He knew. He always seemed to open a door to himself the moment I needed somewhere to go. Rory brought my bloodied thumb to his lips and said what I’d said to him—to thousands of others—from Aisling’s spring. “What name, with blood, would you give me?” I put my thumb to his lips. “My name is Sybil Delling.” His face broke open, as if I’d taken my chisel to his derision and shattered it. Rory ran the grooves of my thumb over his crooked bottom teeth, over his tongue, taking my blood into his mouth like it was something holy.
Yeah eatinggg it up
