Now what was left?
Oh, nothing major—just figuring out how to feed again the forbidden vampire in my basement blood... without:
Releasing him,
Getting myself murdered,
Breaking my very important, very life-saving, not-at-all-unreasonable Three Guiding Rules:
Don't talk to the vampire.
Don't open the cage.
Don't take off the necklace.
No falling for the naked undead Adonis currently lounging like a cursed calendar model.(had to add it because he wasn't what I pictured a dead vampire looks like)
Simple. Sensible. Foolproof.
Except the vampire looked like a Greek god who moonlighted as a Calvin Klein model and smiled like he'd tasted sinners for breakfast. And currently, he was sitting inside the reinforced sun-cursed cage looking bored. Like royalty waiting for his butler to serve him a five-course blood buffet.
Nope. Not today, Satan.
Yeah.
Stupid me.
Turns out, reading all of the necromantic resurrection manual before digging up a forbidden vampire would've been a good idea. Who knew?
Because apparently, if a vampire's been rotting away for a couple centuries in a cursed coffin under thirteen feet of consecrated dirt, you can't just throw him some blood and harvest a fresh pint like he's a goth juice box.
Nope.
You gotta wait 72 hours for the blood to fully cycle through his system and become "alive and kicking undead" quality. Not the half-formed, magical sludge that currently sloshes through his freakishly perfect veins.
How did I find this out?
By finally—FINALLY—reading the NB NOTE scrawled in red ink on page 78 of the manual.
NB: DO NOT HARVEST VAMPIRIC BLOOD BEFORE 72 HOURS POST-RESURRECTION. BLOOD DRAWN BEFORE FULL RECIRCULATION IS CONSIDERED UNSTABLE, INFERIOR, AND MAY CAUSE EXPLOSIONS, INSANITY, OR SUDDEN IMMORTALITY. You've been warned.
Fucking. Great.
I slapped the manual shut and dropped it on the table like it had personally betrayed me. My cat, who now had a running commentary on all my failures, was licking his paw dramatically.
"Didn't you tell me you were top of your class in dark arts theory?"
"I lied," I muttered. "Obviously."
He hopped up on the table, tail swishing. "So now you have to keep feeding Mr. Sinister downstairs like some deranged vampire nanny until his blood ripens? Classy."
"Shut up, Salem."
But he was right. Again. Ugh.
Another 24 hours. That was the new countdown. And until then, I had to keep feeding him blood so he didn't turn into a dry, angry corpse with fangs—and hope to all unholy hell that I didn't lose my brain to a single misstep in magical etiquette.
I paced the living room, clutching my sweaty mug of cocoa, trying to re-strategize.
Two more feedings? That meant two more chances for him to compel me, seduce me, or just drive me mad with those ridiculous eyes and that unholy voice.
Salem stretched and yawned. "So, what's the backup plan if he escapes and decides to start a murder orgy?"
"There isn't a backup plan," I snapped. "I didn't think I'd need one because I thought I'd be done in 48 hours, harvest his magic blood, and send him back to the dirt!"
Salem blinked slowly. "Right. And I thought you were smart. We both have regrets."
I threw a pillow at him. He dodged it with feline smugness.
Now what?
Now I wait.
I feed.
I don't talk.
I don't fall for his stupid smile.
And when 72 hours is up—I drain him, bury him, and finally cast the spell that'll burn my enemies to the ground.
...Hopefully without setting myself on fire.
*******
I stood at the top of the basement steps, holding two blood bags like offerings to a cranky dark lord, and tried to figure out how to feed him without ending up with fang holes in my neck.
"Maybe use tongs?" I muttered to myself. "Long tongs. Witch-grade barbecue tongs."
Salem, lounging on a bookshelf like an emotionally unavailable roommate, yawned. "You do realize he's going to manipulate you again, right? Doesn't matter how many layers of silver-reinforced Kevlar you wear. You're a hot mess and he knows it."
"I'm strategically unstable, thank you very much."
I paced. Thought. Stared at the cage.
He looked at me from inside, all muscles and menace, like he was trying to will my clothes off or my brain off—either way, it wasn't helpful.
"Okay," I whispered, "think, think—feed the vampire without opening the cage. What do I have that lets me send blood through a small space without risking limb loss?"
And then the answer came to me in a flash of genius.
A funnel.
And some tubing.
And a lot of tape.
Cut to five minutes later: I had duct-taped together a long, slightly janky-looking feeding tube made from an old garden hose, a sacrificial wine funnel, and a cursed glass bottle that once held pickled demon hearts.
I filled the bottle with blood, climbed halfway down the stairs, avoided eye contact with Mr. "Look Into My Eyes And Die," and stuck one end through the narrow bars of the cage like I was feeding a feral tiger.
He didn't move.
Just tilted his head. Smirked.
"You really don't want to talk to me, do you?"
Nope. Not responding. Just staring blankly. Feeding tube. That's all he gets. No words. No names. No soul exchange today, thank you.
"I could give you what you want," he purred.
OH SHIT.
I turned around instantly and started humming. Loudly. Badly. Off-key. I knew better than to let a vampire make a deal with you. That's Binding 101.
Salem hissed from the top stair. "You really suck at this whole 'forbidden resurrection' thing."
"Not now, Salem," I growled, wrestling with the tubing.
The blood slid down, slow and thick and dark, and I saw the vampire's expression shift—eyes flashing, lips parting just enough to show fang.
He drank.
Not like a monster.
Like a king.
Elegant, slow, intense.
And for one wild second, I imagined being that blood bag. Held. Tasted. Consumed.
"NOPE," I shouted, slapping myself. "No. No sexy blood thoughts. We are scientific here. This is for a spell. This is revenge. That's it."
He pulled the hose out of his mouth with a soft, satisfied sound that made my knees go jelly.
"This vintage is quite good," he said.
I flipped him off. Because I wasn't talking to him, but the finger speaks volumes.
He just laughed—low and wicked—and settled back against the bars like he owned the place.
I went upstairs, heart hammering, and made a note:
Feed vampire: check.
Stay alive: check.
Stick to rules: mostly check.
Still hopelessly screwed? Oh, yeah.
Now all I had to do was wait 24 hours, drain him, re-bury him, and execute the biggest revenge spell this world has ever seen.
Easy.
Probably.
If he doesn't seduce me to death first.