Everyone else had gone to bed hours ago. The warm darkness seemed empty; it sharpened his need, accentuated his hunger. He was alone and heartsick, and the feeling was achingly, hauntingly familiar. He swallowed when he looked at the shadowed table. Moonlight slatted through the loose cane door, over the table, falling on the clay jug sitting there, making it glow and beckon. Jiméne had stopped hiding the wine now, and the evidence of his trust made Cain hesitate as he strode across the floor. But only for a moment, and then it was soon forgotten. Everything was forgotten except for the glowing jug, the scent of wine that seemed to float on the air, dizzying him. Don’t do this, he thought. You can be strong. You can be strong. But then the other voice whispered, and it was soft, bewitching. One drink, it said. Just one, and then you can go back, then you can bear it. It wasn’t much of a struggle. Cain knew he was going to take the drink, and the thought filled him with a sense of impending catastrophe even as it soothed him.
