Bury Our Bones in the Midnight Soil

by V.E. Schwab

Born restless, her father used to say. Which was fine for a son, but bad for a daughter.

His eyes deep gray, like chips of slate, his black hair neatly combed, a mustache curling like a second grin over his upper lip.

Charlotte tells herself she takes no pleasure in the act, that it is a means and nothing more. But that is not wholly true. She craves that moment in the sun, the borrowed heart, the flush of heat, the power of the blood. But there is another piece—the way she feels when those men are in her arms. When they are weak, and she is strong. When they are trapped. And she is free.

Why does Charlotte stay? That is like asking—why stay inside a house on fire? Easy to say when you are standing on the street, a safe distance from the flames. Harder when you are still inside, convinced you can douse the blaze before it spreads, or rushing room to room, trying to save what you love before it burns.

Every moment is an act of will when the hunger goes so deep. A ringing bell inside her head. A tuning fork against her skeleton.