Jack's bloodshot eyes snapped open, and his fangs elongated. His mind was a clouded mess. The more memories he absorbed during sleep, the more blood he consumed, and the higher his Blood Magic rose. The more extreme the cravings became.
Jack held back a feral snarl as he glanced at Melinda. He tried to go back to his odd state of sleep, but his desire for that sweet, sweet nectar consumed the back of his mind, always there, whispering its temptations. He wanted to feed, hunt, slaughter, and kill, then become one with the night and have an endless feast on Blackthorn's residents. He often envisioned such a beautiful sight in his mind. His hands felt twitchy with anticipation, or perhaps he was going into relapse.
But then his human rationale would take over, and he would depict himself alone in the rain, on his knees in the mud with Melinda's corpse in his arms, surrounded by rivers of blood.
'What a waste.'
