My anger made everything certain and easy. My love made everything complicated and difficult.

Another scream. Louder. More desperate. Mother, it was awful, how vampires sounded when they were well and truly in a bloodlust. You could hear them ripping apart the flesh. It wasn’t quiet, it wasn’t elegant, it wasn’t graceful. It was loud and messy and horrible.

But one had to learn how to hear what lingered in between the words. Just like he never told me he loved me, but I heard it in every stern instruction.

“Get out,” I snarled. “I brought you something.” “Get out.” “That’s rude.”

He offered his daughter no comfort, no tenderness. Why would he? The world would offer her none, either. She should learn this.

He was my father in name alone. Perhaps I didn’t have his blood, or his magic, or his immortality. But I had that ruthlessness. He had cultivated it in me, one thorn at a time.

“The blades hold poison,” he said. “There’s enough in them to last you awhile. You can refill it through the hilt.” This, I knew, was Vincent telling me that he loved me.

“Then Turn me,” she shot back. “Make me like you. I read all about it.” “I can’t do that, either, Oraya.” Another hope fractured. Her eyes burned. “Why not?” “Because you are far too precious.”

He swung his legs down and leaned forward. With that movement, I twitched backwards, drawing a step closer to the wall. “What?” he said. “Do I smell?” “I told you to get out.”