Tell me, Eric,” he said, licking a droplet from the corner of his mouth. “Have you ever tasted blood?”       My mouth was so dry I could barely find the voice to answer him. “What an odd question...”       “But a valid one. Well, have you?”       “I’ve cut my lip before, so yes, I suppose I have tasted blood, but...”       “Not your own, you foolish boy.” He let out a short, derisive laugh and leaned in so that he was only a few inches from my face. “I mean the blood of another.”       “Good God, Stefan, of course not!”       “Pity...

He was mocking me. I could see his mouth beginning to lift in a maddening smirk, a smile that was half sardonic and half secretive, as if the fate of the world depended on the answer to a riddle only he knew and would never share.

Because, my dear Eric, I have tasted the secret knowledge. I know how much to say and when to pull back. I know what to see and not see. And now that I have become whole again, I can never go back. All these things he has given me. Better than my supposed mother and father ever could. For that, I owe him my life and allegiance.