wondering who this man was and why he didn''t just come in and kill me. Because that¡¯s clearly what he was here for. Or maybe he¡¯s just a sick freak that likes to stand by and watch women get treated like garbage. Maybe he¡¯s just like John and my father.


    ¡°What¡¯s up with the knife?¡± John¡¯s voice startles me.


    ¡°I- '''' I pause, wondering if I should be honest about our late night visitor. It¡¯s not like he¡¯s taken my accusations seriously so far. ¡°The coyotes are back.¡± I lied. But why? I should say something, call the police¡­


    He walks over, taking one look at the soup and curls his nose up. ¡°What the hell, when I said ¡®try again¡¯ I didn''t mean to make it worse.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m sorry.¡± I mumble, still holding the knife and imagine driving it into his neck to shut him up.


    ¡°Whatever, go upstairs and get ready for me. I¡¯ll be up in a minute.¡± He orders, shooing me away.


    I know what that means, and my heart sinks. I was looking forward to having this night to myself and not being forced to pretend that I enjoy him flopping on me like a fish out of water.


    Not only is he forceful, he''s bad at it. With no consideration for how the other person feels. I can only imagine how he treats the girls he cheats on me with. He doesn''t try to hide the perfume trapped on his clothes or the makeup stains left behind, yet he still comes home to me every night wanting more somehow.


    Every time I¡¯m left feeling dirty and unsatisfied, I wonder if I¡¯ll wind up pregnant again. After losing Benjamin, I¡¯ve been terrified of falling pregnant a second time. I lost a piece of myself that day, and I¡¯ve never wanted to experience that feeling again.


    I want to be a mother someday. If only to heal the broken parts of myself and to love someone the way I wished I could have been. But not with him. Not like this. I¡¯ve learned that much from losing the only thing that mattered to me.


    Still, I do as I¡¯m told. I¡¯d rather not ruffle his feathers anymore tonight.

 Chapter 3: The Raven

    ¡°Do you see her?¡±  I ask, glancing over at Micah to gauge his reaction. His eyes are squinted, peering through his hand that¡¯s attempting to block the mid-day sun.


    ¡°It¡¯s hard to see from all the way over here, honestly.¡± He huffs, finally giving up on trying to see the girl I found weeks ago. The breeze picks up only for a moment as if to prove my point, wafting her distinct scent in our direction. Micah¡¯s head perks up, eyebrows lifted with interest now that he¡¯s finally gotten a whiff of her.


    ¡°Whoa-¡± He breathes.


    I feel the corner of my mouth turn up with satisfaction. Exactly. I had to feed on seven damn squirrels before I could even get close enough to the house to feel like she was safe from me.


    ¡°And you¡¯re wanting to bring that home? She¡¯ll be drained dead in a week. Have you lost your mind?¡± Micah scoffs, just low enough to not grab her attention.


    ¡°She looks and smells just like her.¡± I reiterate, knowing I¡¯m dodging his concerns.


    ¡°She¡¯s not her little brother.¡± He reminds me. ¡°And bringing her home is a death sentence for her.¡±


    I sigh, rising to my feet. I don¡¯t want to be reminded of this. The memory of Rue is almost too painful to think about but this girl, she brings back some of the more fond memories that I have of her. I can control myself now, I¡¯m older. More experienced. Support the creativity of authors by visiting the original site for this novel and more.


    The unknown girl rocks lightly on the porch in the distance, sipping her coffee and sketching inside of a little book that lays open between her crossed legs. Her feet are perched against the railing of the porch, giving her a nice table to be able to draw against her lap.


    ¡°I can control it. We all can.¡± I know we can.


    Micah chuckles to himself, wanting to say something but keeping it to himself. The breeze picks up again and I watch his muscles tighten underneath his black T-shirt. They twitch just enough to catch my attention, alerting me that he¡¯s holding back the urge to rush down there and kill her. But he doesn''t.


    ¡°That blood type¡­¡± He mumbles to himself, almost in a daze. ¡°How the hell do you keep finding it?¡±


    It¡¯s so rare it''s hard to believe I¡¯ve come across it twice. When I approached her that night, I almost lost control. Ready to barge in and kill her husband before sinking my teeth into her and draining every last drop from her body. My stomach physically aches to be filled with her, but I behaved. Knowing she will be mine soon enough. Whether she likes it or not.


    ¡°So what, you bring her home. Lock her up and drain her every few weeks to feed us through the winter?¡±


    ¡°At first,¡± I confirm, never taking my eyes off of the prize. ¡°We can convince dad to keep her by offering to sell some of it and then Eventually she can live alongside us.¡±


    ¡°You really think she will stick around willingly? Like a human pet? You really are delusional.¡± Micah teases, rising to his feet but also keeping his eyes on the mouthwatering piece seated on the porch.


    ¡°She won''t have a choice.¡±