The adrenalin high is long gone. I’m so tired, I wish I was back in my den. Why did I come here today? Do I need food that bad? No, but I need to stop this foaming scab from sending its chemical hooks down my spine. It hurts, fuck, it hurts! And the only cure is food. I pass the sign in the foyer that says: “Satan, save our pain!” As if there’s any doubt He will. The only question is, does He have hailing frequencies? If so, I could tell Him to save my pain for a more appropriate time. As if there was one. But I’d ask anyway. Ow, healing hurts. It’ll drain me, unless I get to the emetic banquet before noon.

“Blood,” Howe says, draining his mug and winking at me. “It’s good today. Wise man for coming.”

I nod. Howe’s shirt is tattered and soaked with blood. I can smell that it’s his, not the communal reserve. It hasn’t dried yet, so I figure he must have fought some wolves to get here today. Maybe he sought them out just to fight, that’s his style. He doesn’t like wolves. But he’s young, like them. Rebelling against non-conformity.

There’s worship discussion happening soon, in the rooms, but first I gotta drink some blood, so I don’t faint. I don’t really like drinking blood, but you gotta do that here, it’s part of it. I figure I’ll come to like it. I hope.

Howe is trying to suck me into conversation, but I’m off to my favourite emetic room, the one with the marble trough where the subterranean pumps hum me hymns. Glass cabinets line the walls. I grab a glass, grind my teeth, and dunk it in the trough. Then I slug it back. The warmth is pleasing. The taste is hell. I’m in a bright crimson reverie, and the sickness is healing – creeping quease, cerebro-spinal fluid with tendrils of blood, sick, SICKLY, and I can’t puke. A preliminary retch. I haven’t eaten enough. I wish I was back in my den. It’s so cold there, but it only takes two days before you’re shivered out – then it’s only another three days to finally fall asleep. And I can sleep longer than anyone I know. And I’m proud of this, but ashamed for that. And my throat is revving, retching up... a fine, long meaty hurl. It lands in the gutter beside the trough. I call it the puke-moat. Cough. Splutter. And I like the post-purge glow. Wish it lasted longer.

“Drink your blood,” big Marsha says as she passes me, like I haven’t already. She’s on such a high plane, she doesn’t hurl – ever. She’s above it all. She worships with the lions, those civil master baiters, I say, cause I think it’s funny. Some people say she takes blood wafers, or pressed pills or something.

“Hey, is it too late for free bread?” I call after her. She doesn’t seem to hear. Well... it’s not too late for worship. It’s been said that there’ll be pie in the sky when you die.

Howe has come to the same room as me, punctual, wolf-hunt or no.

“Drink your blood,” he says.

“I already had some,” I say.

“Drink some more.” He’s handing me a mug. “This won’t make you purge, if you let a little.”

Well, I can’t argue with Howe, he’s got such thick arms. So I take out my point, stick it in the underside of my forearm, and draw some of mine into a vacuutainer. Then drop it in the mug. Swish it around. Take sips. For a second I think I’m going to projectile vomit right into the gathering crowd of worshippers. But I tell myself I like the taste. It’s good, it’s nice, it’s life, it’s the best thing there is.