518


   "Don't be nervous," I say.  "It won't hurt."  I look up at the girl now, and pat the table next to my tools.  "Sit up here."
   The girl hesitates briefly, her energy giving a sudden shudder, but she crawls up onto the table and sits cross-legged in front of me.
   "Are you right-handed?" I ask.
   "Yeah," she says, blinking at me.  I am close enough now to feel the blues of the energy I saw before: it is warm and surprisingly normalized.
   "Then give me your left hand," I say, and she does.  I push her cuff up, and, on seeing the tracery of blue veins on her wrist, realize just how hungry I am.  I clench my teeth to control my hands, to keep them from shaking.  I hold her arm steady in my left hand and quickly draw the razor across her wrist with my right.  I don't even give myself time to see the blood; my mouth is clamped to her wrist and the razor is clattering to the floor.  She may have gasped, I don't know.  I run my tongue inside the cut, and she jerks; a flash of red--cliched as it may be--slices through my awareness, her own pain, the pain I have caused.  I drink.  I close my eyes and I drink.  I pull the girl's energy around me like a cloak, and feel everything she feels; first the pain, and, as the wound becomes hot and pulsing, and her blood becomes sweeter, a peaceful warmth.  I feel her other hand in my hair and then I lose myself.  I drink.
   I have not cut deep.  The bloodflow slows, despite my efforts, and this brings me to my senses.  I stop.
   I lick the wound and sit up.  I quickly squeeze honey onto the still-bleeding cut and sit back for a moment.  I breath, and sort out my energy from the girl's.  I seperate us, and then look at her:  she is staring at her wrist.
   I duck under the table to retrieve my razor, and use it to slice a piece of fabric tape from the roll.  This I stick to the edge of the table.
   "Let me see," I say quietly, and take the girl's wrist.  I lick the honey and fresh blood away--this is a nice desert--and apply more honey.  The bleeding has nearly stopped now.  I wrap her wrist tightly in gauze and tape it up.  I smile up at her.  "Was that proof enough?"
   She just nods.
   I lean back and work on raising my shields again.  "Drink your Coke," I say.  "You'll need the sugar."
   The girl looks at me for a moment, then twists around to find her drink.  She clutches the glass tight in both hands, like a little kid, and does not move back to the seat.
   I watch her, and do not bother to wonder what she is thinking.  I close my eyes and taste the flavours left in my mouth; already they taste old.  I breathe.