Julian waits for me outside our middle school at the usual spot under the old oak tree. Neither one of us are very happy children at twelve years old, but the look he wears today is darker than normal.

“What is it?” I ask when I’m close enough for him to notice me.

He looks up when I appear at his side, but then his gaze falls back to the dirt at his feet. “Lil, I’ve been thinking.”

“Yeah? What about?”

His eyes tell me I’m not going to like what he has to say.

“Oh, god, Jule, not again.” I sigh and start to walk toward the street in the direction of home. No doubt if we linger too long our foster mom will think we’re up to no good.

“Wait, hear me out!” He grabs my arm, effectively stopping me before I get three steps away.

I huff out another sigh and turn to face him, crossing my arms and tapping my foot with exasperation. “Okay, I’m listening, but be quick. You know how Ms. Lacy worries.”

This time it’s his turn to sigh, and he runs a hand through his short, dirty-blonde hair, making it stick up in every direction. “You remember mom and dad, right? How they died?”

“Yeah…?” I already know where he’s going with this, but I can’t tell him I don’t want to hear it, even though it kills me a little every time he brings it up. Unfortunately, there’s really no one else we can talk to about our parents’ deaths.

No one would believe us.

“I… I was doing some research today during lunch. Lil, we’re not the only ones who think that there’s something else out there. Things that aren’t hu—.”

“Shh! Julian, someone could hear you!” I look around just to be sure no one is listening. It doesn’t look like anyone is concerned with our conversation, but one can never be too sure about these things.

“Fine, alright, sorry. All I’m trying to say is that we’re not the only ones. There are others. Like us. Who’ve seen things.”

I eye him as he tells me this. I know the way our parents died has always bothered Julian, but he’s never taken things this far before. “And?”

He rubs his hand on the back of his neck, obviously uncomfortable bringing this up with me. Probably because, even though I’ve never said so, he knows how much I hate it.

“Jule, spit it out. What about these people?”

“They say there’s a way to fight back. That there’s a way to kill them, Lil. Don’t you see? We don’t have to just pretend it never happened. We can actually—”

“—Do something.”

I blink groggily and sit up from the bed, rubbing my eyes as I try to bring the room into focus. The clock on the nightstand tells me it’s only a little past two AM, and I groan as I run my hands through my hair.

“Do… Something...”

I look over at Jonah’s sleeping form, unsure if what I’d heard actually came from him, or was just the remnants of my dream in my ears.

“Please...”

Nope, definitely didn’t imagine that.

Leaning forward, I peer down at him. “Jonah?”

“Dair… ” He groans as he shifts in the sheets. “…Save her.”

Becoming more alarmed, I switch on the bedside lamp, blinking rapidly as the bright light assaults my sensitive eyes. When I’ve adjusted, I again peer down at Jonah.

His eyes are closed, and he groans again as he pulls at the covers.

Gripping his arm, I shake him gently to try to rouse him. “Jonah, wake up. It’s just a dream.”

He opens his eyes slowly, blinking several times before turning to me, eyes wide.

That’s when I notice his pupils.

Cupping his face, I turn his head into the light of the lamp and I’m not pleased at what I see.

Jonah’s shirt is soaked through with sweat and his dark curls stick to his forehead in damp clumps, a stark contrast to his pallid, waxy skin. His breathing is shallow and quick, and his pupils are so dilated that his bright green irises are only thin slivers around the outside edge.

“Oh, Jonah,” I sigh, lifting the back of a hand to his forehead. “You’re burning up.”

“Please,” he says, his words coming out hoarse and strained. He reaches for my other hand, pulling it from his cheek to cup it in his fingers and looks up at me with wide, desperate eyes. “She’s dying.”

I’m just about to ask him who, exactly, is dying when I notice the blood staining my fingertips and realize it might just be him. “Oh, god, Jonah.”

Pulling my hand from his, I cup his cheeks once more and tip his head once again, this time away from the lamp light, pushing his curls aside so I can see where the blood is coming from.

