At the mention of food, Aly gags, practically dry-heaving. She can taste the blood, still, hot and sticky on her tongue, filling her mouth, each stolen bite of the heart she'd taken chewy and tough, the sensation of it sliding down her throat suddenly as fresh as though she'd just swallowed it.

"No," she gasped once she'd gotten control of herself. "No food. Not for. Not for a while." No water, even. That wouldn't help.

She lets him guide her to the stairs and down them, still shell-shocked. It had happened. It had really happened, she hadn't been able to predict it or stop it, and it had been her fault.