Series: Market of the Macabre
He wastes no time. Already the moonlight has crept across the box, and if he misses this opportunity, it will be weeks before another presents itself.
He slips his tongue between his teeth — and bites down, hard, severing the flesh. He takes the torn tip of his tongue between his fingers, even as his mouth fills with blood. He turns his head to the side and spits, a misty spray of blood and saliva.
Then he leans forward, the moonlight washing over him, and licks the top of the box. He takes his time, caressing the box with his tongue with a movement that is almost sensual. The blood from his mouth fills the depressions in the wood, up to the brim and then some, so that each appears as a black bead of fluid in the moonlight. The box itself drinks up the remaining blood, so that when he is done and straightens again, the box appears to have been set with dark, glistening glass jewels.
It is enough. With a click a seam appears around the perimeter of the box, and wisps of vapor seep through the gap.