I haven’t seen him since then, and I’m starting to wonder where he is in spite of my better judgment. It’s been almost a month since he last fed—at least as far as I know, I think with a moody frown. Thanks to his question, I had been thinking about why I try the razor blade in my room and uncovered an answer. Testing my self-preservation instincts, to make sure I’m not suicidal, despite the depressing battles with myself. It probably has a lot to do with the artificial high on fear as well, and the thought that it’s a secret only I know.
…And Trystain. But it was supposed to be only my secret.
His voice echoes in my head, asking yet again, “Do you want to end up cutting too deep?” and “I bet I know you better than you do yourself,” and “Ingrate.”
Why had it caused a pleasant stir in my heart when he called me that? I guessed it was because he never called me by my name, so any personal reference resulted in some degree of happiness. But why did I care if it was him? And why had I been so agitated when he said I wasn’t the only one? I should have known he didn’t just wait around for me like a dog; everyone has more than one friend.
Is that what I am? Do friends drink one another’s blood without a thought for what the response might be?
“You’re thinking again, aren’t you? Moody?”
I jump nearly a foot at the sound of Trystain’s voice right next to my ear, and he wears an amused, lopsided grin when I whip around with a guarded stance.
“Did I scare you?”
“Oh, shut up,” I sigh back, lowering my guard. “More importantly, where have you been for the past two weeks?”
“Here and there. Don’t you ride the bus home?”
“I missed it, and I’m walking today.”
“Really? Lucky me.”
I’m about to question his meaning, but he places a hand on my shoulder and pulls me purposefully off the path I need to take to get home. It’s impossible to try to go anywhere except where he wants me to, which turns out to be the park. There are some children playing on the swings where we sometimes sit, so he saunters over to the shade of the trees where we last met before letting go and collapsing into a sloppy seated position in the grass, motioning for me to sit next to him. Instead, I cross my arms and glare.
“What do you want?” I monotone.
“I want to talk,” he replies in the same flat voice, mimicking my narrowed eyes and lowered brows. Switching back to his usual devious carelessness, he pats the ground beside him and says, “Come on. The grass isn’t wet.”
“I’ll stand, thanks,” I mutter, reluctantly dropping my bag and leaning back against a tree. “So what is it you want to talk about?”
“I don’t care. I’m just killing time.”
Temper flaring, I’m about to snap at him when I notice his eyes.
Trystain has told me that vampires are naturally albino, lacking in melanin, which darkens skin and hair and gives eyes their color. When they drink blood, their bodies produce more melanin so that they are able to go out in the sun. However, when they do not drink blood, the melanin in their eyes and skin dies, making their skin pale and revealing the blood vessels in their eyes; this makes their irises appear to be red. That’s how I know when Trystain is thirsty.
Right now, his eyes are the startling bright blue of aquamarine, not a trace of crimson seeping in from the edges or center like they do at the end of each month, creeping in from the outside of the round oceans like a hungry contagion. His skin, I notice, is tanner than I’ve ever seen it, and his hair is a deeper gold than usual. He notices me staring and his lips curl up into a slow grin.
