Page 21 of Marked By His Hunger
Not donor.
Not fear.
My spine locks.
My fangs descend.
The abyss inside me does not roar.
It inhales.
Deep.
Reverent.
Claiming.
And for the first time in a century—the hunger does not demand destruction.
It does not rage against my sanity.
Instead, it whispers.
Mine.
Chapter 2-Serena
The sky was overcast when I stepped out of Atlantic City Airport.
It was gloomy and oppressive, but I’d already been reminded that late fall in North Jersey could feel like that—gray, wet, heavy in the air.
It’d been ten years since I visited the Garden State.
My family had moved to Georgia right after I finished high school.
I’d spent most of my childhood in New Jersey, sure, but today felt different.
Charged.
Like something unseen was waiting.
I’d been dreaming of traveling my whole life.
England.
Ireland.
Scotland.
Rolling green hills and bright blue skies, and dramatic moors straight out of a Shakespeare sonnet.
Instead, I was headed somewhere far stranger.
Asgarheim Runevald Institute.
Accessed through a hidden threshold deep in the forests of New Jersey.
Not exactly a brochure vacation.
