Chapter 8 The Seventh Invitation #2
I've seen Cassius in many states—furious and cold, protective and territorial, burning with desire that threatened to consume us both. But this? This unguarded rest, this unconscious trust that allows him to lower his defenses in my presence? This might be the most beautiful he's ever been.
I find myself studying him with attention I probably shouldn't indulge.
The way his chest rises and falls with breathing that seems almost optional for his kind.
The way his hands—hands that have held me, protected me, claimed me in ways that still make my blood heat at the memory—rest loosely against his crossed arms. The way his lips, usually pressed into lines of concern or twisted in sardonic commentary, have relaxed into something approaching peace.
Do Duskwalkers even need sleep?
The question surfaces from half-remembered conversations, fragments of lore about beings who exist between life and death, shadow and substance. I don't think they require rest the way mortals do—their energy comes from sources beyond simple physical recovery.
But he's exhausted.
Just like I was.
Whatever happened while I was unconscious took something from him too.
The guilt that accompanies the realization is immediate and sharp.
How long have I been out?
How long has he been sitting there, waiting, watching over me while his own reserves depleted?
I don't have answers, but the questions add weight to emotions already complicated by Gabriel's farewell and the uncertainty of everything that awaits.
Slowly, carefully, I begin to sit up.
The motion requires more effort than it should—muscles protesting the demand after however long they've been dormant, equilibrium uncertain as my inner ear tries to remember which direction is up. Dizziness washes through me in waves, making the room swim briefly before settling back into focus.
Easy.
Don't rush.
The last thing you need is another fainting spell.
I wait for the vertigo to pass, breathing steadily, giving my body time to remember how to function.
The bioluminescence pulses around me with rhythm that almost matches my heartbeat, and I wonder if the pod is somehow synchronizing with my vitals—responding to my recovery with adjustments I can't consciously detect.
When the dizziness fades to manageable levels, I turn my attention back to Cassius.
And that's when I notice them.
His shadow tendrils.
They extend from his form like living extensions of his will, dark appendages that usually writhe with constant motion, tracking threats and mapping environments and responding to his emotional state with sensitivity that borders on telepathic.
But now, in his sleep, they've... settled.
Draped across surfaces with something approaching relaxation, their usual aggressive vigilance replaced by something almost peaceful.
Almost.
Because as I watch, the tendril ends begin to stir.
The motion is gradual at first—tiny shifts that could be dismissed as simple air currents, if shadow tendrils responded to something as mundane as air. But the movements increase in complexity, in awareness, and I realize with something between amusement and fascination that they're waking up.
Independently of Cassius himself.
One tendril's tip lifts from where it was resting against the pod's edge, swaying slightly as if testing the environment. Another joins it moments later, the two engaging in what looks remarkably like silent communication—nudges and gestures that convey meaning I can't quite translate.
Then one of them notices me.
The tendril goes absolutely still for a fraction of a second before its tip swivels toward my face with the particular intensity of someone who has just realized something important. It stares—if tendrils can be said to stare—with focus that makes me want to laugh despite the circumstances.
Then it nudges its companions.
Wake up. She's awake. WAKE UP.
The other tendrils respond with their own version of alertness, swaying in what I can only interpret as relief. They reach toward me with obvious intent—checking, confirming, reassuring themselves that I'm actually conscious and not simply shifting in my sleep.
I lift a finger to my lips.
Shh.
The gesture is instinctive, the meaning clear enough that even shadow extensions seem to understand. The tendrils pause mid-motion, tips tilting in what might be confusion, and I point carefully toward Cassius's sleeping form.
He's still asleep. Don't wake him.
The tendrils follow my gesture, then seem to confer with each other in their wordless way. When they turn back to me, there's something almost guilty in their posture—as if they've realized they were about to ruin something by alerting their host to my awakened state.
They nod.
Actually nod.
Tiny dips of their tips that convey understanding and agreement, and I have to bite my lip to keep from laughing at the absurdity of having a silent conversation with someone's semi-autonomous shadow appendages.
