38

The Hunger is starting to consume you. You know you cannot control yourself for much longer—and worse, you know that every Kindred here recognizes how little self-control you have left.

But the Prince of Tucson—wherever and whoever he is—runs a clean Elysium. There are no hastily-bandaged throats, no crystal goblets of sticky blood. Perhaps the feast has yet to begin, or perhaps the Kindred here prefer to indulge their habits in private. Every domain is different, and misunderstandings are dangerous.

You hear yourself groaning, a thin, high-pitched keening sound, and snap your mouth shut.

You know better than to disgrace yourself in an Elysium.

The eagle, alone, seems to sense your need. It caws, beckoning you.

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