Chapter 37
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Under the Sun
Erevos
The market was full of humans.
Erevos enjoyed feeding on emotions—the tang of envy, the warm bloom of joy, the metallic pulse of fear, and the sweetness of devotion—but noise was an entirely different matter.
Emotion was sustenance.
Noise was intrusion.
Voices overlapped, merchants calling out prices, children shrieking as they darted between stalls, livestock bleating in protest as rough hands tugged at rope halters.
Wooden wheels creaked over uneven stone, iron-shod hooves struck the ground in impatient rhythms, and somewhere nearby a human laughed too loudly, the sound cracking through the air like splintering timber.
One of the things he preferred was quiet.
True quiet, the kind that existed in The Void, where silence did not mean absence but depth, where stillness was thick and intentional and undisturbed by meaningless chatter.
In the human world, quiet existed only in the hour before dawn, in the breath held between confessions, in the pause before a blade struck.
Unfortunately for Erevos, it was midday.
The sun stood high above the village square, its light glaring against thatched rooftops and whitewashed stone.
Stalls lined the open space in crooked rows, canvas awnings sagging slightly beneath the weight of daylight, bolts of dyed fabric swaying beside strings of drying herbs and garlands of garlic.
A butcher’s table stood not far from the well, slabs of red meat glistening wetly as flies gathered in spirals, while beside it a fishmonger shouted over the din, holding up silver bodies that caught the sun like flashing blades.
Humans brushed against one another without thought or apology, fabric scraping fabric, shoulders knocking, coins clinking as they exchanged hands slick with labor. Irritation at haggled prices, pride at a good bargain, hunger, impatience, fleeting attraction, and suspicion.
It was abundant.
It was chaotic and loud.
I shall obtain a soothing salve, he thought as he slipped from one shadow into the next, his form dissolving and reforming along the narrow seams where light failed to reach.
But where would he find such a thing? In truth, he wished to obtain many, enough that his songbird would never lack even the smallest comfort, enough that she would never again feel tenderness without remedy waiting at his hand.
He should have asked her.
Patience, he reminded himself.
From one stall to the next, Erevos searched without being seen, drifting through shade cast by awnings and carts, listening to the clipped exchanges between merchants and customers, studying jars of dried herbs, bundles of roots, and small clay pots sealed with wax.
He found tinctures for coughs, salves for burns, powders meant to steady trembling hands, yet none bore any clear indication that they would soothe the particular ache he sought to ease.
An idea rose in his mind. If he followed the scent of mating, surely he would find the medicine associated with it.
Where humans coupled, there would be remedies.
So he turned his attention from sight to smell, from noise to the subtler currents beneath it, and allowed himself to sift through the air thick with sweat and livestock and fermenting grain until he located the scent of arousal.
He moved beyond the market stalls toward the homes that loomed over them, their upper stories, and he listened carefully for the rhythm of flesh striking flesh, for the uneven breaths and the strained, wavering sounds Lyssena called “moaning”.
The scent drew him toward a building he recognized as a tavern, a place where humans consumed bitter liquids in alarming quantities and grew progressively louder with each cup emptied. Of course, what he sought would be found in the loudest place.
With little choice and even less patience remaining, Erevos slid through the shadow beneath a merchant’s cart and emerged within the dim rear corridor of the largest tavern in the village, the air inside heavy with ale, smoke, and the dense, humid tang of bodies packed too closely together.
As he advanced down the narrow hall, the sounds intensified—low groans and the wet cadence of movement—and the scent of arousal thickened until it coated the back of his throat.
There, behind a closed door barely latched, were two humans.
The female knelt bare upon the floorboards, her knees pressed into worn wood, one hand wrapped around the cock of a wrinkled male whose face bore thick, uneven patches of hair. Her spine curved forward as she leaned toward him, her lips parting as she guided him into her mouth.
“Mhm . . . what a thick cock you have, master,” the woman whispered before sliding that same cock past her lips.
Erevos stilled.
First, he had now observed what a human cock looked like, and it was far from thick at all. Second, that particular cock would have never caused the need for a salve.
A slow, wide grin spread across his face, sharp teeth flashing briefly in the dimness, amusement curling through him.
Humans exaggerated.
Humans lied even during mating.
Still, he had come for a purpose.
Dissolving into shadow once more, Erevos slipped beneath the bed and then into the adjoining rooms, searching along shelves and inside chests, examining small jars and folded cloths for any indication of a soothing balm.
He found none.
Erevos searched longer than he intended, drifting from chamber to chamber, from cupboard to crate, examining clay pots and folded linens with growing dissatisfaction, yet nowhere did he find the salve he sought, nowhere a jar clearly marked for the soothing of tender flesh. He had been gone too long.
His songbird was alone.
He withdrew from yet another tavern’s stale corridors and returned to the open air, allowing the sunlit chaos of the village to wash over him once more as he considered a more efficient approach.
If mating did not lead him to the salve, perhaps motherhood would.
He turned his attention toward the quieter edges of the market, where homes stood closer together, and the noise softened into domestic murmurs, the scrape of chairs, the murmur of lullabies, the whispers of a child being rocked.
It did not take him long to find her.
A woman stood just outside a modest dwelling, her skirts plain and her hair loosely bound, laughing as a small child clung to her leg.
Erevos watched from the shade of a nearby wall as she lifted the child into her arms and carried it inside, her voice lowering into gentle tones meant to coax sleep.
He waited, listening to the gradual quieting of the child’s restless movements, to the soft cadence of breath evening out behind thin wooden walls.
Only when the house settled into true silence did he move.
Erevos no longer bothered to hide himself. He stepped from the shadow directly into her small chamber.
The woman turned at once. Her eyes widened so violently that the whites showed stark against her irises, her breath catching in a sharp, strangled sound as terror flooded her features. The scent of fear bloomed thick, prickling along Erevos’s senses as her entire body began to tremble.
She dropped to her knees just like his songbird did when she first saw him.
Her palms struck the floorboards, her head bowing so quickly that her hair fell forward to shield her face, and she averted her gaze as though even the act of looking upon him might condemn her.
“G-Greatest god,” she stammered, her voice shaking so hard the words nearly fractured, “forgive me—”
Erevos stood there, tall and unmoving, his presence filling the small room. He did not have time for all these human customs. His Lyssena was hurting, and he was losing time.
“I require a salve,” he said, his tone neither cruel nor kind. “One used after mating.”
Her trembling intensified.
For a fleeting moment, shame flickered through her fear, coloring it with mortification, but she did not dare question him.
With shaking hands, she rose just enough to crawl toward a low shelf near the bed, her fingers fumbling among small jars and cloth-wrapped bundles before retrieving a modest clay container sealed with wax.
She held it out to him without lifting her gaze.
“This . . . this is what we use, Greatest,” she whispered, her voice barely more than breath. “For soreness. For . . . for comfort.”
Erevos stepped closer, and she flinched despite herself, her shoulders curling inward as though bracing for impact.
He took the jar between his fingers and examined it, turning it, noting the scent of herbs and oil.
“This is the correct substance?” he asked.
“Yes, Greatest god,” she answered at once.
“Where may I obtain more of it?”
The question seemed to surprise her more than his presence had.
Silence stretched thin before she swallowed hard and pressed her forehead fully to the floor.
“My humble self would make it for you,” she said. “If it pleases you, I would prepare as much as you require.”
Erevos should have started with it. He could have had the salve and the knowledge.
“Teach me,” he said at last.
Her breath hitched.
Slowly, cautiously, she nodded against the floorboards, her entire body still trembling as she whispered, “Yes, Greatest god.”