Because she was the last one, he thought about her.
He was the tide and she was the moon. His lust ebbed and flowed at the mercy of her proximity. When she was around, it was an incessant pounding in his ears and a trembling of his fingers that made him weak with need.
She was always around. He was convinced she was haunting him. Of course, Lochlann hadn't seen her in six months and, for that matter, he wasn't even sure if she was really dead, but he couldn't figure out what she was. Guinevere Haze was a puzzle, and Lochlann did not like puzzles.
Six Months. He'd spent six months away from this school, six months from where her body might be, but she'd still found a way to haunt him. When the rain pounded against the windows and left him panting on the floor, his fingers shaking, his body covered in sweat, he thought of her. When he bit into an apple and the seeds scraped painfully across his tongue, he thought of her. When he cut himself on a ragged nail, he thought of her.
Rehab had been a mistake. They said they could help him, but Lochlann wasn't an addict. He didn't go to rehab to feel better or to get clean, because he wasn't dirty. He went there because it was the only way he could try to forget her, but there was no quitting Guinevere Haze.
Not when she had his necklace.
Until he had that back, pretending to be human was almost impossible, so Lochlann decided he was done trying.
The first thing he did was send her a letter, although technically he didn't send it. He had Cabel do that for him. His dealer would have slipped it under her apartment door, or had someone else do it for him.
Meet me at the stables, the letter said, I haven't seen you for a long time. You should know this: I am not dead. You have something of mine. I want it back.
So here he was, in the stables. Only Lochlann wasn't pretending to be human. He wasn't pretending to be anything. Where Lochlann stood was a large, black horse with a coat like a November night and a wild mane still damp and tangled with sea weed. He could pass as a horse, but there was something about his face that was just a little off. Not off enough to be noticed at first, because it was a slender face, streamlined like he was bred for racing.
It was the eyes. They were not fully set to the sides like a horse's eyes might be, like a prey animal. They were tilted forward like a predators because he was a predator. His lips hid teeth made for ripping flesh, not chewing hay.
Just wait, he thought to himself. She'll come. And then he was getting his necklace back.
Lochlann waited. In this shape, he wasn't pretending to be anything else than what he was, and he was hungry.
He was the tide and she was the moon. His lust ebbed and flowed at the mercy of her proximity. When she was around, it was an incessant pounding in his ears and a trembling of his fingers that made him weak with need.
She was always around. He was convinced she was haunting him. Of course, Lochlann hadn't seen her in six months and, for that matter, he wasn't even sure if she was really dead, but he couldn't figure out what she was. Guinevere Haze was a puzzle, and Lochlann did not like puzzles.
Six Months. He'd spent six months away from this school, six months from where her body might be, but she'd still found a way to haunt him. When the rain pounded against the windows and left him panting on the floor, his fingers shaking, his body covered in sweat, he thought of her. When he bit into an apple and the seeds scraped painfully across his tongue, he thought of her. When he cut himself on a ragged nail, he thought of her.
Rehab had been a mistake. They said they could help him, but Lochlann wasn't an addict. He didn't go to rehab to feel better or to get clean, because he wasn't dirty. He went there because it was the only way he could try to forget her, but there was no quitting Guinevere Haze.
Not when she had his necklace.
Until he had that back, pretending to be human was almost impossible, so Lochlann decided he was done trying.
The first thing he did was send her a letter, although technically he didn't send it. He had Cabel do that for him. His dealer would have slipped it under her apartment door, or had someone else do it for him.
Meet me at the stables, the letter said, I haven't seen you for a long time. You should know this: I am not dead. You have something of mine. I want it back.
So here he was, in the stables. Only Lochlann wasn't pretending to be human. He wasn't pretending to be anything. Where Lochlann stood was a large, black horse with a coat like a November night and a wild mane still damp and tangled with sea weed. He could pass as a horse, but there was something about his face that was just a little off. Not off enough to be noticed at first, because it was a slender face, streamlined like he was bred for racing.
It was the eyes. They were not fully set to the sides like a horse's eyes might be, like a prey animal. They were tilted forward like a predators because he was a predator. His lips hid teeth made for ripping flesh, not chewing hay.
Just wait, he thought to himself. She'll come. And then he was getting his necklace back.
Lochlann waited. In this shape, he wasn't pretending to be anything else than what he was, and he was hungry.