Braith
One moment the air had crackled with the Vethani’s presence—the hunger in his eyes, a silent promise of the pain that could finally fill the void inside me. The next, I was utterly alone. The old emptiness rushed back in, colder and more hollow than before now that I'd had a taste of its absence.
The blood under my nails has dried to rust-brown crescents. I dig them into my forearm again, finding a fresh spot. The pain sends warmth spreading through my body, a response I've never fully understood but have learned to crave.
Movement in the corner.
Something crawls from beneath the bed. Salamander-shaped but wrong—too many joints, skin that glows ember-orange, pulsing in rhythm. It's the size of my palm, moving in stops and starts toward me.
I should be afraid. Scratch warned me about touching things that glow.
He didn’t know I haven’t been afraid of anything in years.
The creature stops three feet away. The glow under its skin pulses, slower than a heartbeat. Watching me. No—watching my arm. The fresh blood welling where I've reopened old crescents.
“You like that?” I hold out my bleeding arm. “Here. Have a taste.”
It creeps closer. The glow intensifies, shifting from ember-orange to something warmer. Not quite gold. When it's a foot away, I feel heat radiating from its skin. Warmth. The first since arriving in this cold place.
It doesn't touch me. Just sits there, pulsing brighter with each drop of blood that wells up.
“You feed on pain.” Pain draws them all here. “Well, I've got plenty. Being a medic for four tours will do that to you.”
The salamander-thing makes a sound—not quite a chirp, not quite a whistle. It turns toward the door, takes a few steps, then looks back.
“You want me to follow you?”
Another chirp-whistle. It moves to the door, waiting.
I could stay here. Sit on this cold floor until morning, whenever morning is in this place with three moons and no sun. Wait for Scratch to collect me like lost luggage. See if the Vethani remembers what he bought.
But the little creature is warm, and I'm so cold. And I've already decided I'll either find what I need here or die trying.
I stand. My legs protest, half-asleep from the cold stone. The salamander waits patiently while I steady myself.
“Fine. But if you're leading me to my death, at least make it interesting.”
The door opens silently. The hallway beyond is empty, lit by that same sourceless light. The salamander moves with purpose, and I follow.
Shadow servants materialize as we walk. Scratch's warnings about not touching things hadn't prepared me for this—wisps of darkness with suggestions of hands, faces. They flutter anxiously around me, trying to herd me back toward the room.
“I'm already breaking the rules,” I tell them. “Might as well break them all.”
They don't like that. One tries to grab my sleeve, but its fingers pass through fabric half the time. They're terrible at touching, I realize. They can apply pressure but can't quite grasp. Another blocks my path, but I walk through it. Cold pressure passes through my lungs, then nothing.
The salamander leads me through passages that shouldn't exist. Stairs that go up but feel like down. Doorways that open onto rooms that can't be where they are. My inner ear gives up trying to make sense of it.
Something hangs from a ceiling beam ahead. Bat-like but wrong—too many joints in its wings, translucent skin showing dark veins. It drops to eye level, tilting what might be its head.
It makes a sound: my heartbeat, echoed back in miniature.
“That's disturbing.”
It makes another sound: my breathing, but smaller, lighter.
The bat-thing circles us once, then flies ahead.
Leading now, along with the salamander. I follow my strange guides through impossible architecture.
Past paintings whose eyes don't quite follow.
Through rooms where furniture floats at wrong angles.
The shadow servants trail behind, radiating disapproval.
The smell hits me suddenly—bread. Real bread. My stomach clenches with hunger I'd forgotten in my self-pity.
“Food?” I move faster, following the scent.
We pass through what might be a servants' hall. More shadows here, all stopping to stare. A door at the end is cracked open, warmth and bread-scent pouring out.
But there's another door first. Smaller. A supply closet maybe, door slightly ajar. I push it open, looking for a quicker route.
Metal gleams inside. Not supplies—weapons. Swords that hurt to look at, their edges somehow sharper than physics should allow. Spears that whisper. And on a low shelf, a blade the length of my forearm, displayed on black velvet.
It's beautiful. The metal is dark as night but reflects light that isn't there. The edge looks sharp enough to cut thoughts.
I reach for it without thinking.
The shadow servants converge, their forms becoming strangely solid in their panic, pulling at my dress, my arms. The bat-thing shrieks—my breathing, but backward and wrong. Even the salamander dims, pulsing faster.
“I'm just looking—”
My fingers brush the handle.
