Miriam and Marcus had assured her, weeks ago, that her first attempt at feeding from a living creature would not be tidy. They had also warned that whatever unfortunate being Phoebe fed from the first time would not survive. There would be too much trauma—not necessarily physical, but certainly mental. The animal would struggle in her grip and probably frighten itself to death, its system flooded with so much adrenaline that the heart would explode.
Phoebe studied the cat. Perhaps she was not as hungry as she thought.
* * *
—
FOUR HOURS AFTER the cat arrived, Phoebe was able to scoop it into her lap when it was sleeping. She picked it up, all four limbs hanging as if they were boneless, and climbed onto the bed with it. Phoebe dropped into a cross-legged position and deposited the cat into the hollow between her thighs.
Phoebe stroked the cat’s soft fur, keeping her touch featherlight. She didn’t want to break the spell and send the cat, hissing, to its former retreat behind the wardrobe. She was afraid her hunger might overwhelm her and that, in an effort to get to the beating heart of the cat, she might upend the wardrobe and crush the animal to death before she was able to drink from it.
“How much do you weigh?” Phoebe murmured, her hand continuing to work along the cat’s spine. The cat started a low purring. “Not much, even though you’re being well fed.”
The cat couldn’t have much blood, Phoebe realized, and her hunger was considerable—and growing. Her veins felt dry and flat, as though her body didn’t hold enough life-giving fluid to round them out to their normal circumference.
The cat pushed slightly against Phoebe’s legs before forming itself into a slightly more relaxed loop. The cat sighed, contented and warm. These were instinctive gestures of nesting—of belonging.
Phoebe reminded herself that the cat wouldn’t survive what she was about to do.
And for God’s sake, don’t name it. Miriam’s warning echoed in Phoebe’s mind.
* * *
—
PHOEBE HADN’T BEEN fed for twelve hours, sixteen minutes, and twenty-four seconds. She had done the math and knew that she was going to have to feed soon or risk becoming frenzied and cruel. Phoebe was determined not to be that kind of vampire; she had heard enough stories of Matthew’s early days, told with great gusto by Ysabeau, to want to avoid such unpleasant scenes.
The cat was still sleeping in Phoebe’s lap. During the hours they’d spent together, Phoebe had learned a great deal about the animal—including her sex, which was female, her fondness for having her tail pulled slightly, and how much she disliked having her paws touched.
The cat still didn’t trust her enough to let Phoebe stroke her belly. What predator would? When Phoebe tried, the cat scratched her in protest, but the scratches healed almost immediately, leaving no mark behind.
Phoebe’s fingers still moved, repeatedly and rhythmically, through the cat’s fur, hoping for some further signs of yielding, of friendship. Of permission.
But the contrapuntal sound of the cat’s heartbeat and the hollowness in Phoebe’s veins had gone from insistent, to alluring, to maddening. Together, they had become intertwined in a song of suppressed desire.
Blood. Life.
Blood. Life.
The song pulsed through the cat’s body, one heartbeat at a time. Phoebe bit her lip in frustration, making it bleed for a fraction of a second before it healed. She had been gnawing at her own lips for the last hour, tasting the salt, knowing it would not satisfy her hunger but unable to stop herself.
The cat opened her eyes slightly at the rich scent, her pink nose quivering. Once the cat determined it wasn’t fish, or a piece of meat, she fell back into slumber.
Phoebe bit her lip again, harder and deeper this time. The taste of salt flooded her mouth, savory but empty of nutrients. It was a promise of nourishment, nothing more. Phoebe’s mouth watered at the prospect of a meal.
Once again, the cat lifted her head, her green eyes fixed on Phoebe.
“Want a taste?” Phoebe ran her finger over her lip, smearing it with a bead of blood. The skin knit together behind her fingertip. Already the blood on her finger had darkened to a rich violet. Moving quickly, before it dried to black, Phoebe offered it to the cat.
Curious, the cat’s pink tongue lapped at Phoebe’s finger. Its sandy texture made Phoebe shiver with hunger and longing.
Then something extraordinary happened.
The cat’s eyes drifted closed, a tiny bit of pink tongue extended.
Phoebe poked at it but the cat didn’t stir.
She ran her fingers lightly over the cat’s belly.
Nothing.
“Oh, God, I’ve killed it!” Phoebe whispered.
Phoebe poked it again, trying to rouse it, and felt a sense of panic. No one would come to save her—not for hours or days. Miriam—her maker, the woman who Phoebe had chosen to give her a new life—had made sure of that. Phoebe would pass out from hunger, the dead cat in her lap. She couldn’t feed from a dead thing. It was worse than necrophilia, an abhorrence to a vampire.
Blood. Life. Blood. Life.
The pulsing beat of the song continued, though its cadence was slower.
Dimly, Phoebe recognized it.
A heartbeat. Not hers.
The cat wasn’t dead.
It was asleep.
No, Phoebe realized, the cat was drugged. She looked down at her finger, which still held traces of purple.
Her vampire blood had put the cat into a state of suspended animation. Phoebe remembered Marcus and Miriam talking about this, and how some vampires abused the soporific effects of their blood, doing unspeakable things to warmbloods after they fed from them.
Phoebe lifted the cat to her nose, the animal’s body feeling even more boneless and peltlike than it had before. The cat didn’t smell particularly appetizing. Its scent was musky and dry.
Blood. Life. Blood. Life. The cat’s slow-beating heart sang into the quiet room. The sound was tempting, tormenting.
Phoebe pressed her lips to the cat’s neck, instinctively seeking food. Surely the blood was closest to the skin’s surface there. Why else would so many human stories about vampires focus on the neck? Freyja and Miriam had gone over the circulatory system of mammals with her, but, in the hunger of the moment, Phoebe wasn’t able to recall a single relevant piece of information.
The cat squirmed in Phoebe’s hands. Even under the influence of vampire blood, its instinct to survive hadn’t dimmed. The cat sensed a predator—one far more dangerous than she.
Phoebe’s mouth moved across the cat’s shoulder, taking in the texture of the fur. She grasped a tiny fold of skin between her teeth and bit down a fraction of an inch—the tiniest amount possible—and waited for the blood to fill her mouth.
Nothing.
Don’t worry about the mess, Phoebe dear, Freyja had said last night when she checked on Phoebe, sounding almost cheerful at the prospect of a bloodbath. We will clean it up afterward.
After you destroy this cat, Phoebe thought. After you feed. After you survive at some other creature’s expense.
Phoebe’s civilized mind rebelled at the prospect, and her stomach followed, heaving and clenching in a futile effort to expel its contents—but it was empty.
There had to be something to eat besides the cat, Phoebe thought. She had drained the carafe hours ago, and the two bottles of Pellegrino that Fran?oise had given her when Phoebe complained that the flat water tasted unpleasantly metallic. Phoebe hadn’t been able to stomach wine—not even wine from Burgundy, which had always been her favorite—so Freyja had taken it away.
Phoebe had even downed the water in the vase on the windowsill. She eyed the flowers strewn on the carpet, wondering whether she could snack on the stems as she had once done on celery, but the thought of so much greenery made her stomach revolt.
She got to her feet, placing the cat on the bed, and searched through her purse. There had to be something in there to eat—chewing gum, a throat pastille, a piece of stale biscuit that had fallen out of the wrapper. She tipped the contents onto the bed around the slumbering cat.
Tissues, crumpled.
Receipts, folded in half.
Driver’s license.
Passport.
Notebook for jotting down tasks.