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Jacob's already asleep by the time Lenore comes stumbling home after four days away—he misses her at bedtime, but tries to put on a stiff upper lip, tries to pretend that he isn't still expecting her to come back. He tries to be brave for his mother, mentions nothing about the woman he calls his Aunt Lenore, who is so-called because Amy has no other words to explain their relationship to her son, at least none that she wants to use at his age.
That's a sticking point for Lenore. Probably not why she's been gone so long—longer than she's ever been gone before—but that part, Amy has no control over. Hasn't for months now. Hasn't since January, when their Mother sprung out of whatever hole they'd kept her in and started in on making them hungry—making it so bad that nothing staves the urges off, nothing makes them stop pulsing in their skulls and clawing at the backs of their eyes. She keeps promising to change and use them when Jacob's older, when it's less of a hot-button topic, when the homophobic neighbors move since it's hard enough pretending that they're not monsters much less trying to do that while dealing with getting picketed for taking Jacob to school in the morning because God forbid he get the same education as kids with a mother and a father instead of a mother and an Aunt Lenore…
And so much the better that he's oblivious to this, Amy thinks, trailing her fingers down the curtains and squinting out into the dark—even as Lenore trips along the sidewalk, up the driveway, Amy can tell something's wrong. She never falls, never even comes close; she never pauses to try and get her bearings, the way she would if she'd fed on animals. The loss of balance is too affected and it falls away once she reaches the porch. She tears through the door like a hurricane, whirling around the corner and crashing into Amy's chest, her embrace when she moves to block Lenore's path—
She just means to get Lenore to pause, to ask where she's been and what's happened, why Lenore looks like she's been rolling around in the dirt, why the stench of sweat and grime reeks off of her clumped up hair… But, instead, Amy catches her. Lenore hits Amy too hard and they both knock back into the door that goes to the cellar; they bang against it, the sound reverberating down the stairs and into the jungle of storage boxes, the old sofa, the TV that only works for video games and DVDs. When their lips collide, when Lenore slides, serpentine, again Amy's front, she's cold in Amy's embrace, underneath the arm Amy hooks around her shoulders, the way she always is—but she's not cold enough to be normal, to be alright… Without asking, Amy can guess what must've happened because there's only one way vampires can warm up like this.
She's fed. And not on cattle or on rabbit blood or any of the animals that normally make themselves a convenient substitute for humans—even if she hasn't killed someone, she's broken her one rule, the one that's kept her and her various covens safe (mostly), the one that she's put other vampires down for breaking… Amy sighs, right into Lenore's mouth, even as she pulls back, gently knocks her head against the door and groans. Lenore follows her, slipping a leg between Amy's, nudging that thigh up against her hips and her pussy, letting Amy feel that pressure and the seam of her own jeans all up close and personal—and Amy's lips tremble as she looks into Lenore's eyes. Sees how her pupils are dilated too much—they're always bigger than a humans, but never this much… Never to the point that they crowd in on her irises, until there's almost nothing left of blue…
Without a thought, stomach twisting up not in guilt for neglecting Lenore's hunger before this, but out of loneliness and four days' worth of missing her and where did you go and what've you done, what if you'd needed help and why didn't you even think to tell me and what if you'd never come home, what was I supposed to do then, Amy drops one hand to Lenore's hip. She teases her fingers at the hem of Lenore's shirt, twisting them up in it… She insinuates her hand into Lenore's personal space, right up under Lenore's jacket, her t-shirt and sweatshirt, splays her palm across Lenore's icicle flesh and grips on tight, grinds up against Lenore's skin and thinks she might warm Lenore up with the friction.
She might not be as good as blood, she might not have the same power to fill that ache in Lenore's belly, satisfy her on a primal level like nothing else can, the same way that only pituitary glands make Amy's and Jacob's heartbeats stop racing in the middle of crowds where they can pass but never quite fit in… As she brushes the backs of her fingers down Lenore's cheek, all Amy thinks about is blood. If Lenore can hear hers flooding throughout her body right now, if Lenore can smell it or if the anxiety smell's drowning it out, if there's something going on that would've kept Lenore from calling on her, asking for her help with the cravings—asking for Amy's blood when nothing else could help.
And Amy knows her blood isn't the same. Hers might not have the coppery taste of human, and maybe the aroma of earth and charred wood doesn't go down as easily as Lenore would like—but as she wrinkles her nose, takes her deep breaths, loses the ability to meet Lenore's gaze and has to look down at her chest instead, all that rattles around Amy's skull is the wonder. The worry. The one question: you fucking idiot, why wouldn't you come to me? Why wouldn't you suck it up and let me help?
Lenore bucks up into her hips again and knocks her thigh further in Amy's direction. And as much as she'd like to growl or forego noises for words to demand answers, demand to know what the Hell Lenore was thinking, Amy only manages to whine. Clutch Lenore closer to her breasts and whisper wordless pleas on her exhalations—don't do that to me again, she says as she lips at Lenore's jaw… I know it's hard, I know you hate it, I know you hate our Mother, she mutters, grazing her mouth up Lenore's cheek, but please, for God's sakes, don't run off like that again…
Maybe we're monsters, she says in the barrage of pecks and smooches she plasters across Lenore's temples, the arch of her nose, the apples of her cheeks, and maybe hunters only let us off the hook—but we don't have to live like that. We're not killers. You're not a killer. Honey, please… even if you run off again, remember that much. Remember that you're not like the rest of them…
Lenore's thigh moves between her own again, and this time, Amy gasps. She bends her creaking knees ever-so-slightly so she can ride against Lenore's bone and muscle, digs her fingers that much further into Lenore's side, her undead, pliant flesh—the flesh that creeps, congealed, underneath Amy's nails with something black, like bile, instead of blood. Her other hand, Amy finally moves; she knots it up in Lenore's jacket, tugging her closer again, kissing her like a smack upside the head, like a hammer and an anvil, biting on Lenore's lower lip—and hard, hard enough to crack through Lenore's chapping skin.
She hacks a bit, spits up the bile on the floor between them, but the invitation still gets through: they kiss again. Lenore bites on Amy's lip, digs in her fangs; in the brief moment before Lenore catches Amy's lip between her teeth and starts to suck, Amy feels the blood bubble up. And she doesn't say it, but the promise is real to her: Just trust me, Honey, and I'll help you through it… I won't let anything happen to you.