Evening Sickness

VYM

Sepulchra's Keep, Moontithe, April 3rd. 1712.

Dearest Mother,

I have been looking for a letter from you at every dusk. Recently, the owls have been coming and going with many letters; Father's supporters having increased from the moment you fled to Grym Cove.

Further to your latest correspondence, you mentioned a note would follow shortly. Henceforth, I have spent countless hours sifting through this bastard's scrolls in search of your black crest. Alas, I was saddened to find nothing.

Your last message hasn't set well with me, mainly because my faith in your mercy is waning.

You asked me to reconsider my position, but as far as it is concerned, it hasn't changed. And believe me, Mother, I have tried.

I still hate it—hate how the sun controls my life, imprisons me in an illusionary space of darkness, engrossing me in a never-ending cycle, unable to break free. It keeps reminding me of its power over me, and how much I loathe and crave it with equal passion. It is torturing my existence so severely that I can no longer endure it. Thus, I reiterate that rejecting the night makes me unfit to live.

You have asked me to wait until I am sixteen, after which I will be free to decide my fate. Two years. A wait of that length is not acceptable to me.

As my sovereign and confidant, you have my most profound respect—a detail you know well. The allegiance I pledged to you brought me many difficulties you wouldn't tolerate if you knew their nature. Details, I will spare you.

So far, I have been waiting for a sign from you. Your approval for me to end my life.

A life that would be easier if I were by your side. However, Father is furious after you left and forbids me to return to Grym Cove. He fears I will kneel to Adrienne, which you know I secretly have.

Mother, I beseech you, if you have an ounce of affection toward me, find me at twilight and plunge your sword into my heart while I sleep.

I beg of you, show me compassion.

Your devoted son, and most loyal ally,

Vym Lichten, Prince of Crimsonian.

Monday, July 8, evening.

Is it daytime or nighttime?

I blink.

And again.

My eyelashes are whipping in multiple directions at the same time. Everything is black.

Uneasiness thumps in my chest when I take in what it feels like to be blind. My night vision. It's left me...

I grip my chest. It's probably hunger. That must be it.

Rolling onto my back, my searching hand aims at a pillow. A place where the head of my pet should be... And then I catch a familiar sound of thrumming water, coming from the bathroom adjacent to my bedroom.

Khiva must be in the jacuzzi.

A growl rumbles in my chest. The satyr doesn't even bother tip-hoofing anymore.

My drowsy eyes widen at his crystalline voice. "Ride, ride across the swell of my own darken skin. Hear my call, hear my need. Come to me, where the moon and sun never meet. Lay me where stars shimmer in my eyes and mine in yours, land your words on my skin, and take what you need."

The ballade of the Night Eater...

I smile as I listen to his song. That's quite a creative thing he did, composing it himself...

As Khiva's song drifts through my mind, I become lost in thought, and my heart slows.

My eyes play tricks, blending shadows ebbing and flowing against the dimness like distorted silhouettes. They flutter, moving at random, such the wings of a fae...

I brace my hands behind my head and break a knee on the mat. She has this body, hot like a desert. I just want to feed on her, no matter what food that is. I'm not even sure it's the blood I'm after...

I shudder. Even my skin craves Fayra. It dimples from a rush of shivers, bare of anything except her imaginary thighs.

Stuck on the bed, I'm patiently waiting for my erection to subside. Yet, like Fayra, it won't give in.

The bitch won't holler up. She won't clip to my pursuits, no matter how hard I court her. I can't wait any longer...

I roll onto my stomach and paw the mattress. My arms quiver as they lift me up. Why do I feel this way?

Thanks to the growing strain on my muscles, I'm suddenly struck by the complexity of getting out of bed. My hips and torso rotate as I push on my arms, and a grunt rises. It's still rumbling inside me when my feet scuff on the carpet.

My legs stand firm, supporting me like unyielding pillars. But then a chill pebbles a path up my spine, and I swallow. Since when should I feel cold? Blood. I need blood.

I stare at my left. There is a glass wall that serves as a terrarium for my sister's gift, Rafaela, a changeling lizard known as a Giant's Widow, serving nothing at the moment but pleasing the eye of the connoisseur, which I am not...

In a fleeting moment, I contemplate gorging myself on this reptile so much that I am famished, then shake my head at the absurdity.

The foot I bring forth weighs more than I can bear, and the one that follows just as much. My hand braces my bedroom wall until I reach the door. I lean against it, panting. This starvation... It's unreal.

I crack the door wide. "Mordana!" My sister is an encyclopedia to herself. She will be able to determine what is happening to me.

"Mordana..." The woman is probably in one of the many rooms, discussing with her assistant, Hugo, which of my father's properties to set on fire next. She's been secretly doing this for the past few weeks—three manors in total and not caught so far.

I grip the sides of the doorframe, fingers bedding into deep trenches left by Mordana's nails two days ago. Now Khiva has to call a carpenter to fix it.

She ruined our evening breakfast.

Snarling at me with her back against the doorframe, arms crossed, she was asking me an impossible question. "When are we doing this, baby bro?"

In bed, back pillowed against the headboard, covered with nothing but the skin I was born with, I exhaled long before answering, "Something like never."

"You want me to kick your naked ass?" she'd husked, showing her fangs as if I were to be intimidated.

Still, knowing her temper, I said, "No." My hands pressed flat against my chest, fingers tightly intertwined, and my breathing was steady. In retrospect, it reminds me of how much chaos reigned within my mind, a tumultuous mess of conflicting thoughts. The last thing I desired was to engage in conversation with her. Fayra is a topic I am very much engaging with myself on a daily––nonsense!––hourly basis.

"If what you say is true, she's the one. We've got to get her away from New Orc A.S.A.P." She was very, let's say, cheery, full of endless Mordana energy.