The pillow beneath his head is stained black from the open wound behind his ear. It’s not bleeding profusely, but it’s serious enough that no home-stitch job is going to save him.

I’m no medical expert, but I’m pretty sure that severe head trauma is a synonym for death.

At this point, there’s not much else I can do.

Jonah needs blood, and he needs it now.

Without a second thought I stand from the bedside to retrieve a knife from the kitchen. It takes a bit of drawer digging before I find one sharp enough, but once I do, I return to Jonah’s side, blade in hand.

After some careful maneuvering, I’m able to get him sitting upright. Slipping in between Jonah’s body and the headboard, I position my legs on either side of him, then pull him back to lean against me, the knife in my right hand and my left arm poised and ready.

Jonah pants lightly against my chest and I know all I have to do is run the knife across my wrist then press it to his lips, but I find myself hesitating none-the-less.

It might be lame of me, but in all honesty, I’m scared.

My heart beats faster in my chest as I remember the last time I gave up my blood—the burning, the fire. Panic starts to rise at the memory and I know that if I don’t do this now I might not be able to do it at all.

Without giving it another thought I pull the knife across my arm, hissing at the sharp pain that shoots up my forearm.

Blood seeps slowly from the wound, welling up beneath my skin to push from the cut with a throbbing flow. Dropping the knife on the nightstand, I grip Jonah’s chin so I can angle his mouth as I press my arm to his lips.

At first, I’m not even sure if it’s working, if I’m even getting anything in his mouth or if my life’s blood is just serving to tie-dye his nice green shirt. But then he comes to a little and tries to push my arm away.

“Lillian? Wh-what are you doing?”

“Saving your life. Now stop fighting and take my blood.”

I push my bleeding arm back towards his mouth, but he stops me with a hand.

“Jonah,” I hiss. “Stop being stubborn! There’s no way what I’ve given you could be enough yet.”

As if finally hearing what I’m saying, he tentatively touches a hand to his lips and seems surprised when he sees blood there. “Oh, god.”

“I know you said you didn’t need it, but your death complexion says otherwise. Now take it.” I shake my arm in his face to accent my point.

He hesitates, staring at the blood dripping from my wrist to stain the comforter.

“Jonah, please. I don’t know why you’re being so weird about this, but if you don’t get your shit together I’m going to bleed out all over the blankets. Please, just take it.” Then practically whining, “don’t waste my precious life force.”

I thrust my arm toward him again and this time he reaches up to take my wrist lightly in his hand.

“It… It shouldn’t have happened like this,” he says, shaking his head as if disappointed, then he pulls my wrist toward his lips and breathes, “I’m so sorry.”

I’m just about to ask him what he means, then his lips wrap around my wound and I become too preoccupied with the warm wave of pleasure that shoots straight up my arm to even care.

“Jonah, what—ah!” I gasp when his tongue slips from his lips to trace the edge of my cut, making me shiver and clutch at the sheets with my free hand. “Oh. Wow.”

Jonah must feel it too because I hear his breath catch and an almost inaudible sigh escapes him when he licks my blood from his lips. Then his mouth is on my arm once more and I’m completely lost as another wave of pleasure crashes through me.

I know I should probably tell him to stop—that I’m getting lightheaded and my limbs are growing weak—but then the tips of Jonah’s fangs graze the edge of my cut and instead of words I only manage a breathy groan as a delicious shiver skips through me.

I can feel my whole body starting to warm, thrumming with the pleasure that takes over.

My heart is racing, pushing my blood toward Jonah’s mouth, hot on the skin of my arm as he pants lightly against my wrist. His lips draw at my wound once more and my blood responds, filling me with such need to be closer to him, nearer to him, give him more.

“God, Lillian.” His voice is husky as he groans my name, his lips smearing blood up my arm.

My hand slips from the sheets to clutch at his side, fisting his shirt in my palm as my head falls forward to lean on his shoulder. I can hear myself panting, but it’s as though I’m outside myself now—floating above my body on a cloud of warmth and pleasure.

A cloud that takes me up, and up… and up…