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It's not until she goes to change that Cal notices the blood under her fingernails.
There's only a little. She made the kill cleanly, and Juliette – no, the vampire – didn't bleed very much, even as she did bleed, collapsed to the ground and stayed there.
Cal hears her mother's voice: then she wasn't a vampire.
But Cal knows what she was. Can still feel the bite of fangs in her neck, see her blood trickle out of the corner of Juliette's mouth, dark scarlet.
Blood like the blood beneath her fingernails, spotting her palms. She turns on the tap, fingers shaking. Scrubs at her hands and finds she can't stop, scrubs harder and harder till her palms are raw and stinging, till every trace of Juliette's blood is gone.
Juliette. The vampire. Juliette.
Juliette, who she couldn't stop looking at. Juliette, who kissed her, pulled back bashful, sorry, socially awkward.
Juliette, who Cal kissed back like she was starving for it, forgot the stake in the back of her jeans.
Juliette, who kissed Cal like she wanted just to kiss her, like blood wasn't the only thing on her mind.
The vampire, who sank her fangs into Cal's neck. Cal saw her own blood trickle over her lips. She knows what she is.
And yet. She can't stop seeing it, the way Juliette smiled, the way Juliette kissed her, the way Juliette fell to the ground. The way she lay there like a sprawled doll, her blood round the stake, Cal's blood on her mouth.
It's war, she tells herself. Not all monsters look like monsters. I did what I had to do.
It's war, she screams in silence.
But when she closes her eyes, there's scarlet blood behind her lids, and Juliette, gone.
When she closes her eyes, a girl scoops a bee off her shoulder.
Days later, blood drips down Juliette's chin, scarlet-thick. Fangs out and head thrown back and a dead man on the ground, and what she is is undeniable.
But she killed him for Cal, that's the thing. She killed him for Cal, she betrayed her family, did all of it for Cal, and– and it's absurd, really. The whole thing is ridiculous, the worst idea either of them has ever had.
Cal learned enough, growing up obsessed with Romeo and Juliet. Forbidden love never ends well. People always, always get hurt.
Her family hates Juliette's. Jules' family hates hers. Hunters hate vampires and vampires hate hunters and there is no way around it all, no universe in which Cal and Jules rewrite that story.
And yet Juliette, smiling and kissing her and saving her life. Juliette, blood dripping down her chin in Cal's defence. Not hurting her, not losing control.
And Cal with a stake nowhere near her hand, Cal kissing Jules against a tree in a forest, running with Juliette's hand in hers.
Because– it's love, something whispers, far down where she can't deny it. It's love.
It's kisses and intertwined hands and heads leaning on shoulders. It's scarlet blood and loss and screaming. It's love and war and love in war.
It's fangs and stakes, and a girl scooping a bee off her shoulder.
It's Cal and Juliette, doomed and still clinging, caught up in the middle of it all.