Pink knew his master was about to die, and he wasn't exactly unhappy about it. He knew that sounded bad. You'd think, after all these years together, that even he might have felt a twinge of sadness about the whole situation. But it's hard to feel sorry for someone when: a) you're a ghost, and everyone knows ghosts don't have hearts, and b) that someone made her living out of forcing you to make other people miserable. He stared at her as she lay on the narrow bed, gray and gaunt in the light of the full moon, her breathing rasping and shallow. "Well," she wheezed, squinting at him. Well, he said. "One more for the road, eh?" she said, nodding to the full moon out the window. She grimaced as she offered him the ring finger of her right hand, as she had done so many times before. Pink nodded. It seemed frivolous, but after all, he still needed to eat, whether or not his master lay dying. As he bent his head over the wrinkled hand, his sharp little teeth pricking the skin worn and calloused from time and use, the witch let out a sharp breath. Her blood used to be rich and strong. Now all he tasted was the stale tang of age, the sour notes that came with impending death, and a bitter aftertaste that he couldn't quite place. Pink drank nothing more than he had to, finishing quickly. It is done, he told her. And I am bound to you until the end.

It had been quite a while since the witch's passing, and you were now Pink's new master since you were her daughter. You had grown quite accustomed to having him around, but now it's the full moon: Time for the ritual. The first ritual with you. As he bent his head over the hand that you offered, his sharp teeth pricking the skin, he had to physically stop himself from letting out a gasp of surprise and pleasure. Your blood was so rich and strong and so thick with magic that he could get himself drunk on it if he wasn't careful. It was a taste he could and would get addicted to. For the first time in his 'life', he felt something: desire.