May 1965
The thirst returned with sharper teeth.
It prowled just beneath my skin, coiled in the hollows of my chest, the back of my throat, the shadows behind my eyes. Even buried in the cellar, beneath layers of earth and denial, I felt it—gnawing at the edges of thought, salivating at memory.
And yet, I refused.
Refused to hunt, refused to learn the name of the thing I had become.
After the mirror—after Élodie's voice and the shattering glass—I vowed not to rise again.
But the body will always betray the mind.
Especially when the body is something unnatural.
That morning, I woke—if one can call this waking—to the scent of something impossibly sweet.
Not mold, not dust, and not rats.
Blood.
Human.
Fresh.
My eyes opened before I understood why.
It was faint, carried by the wind through the cellar's warped beams and the cracks in the old stones. But to me, it was music.
Sunlight, the promise of breath in a body that no longer needed it.
I scrambled upward—silent, hungry, guided only by instinct. My fingers tore open the cellar hatch.
Outside, the world was still soaked in spring. The grass glistened with dew. Bees drifted between lavender stalks. Somewhere, a bird sang.
And then I saw her.
A child.
She stood at the far edge of the vineyard, just beyond the crumbled wall. Barefoot, pale dress, and hair like straw. A basket dangling from one hand.
She must have wandered in from the neighboring farm. I hadn't seen her before, couldn't have. I would have remembered.
She was humming to herself.
That should have stopped me.
It didn't.
I moved. Faster than a thought, faster than guilt.
One blink—I was halfway there.
Next blink—I stood behind her, invisible as fog.
The scent hit me like a flood. Her pulse was a drumbeat in the air. I could see the blue of her veins beneath the skin of her neck. My throat ignited, my hands trembled.
She turned.
And smiled.
"Bonjour, monsieur," she said softly, blinking up at me with wide, unknowing eyes.
I didn't answer.
I couldn't.
Because I had leaned in.
Closer.....
Closer still....
Close enough to see the flutter of her lashes. Close enough to feel the heat of her breath. My hands rose—twitching toward her shoulders. Towards her throat.
She didn't scream.
She just waited.
That broke me.
I flung myself back with a snarl, crashing into a twisted olive tree behind the wall. The trunk split with the force of it. Birds scattered. My hands were shaking violently now—clawed, feral, red.
No.
Not red.
But they should have been.
I nearly killed her.
I wanted to.
I saw it too clearly now: not a dream, not madness. But instinct, brutal, primal—Buried in the bone of me.
The child stood frozen, eyes wide.
I backed away, still trembling.
"I'm sorry," I whispered. My voice was hoarse, useless. I wasn't even sure I said it aloud.
Then I turned and ran.
Through the vineyard
Through the trees
Through every illusion I had built to make this place feel safe.
I ran until my legs lost meaning and the world blurred with speed.
Somewhere past the southern edge of the property, I dropped to my knees in a field of wild barley. The golden stalks bent around me like brittle arms. The scent of the child still clung to me, sharp as citrus and blood.
I clawed at my scalp, my throat, anything that could bleed. But nothing bled.
I was hollow.
This thing I had become—it was not mourning, not penance. It was simply hunger.
And the worst part?
It would happen again.
It didn't matter how I cowered in the dark or buried myself in memories. One moment of weakness. One drop of blood in the wind. That was all it would take.
And next time, I would not stop.
I curled into the dirt, hiding my face.
I could hear them again.
My patients.
Victorine: "Even monsters wear clean shoes."
Serge: "You always preferred the ones who cried."
Élodie: "She would've danced, you know. You would've taken that from her too."
"No," I rasped. "I didn't hurt her. I didn't."
The barley whispered around me.
But the wind carried no absolution.
Only the memory of her heartbeat.
Only the scent of her blood.