His hand trembled, and the tea spilled thick, dark, dripping slowly down the cup.
I saw it. My stomach turned.
Was this really what I’d been drinking all along?
The knock came again, softer this time.
I steadied my voice. “Yes, hold on, I’m coming.”
I moved toward the door.
He shouted, “No! Don’t open it!”
The knock came once more, slow, deliberate… almost careful.
Panic filled his face.
“I said don’t open the door!” he yelled.
But I didn’t care anymore.
I reached for the handle.
I turned the handle.
My husband lunged forward as if to stop me—but he was too late.
The door opened with a soft creak.
Standing on the porch was an old woman, thin, pale, with long silver hair braided down her back. Her eyes were unnaturally bright… almost glowing.
She looked straight at me.
Then her gaze dropped to my husband behind me.
He collapsed to his knees.
The woman’s voice was soft but carried a strange echo.
“Child… you must stop drinking what does not belong to you.”
My breath caught. “Who… who are you?”
She didn’t answer me. Instead, she held out her trembling hand.
Resting on her palm was a small empty pouch, stained dark red.
My husband let out a strangled cry.
“I–I paid you! I did everything you said!”
The woman shook her head sadly.
“I told you… the blood tea is not meant to bind love. Only to return what was stolen.”
I felt cold all over.
Blood tea.
Blood.
Continue on next page
For complete cooking times, go to the next page or click the Open button (>), and don't forget to SHARE with your Facebook friends.
