The soldier paused, turned back around, and came close to whisper to Gordon confidentially. “My lady is bringing a cream pie later tonight. A real small one, you know, because we have to ration. You poke your head in and I’ll make sure you get a slice.”
The man’s friendliness startled Gordon. “Thanks,” he said with genuine feeling. He thought of how it was too bad he could only ingest blood now. Solid food made him sick.
On the heels of that line of thinking, he suddenly became very aware of N.C.’s pulse and the sound of his blood rushing through his body. Gordon froze all over.
Not noticing Gordon’s change in mood, N.C. chattered on. “Keep it to yourself, okay? I won’t have enough to share with everyone. Just you, me, and Clint, who’s hanging in the guardhouse tonight watching the detectors.”
Gordon barely heard him. He stared at N.C.’s throat, thinking how easy it would be to rip it open with his fang, how sweet it would be to taste the warm, soothing blood that would flow.
Horror at the idea brought him out of the sick but beguiling vision. His voice weak, he mumbled, “I really appreciate it. Thank you.”
N.C. gave him a lopsided grin and nodded. “Sure, man.” He went back to the other side of the gate and closed it, leaving Gordon alone, wrestling with the knowledge that Asperger’s or not, the transformation was catching up to him after all.