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Chapter 1

It’s strange in the house tonight, very quiet, and the candlelight is making phantoms on the walls that dance to some ethereal beat that only they can hear. The animals on the posters seem to slink closer, and the plants seem to be growing when I’m not looking. There’s an owl in the woods not too far away and he kept asking WHO? WHO? until Aloysius whispered in his sleep, “Xenaides, the blood demon.” As though it had heard him, the owl grew quiet. I grew quiet, too, fearful of waking him.

I am still recovering from the last session, when I lost more blood than he intended. We made love tonight, and when his mouth was on me, I could feel him wanting to bite, fighting to be gentle. He only hurt me when he came, and then just a little bit, but it’s growing near...the blood demon is coming out, and this will be an intense session, I fear. He grows ever paler, and needs to replenish.

His eyes are beginning to glow silver in the dark and to shine like a cat’s when illuminated. His finger—and toenails have grown just a little, and he’s stopped wearing shoes indoors. His incisors have grown, too. Just enough, so far, to be obvious. When he changes, they will grow much longer.

He takes off his shirt the moment he gets home and paces the house like a panther; later, he paces in only his black boxers, quick and silent but for the occasional hiss or low growl. It’s like living with a very sleek, muscular Siberian tiger that walks upright. Sometimes I feel his breath on the back of my neck and I move away slowly, careful not to show that I know he’s there. Careful not to excite him or show fear. I need a few more days to recover before losing any more blood, and I fear, from the way his eyes track me and the hyperactivity he’s already showing, that I will again lose more than usual.

His hearing, always very acute, has become even keener, and he can smell the least drop of blood from rooms away. I pricked my finger on a rose thorn and he glided in and sucked it until it hurt. I know he was on the other side of the house when I pricked it. Sometimes he stares at my throat as though he can see through to the blood pumping and flowing through the veins and arteries there. I know his lust is growing ever stronger.

Because I can tell when he’s about to change, I could leave and stay away until the change passes. I could be safe and remain unmarred, with no bruises or seeping, smarting puncture wounds. I could come back when I know he’s once again my kind, loving husband, who wouldn’t hurt me for the world, instead of what he becomes...a satyr whose appetite for womanblood is almost as strong as his need for passionately violent sex and domination. I could wait until looking up at him in the candlelight meant meeting the sweet silver gaze I crave, instead of pools of argent fire, so intense they glitter like wet diamonds, just before he penetrates my flesh with his flesh, and his teeth.

I could. But I don’t.

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