Chapter 3
Volik
Blood wells on my tongue as I drag it roughly against the point of my fang.
Consuming my own sangue does little to provide energy. But I let it coat the inside of my mouth as the cut heals itself, needing any sort of distraction.
Tilting my head back, I close my eyes and focus on containing the weight inside my chest.
I am losing my mind.
It was inevitable.
I knew it would come to this.
I swallow.
We can only be alone for so long before we revert.
Back to the animal side of our nature.
Back to the blood.
I take a deep inhale. A hint of menta romana tinges the air.
Everyone—Alts, humans, animals—we all have a scent as unique as fingerprints.
Mine is that of wild mint.
Now that I am older, I am mostly immune to my own scent. Only noticing it when my emotions are high. When my scent is stronger than usual.
Like right now.
I take another breath.
The bright herba is a reminder of home. Of the fields near my childhood village.
Mother used to say that I was the earth, and my brother was the sky.
His storm cloud scent was subtle when he was calm, almost refreshing. But when he was upset it smelled like the sky might crack in half and kill us all.
I open my eyes.
That mint-covered hillside used to be my home.
Now, it’s a place in time I can hardly remember.
I exhale.
Battling my gravito, I start to pace my office. My steps no longer shaking the building.
I reach the wall. Turn. And stride back across the width of the room.
But the torment remains.
The ache in my jaw.
The pressure in my skull.
The gods damn pulse in my cock.
I palm my length through my pants as I turn and pace back.
Losing it.
Pulling my lips back, I hiss into the empty room.
I am certifiably losing it.
I reach the wall and turn around.
That thing in the air. The feeling that tells me there is something there…. It’s… Merde. It’s fracturing my sanity.
My nostrils flare as I inhale.
I could not place it outside. I cannot place it now. But when I was in the hall…
When I was in the hall, my body could not ignore it.
The wall stops me, and I spin back around.
I cannot explain the compulsion.
The scent was not there.
Was not there for me to taste. To catalog. To track.
There was nothing there.
But I could still feel it. Could sense it. Except I do not even know what it is.
It could be awful or extraordinary.
My end or my salvation.
I squeeze my cock harder.
Whatever it is, my dick is still fucking hard from it.
I reach the wall again, and frustration boils over.
I spin, facing the other way, and—still gripping my dick with one hand—and lift my free palm toward the far wall.
My gravito flares. And a fraction of a second later, I am across the room.
I press my forehead against the wall and lift my empty hand up to one of my horns. And I squeeze it in time with my cock.
“What. Is. Happening?” I growl through gritted teeth.
I am long past puberty. And I might stroke myself regularly. But I do not get hard for no reason.
I rock my forehead against the wall while I tug on the base of my horn.
It is that scent that is not a scent.
The invisible energy saturating the air.
I need to find the source of it. Before madness finds me first.