I glance down at the blanket covering my body—soft material that someone draped over me during my unconsciousness, warmth that I hadn't fully registered until now.
An idea forms.
I gesture toward the blanket, then toward Cassius, miming the act of covering him.
The tendrils seem to consider this for a moment before moving with coordinated purpose.
They lift the blanket from my body with surprising gentleness, the material passing from my coverage to theirs with the fluid efficiency of beings who have done this sort of thing before.
Then they carry it across the space between us, settling it over Cassius's shoulders with care that makes my chest ache.
He seems to relax further at the added warmth, some remaining tension in his frame easing, his breathing deepening into something more peaceful.
I smirk.
Adorable.
The big bad Duskwalker, tucked in by his own shadow tendrils at his bond mate's request.
I'm never going to let him live this down.
But first, I need to accomplish something more practical.
I assess my physical state with clinical attention—checking systems the way someone might check a machine after extensive repairs.
My limbs respond when commanded, though with sluggishness that suggests recovery is ongoing.
My head aches faintly, pressure behind my eyes that speaks to magical depletion. My stomach—
Gods.
The emptiness hits with sudden, violent clarity.
Hungry.
Not just hungry—starving.
When did I last eat?
The question has no clear answer, which is answer enough. However long I've been unconscious, however much magic has been working to restore my depleted reserves, my body needs fuel that arcane energy alone cannot provide.
I swing my legs over the pod's edge, pausing to ensure the motion doesn't trigger another wave of dizziness. When it doesn't—or at least, when the dizziness remains manageable—I lower my feet to the floor and slowly stand.
No fainting.
That's a good sign.
The floor is cool beneath my bare feet, smooth material that might be stone or might be something else entirely. I take a moment to stabilize, to confirm that my legs will actually support my weight, before turning my attention to the room's contents.
A mini fridge occupies one corner.
The sight of it triggers an immediate Pavlovian response—mouth watering, stomach growling, instincts recognizing a potential source of sustenance.
I cross the space with more speed than caution probably warrants, kneeling before the small refrigeration unit and pulling it open with hands that tremble slightly from hunger.
Blood packs.
Rows of them, neatly organized, labels indicating type and date and whatever other information the Academy considers relevant for feeding its vampire population.
Relief washes through me as I grab one, tearing into the packaging with fangs that extend without conscious command. The instinct is pure, primal, the vampire part of my hybrid nature demanding sustenance after too long without.
The first taste hits my tongue.
And I immediately cringe.
What the—
The blood is wrong.
Not spoiled, not contaminated, just... wrong in ways I can't immediately identify.
Flat where it should be vibrant, stale where it should be vital, carrying none of the essence that makes vampire feeding satisfying.
It's sustenance without soul, nutrition without pleasure, the equivalent of eating cardboard when your body craves a feast.
I glare at the pack in my hands with disgust that borders on personal offense.
This is what they expect us to survive on?
Cold, lifeless, processed blood that tastes like disappointment distilled into liquid form?
My stomach rumbles again, undeterred by my palette's protests.
Hungry.
Still so hungry.
And not just for blood.
The realization surfaces with clarity that cuts through the disgust.
I need food.
Real food. Substantial food. The kind of meal that fills not just vampire hunger but the more mundane appetites that come from being partially human, partially fae, partially whatever complicated mixture of inheritances defines my hybrid existence.
Food, I think firmly, setting aside the offensive blood pack with the particular disdain it deserves.
I need to find actual sustenance before hunger transforms into something worse.
Hangry.
The word surfaces with self-aware amusement.
I get hangry.
Genuinely, legitimately hangry in ways that have caused problems before—shortened temper, decreased patience, tendency to snap at people who don't deserve it.
Not ideal characteristics for someone navigating complicated bond mate dynamics and mysterious seventh presences and whatever fresh chaos Year Four has in store.
Better find food before I say something I'll regret.