“Hey, Tryss.” He doesn’t respond. “Did you know corpses don’t bleed?” There’s still no answer. He hasn’t even acknowledged me with a grunt or a turn of the head. “See, the heart’s not pumping the blood through the veins and arteries, so gravity takes over and it just settles in the…wherever it…”
I trail off. He’s not listening to me anyway, probably doesn’t even hear. Moistening my lips, I turn my gaze, gradually, deliberately, from the wall to the ashy face of the man lying next to me. Trystain’s eyes are directed at the ceiling but not focused on it, like they can see through the plaster. They aren’t bright enough to be Caribbean blue anymore—just a dull, placid color that would resemble the sea if there were more life to it. His lips are as opaque as the rest of his skin. He looks like a doll, not even an Adonis anymore. Just a doll.
Shifting to cross one leg beneath me so that I can comfortably face Trystain, I bend down to nestle my face in the crook his neck—the non-punctured side. The other side has two dark streaks trailing down towards the floor of the dim room. I’m not sure where this place is, but I avoid the faint light filtering through the grime-encrusted window and I’m afraid to know what’s outside the closed door. The only things in this room besides the shards of glass in the corner are me and the motionless man whose pulse flutters almost imperceptibly, like the wing beats of a moth. I woke up in this room with my shirt torn open and my wounds gone. I’m not sure how long I’ve been here now. Tryss probably does, but he’s not telling, not moving, not blinking…
Trystain’s skin is cool against my face, something I forgot that I don’t want to be reminded of, so I lift my head to look at his face again. The same blank expression greets me. I let out a quiet sigh through my nose.
“Tryss,” I start to say, but my tongue catches on my eyetooth and I wince, hand darting to my mouth. Gingerly, I probe my teeth with my tongue; they feel so much longer and more angular than they used to be, it’s like I have a stranger in my mouth. They still have a lingering flavor of iron and salt, and I glance at the puncture wounds on Trystain’s neck. Acerbic terror rears its head in my chest.
“Tryss,” I breathe shakily, “help me.”
He doesn’t twitch a finger, but I can feel his still-fluttering pulse even without touching him, and it’s pounding, pounding, pounding in my chest until I realize I need to start breathing again before my heart gives out. Inhaling, I eye Trystain again.
“Hey, Tryss?” I speak timidly, leaning over him. “When you first drank blood, you said it tasted terrible. Did it get better after that? Like, a lot better?”
He’s still silent.
“Tryss, did the blood taste better after your first time?” I repeat.
You know it does, he finally says, rolling his eyes. It’s kind of like sex. The first time hurts, but you get to enjoy it pretty quickly.
My mouth strains to smile at the analogy. “So was Helen’s blood really good? Was it better than mine?”
I’m pretty sure he’s glaring at me. Don’t say her name, he snaps. It pisses me off. I’ll kill you.
I succumb to a full-blown grin, and my shoulders start to shake with the laughter I’m trying to suppress.
“Kill me?” I giggle. “Kill me?” A snort tears from me, followed by a tumult of pitchy, uneven laughter. “You can’t kill me!” I guffaw, clutching my stomach. “You can’t kill me because you’re dead! Dead! Dead!”
I’m being unnecessarily loud, but I can’t help that it’s so funny. “You think you’ll kill me, but,” I interrupt myself with a snort, “you’re already dead, and—and that’s ironic, you know? It’s really, really…” I start laughing again, and I press my hands over my mouth to muffle it, only to have surprise and confusion cut it off entirely as I discover that my face is wet. Trystain stares silently at the ceiling. Wiping my nose on my sleeve, I shiver, pulling my torn jacket closer about me.