Pain explodes through my palm. Not a cut—a burn? A freeze? Both? The blade clatters to the floor as I jerk back, cradling my hand to my chest. The skin is split in a perfect line across my palm, too clean to be natural. Blood wells immediately, more than seems possible from one cut.
“Fuck.” Blood runs down my wrist, hot and shocking. “Fuck, fuck—”
The servants scatter. The bat-thing goes silent. The salamander flares brilliant gold, then dims to almost nothing.
They're afraid. Not of my blood. Of what's coming.
I feel him before I see him. Temperature drops further, impossible as that seems. The air gets thick with presence.
He stands at the corridor's end. Eyes brighter than I remember, pure gold now. His massive frame fills the space, making everything feel suddenly small.
He looks at my bleeding hand. His nostrils flare.
“Your weapons are sharp,” I say.
He crosses the distance between us in two strides and takes my hand without asking. His fingers engulf mine, pressing the wound closed. His skin is cold as winter stone.
“You were warned not to wander.” His voice is deeper than I remember. Rougher.
“I was hungry.”
“You were bleeding before this.” He can smell it—the dried blood under my nails, the reopened crescents on my arms. “Why?”
“Because it feels good.”
“Good how?”
I could lie. Make something up. But I'm tired and bleeding and done with pretending.
“It makes me feel... alive. Makes me feel something.”
His grip tightens slightly. Not painful, just firm. “And now?”
“Now your castle has done it better than I ever could.”
Something passes through his eyes. Not anger. Something hungrier.
“This needs binding,” he says.
“I know. I was a medic.”
“A medic who hurts herself.”
“The irony isn't lost on me.”
He's still holding my hand. Blood seeps between our pressed palms. The hunger in his expression intensifies, and I realize he's not breathing.
“What are you?” I ask.
Instead of answering, he says, “This will hurt.”
“Good.”
The word surprises us both.
He stares at me. Then slowly, deliberately, he lifts my bleeding hand to his mouth.
His lips brush my palm first. Cold, soft pressure against torn skin. I shiver, but not from cold. The anticipation builds as he hovers there, breath warming my blood.
Then he bites.
His teeth pierce deeper than the original wound. Sharp points sliding through skin and into flesh beneath. The pain explodes through my palm, up my arm, radiating through my entire body.
I moan. This is something new. I can't help myself. The sound tears from my throat, raw and needy.
The pain is everything—bright and consuming and perfect.
It burns away thought, the gnawing emptiness, the constant noise in my head.
But more than that. A deep, insistent ache settles low in my belly.
My nipples tighten against the rough fabric of my dress.
My pulse pounds in places that have nothing to do with the wound in my hand.
“Oh fuck.” The words come out breathless. “Oh fuck, yes.”
He makes a sound against my palm—a growl that vibrates through his chest. His free hand grips my wrist, holding me steady as he drinks. His mouth works against the wound, tongue and teeth and suction that sends jolts of sensation straight to my clit.
I'm getting wet. Actually wet, from pain and blood loss and the way his massive frame curves over me. This should terrify me. Instead, I press closer, offering more of myself to his hunger.
The feeding creates heat where our skin touches. His cold flesh warms under my blood, but that warmth transfers back, making me burn. Every nerve ending comes alive, hypersensitive to his touch, his breath, the pressure of his mouth.
A strange sense washes over me, not quite his thoughts, but the raw edge of his emotions. His desperate relief, sharp as a blade. The intoxicating taste of my own pain reflected back at me. And underneath it all, a primal arousal that mirrors the ache in my own belly.
My hips rock forward without conscious thought. Seeking friction, contact, anything to ease the throbbing between my legs. The movement presses my thigh against his, and I feel him, hard and thick.
He pulls back just enough to speak, lips still against my palm. “You taste...” His voice is rough, strained. “Perfect. Like everything I’ve wanted.” He bites again, deeper.
This time I cry out. The sound echoes through the corridor, shameless and desperate. My free hand fists in his hair, holding him to the wound, demanding more.
The salamander flares brilliant gold, its glow pulsing faster. The bat-thing circles overhead, repeating my gasps and moans in miniature. Even the shadow servants press closer, feeding off the energy we're creating.
When he finally lifts his head, my palm is healed. But I'm left aching, empty, wanting more. The silence in my head is perfect, but my body screams for something else entirely.
“What are you?” I whisper.
“Hungry,” he says, and his voice is rough with need. “I have been hungry for a very long time.”
“And now?”
His golden eyes burn. “Now I have found what I need.”