I felt it the moment they arrived. My blood – probably mostly Snow's blood – sang for them, and the blood of humanity called to me even more than normal. I fed when and where I wanted; the people I drank from simply blended into one another, one long screaming face. They all went the same way – begging and pleading. I had never begged in my life, and it sickened me, how respectable people (bankers, priests, even some back-benchers) could so easily be changed into simply a collection of arteries, muscles and blood – no personalities, just self-pity.
I stalked the whole of humanity (limiting myself to the Barry area, of course), and gorged myself. Their blood flowed quickly, and it was rich with sugar, and the fat made their hearts glisten with grease, and their necks tore easily under my teeth. The presence of the Old Ones, my equals, made me rampage with the simple need to strengthen myself for them. I knew then, that if they asked me, my blood would scream until I agreed to join them, for my blood was once their blood.
Tom was worried about me, I knew. He asked me occasionally about what I was up to, since I didn't bother showing up for work much. The blood hadn't been affecting me that much, although that might have been to do with the fact that I was staying away from Cutler, and all the temptations he offered. It had been a week since I'd last put my apron on, when he collared me as I was leaving the house.
"What's going on? You're drinking again, aren't you? I can smell it on you – you stink of it. Hal. Look at me!" He grabbed my arm, dragging me around to face him. I pushed his hand off, and then continued out the door. He followed.
"The Old Ones are coming, and we need to fight them. You need to fight them, for all of us. For Eve's sake." His voice rose uncertainly, then settled as he found his rhythm. "I know you don't want to go near them in case they kill you for running away, or something –"
"I'm not scared of them. I'm a ruthless killer, more ruthless than most of them ever were. I can deal with it. I don't need you, or Annie, or Cutler, or anybody-" I froze. I'd said his name. His name. Would Tom pick up on it? A stranger's name, in the middle of my conversation? But then, they knew each other. I smelt Cutler on him that evening I drank blood again for the first time, and I knew that his hands had touched Tom's tie. I was ready to rip Tom's face off when I smelt him, but then I remembered – softly, softly. Massacre monkey. So I hid my anger and pain behind another mask.
They knew each other – but how?
My brain leapt to the answer, but I couldn't believe it. Tom was the werewolf that Cutler had been manipulating? He was the one who uploaded the video, he was the one who frightened the coroner (and killed her too, therefore). And he was the one who'd been lying to my friend (my best friend) for God knew how long –
His surprised voice cut through my thoughts, but I was too busy deciding what to do that I only stared at him blankly. He repeated what he'd said. "How do you know Cutler?" His voice was almost hurt, the child wondering why the adults had sent him to bed, and his eyebrows swooped to darken his eyes.
"I knew him a long time ago." I paused, and let the silence stretch. That would do; that's all Tom needed to know. Not the myriad ways and places and times in which I had known Cutler, not how we were connected by more than blood, by more than lust, but by something else which neither of us had said aloud. Not how he kept me together by ripping me apart. Certainly now what we'd been up to recently. I doubted that Tom understood about the birds and the bees (if Allison was anything to go by, at least) – so that would be a giant leap too far.
He nodded once, waiting for the obvious question – "How do you know him, Tom?". But I knew the answer already, and I needed to talk to Cutler, before this escalated. The existence of werewolves and vampires was about to be revealed, and by him, in some desperate attempt to please the Old Ones. (All of them; presumably pleasing one was not enough, and he certainly couldn't please them as he could please me). This was my fault, of course – I had moulded him into this glory-seeker, this history maker, and then left.
I pivoted, with a grace that I had picked up from watching Cutler almost dance to our victims, and opened the front door. "You can't go!" Tom's voice burst from behind me.
"I can't not go, can I?" I said mildly, and went to his office.
I speeded up the stairs and into his room, and slammed my hands down on the desk. "What are you planning with Tom? You can't use him. Any werewolf but him, please. It would tear our home apart." I paused, breathing too quickly. Damn him, he always had this effect on me. He smirked, the corners of his mouth twitching in a manner I knew all too well, for he had picked it up from me. That was the smile I would use before I sunk my teeth into the neck of a young girl, or before I dragged him around the corner and forced his lips onto mine, or before I snapped the spine of an irritating boy that grew infatuated with him. I suppose I was the infatuated one now.
He extended his hand to the glass on his desk. "Freshly decanted. It's more… close to life, since you prefer it that way." I ignored this with every fibre in my body, but I could almost taste it already-
"Why Tom?" I fixed my eyes on his, and watched his pupils dilate. That meant something, but the blood was all I could think of. He reached into his desk and pulled out a knife, and before I could protest, he had sliced it across his palm. The smell hit me, and I swayed. Tom was forgotten, the Old Ones were forgotten, because this was what I needed. He was what I needed.