Total pages in book: 123
Estimated words: 116220 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 581(@200wpm)___ 465(@250wpm)___ 387(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 116220 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 581(@200wpm)___ 465(@250wpm)___ 387(@300wpm)
“Feelings …?”
Tristan faced him. Oh, maybe it did come as a surprise. Sorry, I didn’t ask you out to a graveyard in the dead of night to ambush you with my feelings. That wouldn’t be nice. Or fair. That’s not what I’m here to confess. Tristan sighed. I want to tell you my secret.
“Uh, alright.”
Tristan took a seat on a nearby waist-high gravestone, then thought twice. Is this disrespectful? To sit here? He leaned back to get a look at the front of the stone. Mister George McArthur with the withered bouquet of tulips, kind sir, we have not met, but do you mind if I sit on your head while I talk to my friend?
The gravestone, naturally, did not respond.
Great. Tristan took that for consent. He faced Kyle. I want to tell you about the thing I did to Brock.
Kyle couldn’t close his mouth. He didn’t know what he was about to be told. His mind was still stuck on the part about Tristan having feelings. “Uh …”
It’s related to my allergy. Well, allergies. I have a few.
Allergies. “You mean your … your skin thing?” asked Kyle. “Your sensitivity to sunlight?”
Yes. Well, that’s the main one, the big allergy. I have others.
Kyle watched as Tristan wrung his hands, seeming unsure what to say next. This was the first time Kyle had seen him so nervous like this. “Tristan …?”
Gripping the edge of the gravestone, Tristan searched for the words. I don’t know how to say this next part. I never said it out loud. I’m not really supposed to, I think. I feel like I shouldn’t tell you, even now … even after all of this, after dragging you out here.
“Tell me what?”
And it’s not that I don’t trust you. I do, actually. Surprisingly. I trust you more than anyone I have ever met, and I’ve met God.
Kyle didn’t have the energy to decipher whether Tristan was being literal, figurative, or funny. Emotions from his long day still hung heavily on his bones. “So what is it, Tristan?”
Can’t you just read my mind? Put the clues together and ask me the question? Conclude it yourself and save me the trouble?
“I can’t read minds.”
I can read hearts. Have you noticed that yet?
“Yeah, sure, you can tell when hearts are racing or when someone’s angry or turned on or whatever, I guess.”
More than that. I can also smell blood, from miles away, I can smell it like the rain, or grandma’s cooking, or bad cologne. You have a cut on the side of your neck, a tiny one, under your shirt.
“I got it from practice. So you can smell blood? That’s it?”
How are you not amazed?? I can smell a cut that’s under your—Never mind. He hid his face behind his hands to say the rest. I’m allergic to the sun. I smell blood like a shark. Normal food bores me. I can lull people to sleep with a touch. Kyle, for fuck’s sake, stop being a thickskulled jock for one damned minute and use your brain.
“I’m tired, Tristan. Just tell me what it is and—”
At once, Kyle’s back slammed against a nearby tree, hard, and Tristan was upon him, pinning him to the tree, eyes wild and desperate, their faces inches apart.
Then Tristan’s pale pink lips went for Kyle’s neck, pulling the t-shirt out of the way so quickly, threads popped.
Kyle felt Tristan’s wet tongue touch his skin.
Tingles of pleasure rocketed down his body.
Kyle was frozen, breath wrung out of his chest, as he felt Tristan’s tongue lapping at his neck, as if on a lollipop, a piece of candy, savoring. Then he brought his face before Kyle’s again. Cool night air on his wet neck, Kyle stared into Tristan’s burning eyes, shocked at his strength, confused, heart racing.
“Did you just … lick my cut …?” asked Kyle, out of breath.
Blood, hissed Tristan.
Kyle swallowed. “So you … you like … blood?”
You’re thinking it right now. You know my secret. What I am. Set the truth free for me, I beg you, don’t make me say it.
Kyle felt bound to him in an unspoken, potent way. They always had that connection, like a tether between their souls, ever since the day they met—maybe even before then, when Kyle was merely sneaking glances from two rows over.
Kyle trusted him somehow. Completely. It’s them against the world. Them against the boundless pain.
Of course he knew what the clues added up to. It just felt like a ridiculous thing to conclude, let alone say out loud.
“Are you trying to …” Kyle swallowed, then grimaced as the words came out. “Are you trying to tell me you’re a—?”
No, Tristan cut him off at once. Let’s not use that word. That is a word used for stories told around campfires by children holding flashlights under their gawping faces. That isn’t what I call myself, anyway. I’m something far more dignified. I’d rather say I’m like … an employee of Death itself. I can give life … or take it. It is a great responsibility I plan to never misuse. And my burden.