As for me, my stomach was growling for Khiva.

"Well, as you can see, I'm looking forward to breakfast." Khiva had gone to the kitchen to get something to eat, primarily for himself. Despite this, breakfast remained breakfast.

"Vym." Mordana released a low, guttural sound, which strained her words. "Does it even hit you how much it means if this fae girl is Fidr's lost daughter and your Bloodsinger? We're talking about the Evariss power here." Her eyes began to gleam like a furnace, and I felt it in my very core, utterly burning me with all the cons.

"Evariss!" The word was barked at me for the second time as if she was trying to strike me with it like a crux. She slapped her hands and held them together. It's possible she even jigged on the spot. "And if she's Mab little vessel, even more powerful ones." Yes, she did. Her heels clicked after that.

"Think about Khiva. His illness. His nightmares will end up killing him." She pointed a finger at me. "But your little fairy could whisper Mab's Dream Weavering powers into his sleeping ear, and whoosh, no more Somnimors."

I glared at her. She was right. Khiva is ill, in urgent need of a cure. However, I still found myself leaning toward continuing to administer Khiva with my venom at his every wake, rather than risking an all-encompassing remedy that could potentially get us all killed as we seek to obtain it.

"She might not have them," I said, blowing at a stray tendril of hair that kept swaying before my eyes. "She might not be the one." Not that I don't want Fay. I need her. Every minute of my life, I suffer because of her absence and those invisible claws she has on me. However, the sheer number of obstacles I would encounter if I were to take her out of Faerhan could be more inviting... A squad of my father's little goons––mainly composed of late elf thugs and shifters whose dull blood is highly, yet to Queen Adrienne's despair, terribly conducive to vampiric transformations––chasing after us relentlessly until we fumble.

Siring them ended their magic, at least. Even so, Mordana and I would still have to battle an armada of these undead scums.

"I've taken care of the due diligence... It's your fae girl who carries it. She's the heiress!" Her chest heaved after that, and mine, too. But not from relief. I was pondering—and still am—how I can extract Fayra out of the country, preferably alive. Action isn't the problem; it's how stealthy we will have to be. Suspicion coats my father's thoughts, and he's a quick thinker, detecting any behavior that makes his senses tic. The thought of Fayra, Mordana, or Khiva suffering at his hands is unbearable. Unthinkable! I'd rather he unsleeved my bones alive than have to witness any of it.

But at least this unpleasant thought led to an epiphany: to plan Khiva's evacuation as soon as we decide to take action. My pet is not what can be called a fighter. And the idea of his blood tingeing something other than the margins of my own fangs had me clawing at my sides. I thrust at the bedcover and yanked it over my exposed parts, feeling unease take over me.

"Relax, V. Take a moment to think about the end goal." Mordana kept her smile sharp. "As your Bloodsinger, she wouldn't need to be turned into one of us. Just imagine! A true heir with a foreign mortal queen. Your own legacy, your very own bloodline! Cut loose from Adrienne's. You could conceive freely without being tied to biological constraints with the Firsts. You could create your own genetic family tree. Not only would you be able to continue relishing this fae's blood but also unite our nations and rise to unparalleled power with her at your side, all while nurturing peace among monsters. Think orcs, elves, faefolks, minotaurs–"

"Take a breath, sister. It appears to be more like your dream than mine," I had ground.

"Don't..." Her fangs popped out of her mouth as I swallowed. Not frightened by the prospect of being consumed, the taste of vampire blood is one of the things we dislike most about ourselves, but because her canines are slicing, punitive... And the scars on my throat speak for themselves.

"...cross the line, batling."

"I have gone out of my way, sister. Forgive me." Any reference to her late partner is like an open wound that continues to ooze. Mordana's only desire has always been to live freely with her late minotaur, and I knew it when I mentioned the word "dream." But she was insisting, and I needed peace.

Peace that vanished the second she brought up the significance of my bloodline. "Do not forget Adrienne. We're her heirs. The woman supports us unwaveringly, no matter what reputation father has saddled us with. She's waiting for us. Will grant us immunity. Father can try to get us. She'll never allow it."

Leaning into a pause, she tilted her head and hung it low, watching the marble as if in a mirror. The thought she was contemplating was clear to me. My father. Whether she wants to save me or us from him remains unclear, though. My sister is the closest confidante I have, a strong bond of siblinghood binding us together. After all, she came here to monitor the situation three centuries ago. I know Adrienne has sent her for me. To watch over me. I found out about it two hundred and thirty-five years ago, in fact. I will always remember. There is no memory more vivid than that of the day someone announces the death of one's mother. It was a drunken night between me and Mordana. My sister can never keep secrets under the influence... and so the tea was spilled. Adrienne had landed on the letters I sent to my late mother way after her death, me, oblivious she had died––centuries ago. Adrienne read them all, taking on the role of my mother, responding to them as if she were still alive, perhaps sensitive to my captivity as a young boy kept under the yoke of his father. Shame gnaws at my soul to know she's now fully aware of the aristocratic plaything I used to be for the rich and powerful...

"Think of Father. How free you will become. Adrienne will protect us. I swear you better not screw this up. Consider yourself warned."

Mordana's persuasion began to carve into me. Even though I'm past the age of being the young boy easily manipulated by his father's schemes, my flesh bartered off to the twisted and sick to seal challenging deals, a sense of liberation came over me. Should we go through with it, I'd no longer have to fear my father's shadow and I would return home to Grym Cove. And since then, this prospect has been looming large in my mind, more than the promise of power Mordana came up with. It is risky, a gamble, one that my father would never forgive us for if it failed.

If.

Still, the question of whether Fayra will cooperate or not remains open.

"Trust me, she is not the willing kind," I said, pinching my forced smile.

"Find a way to convince her."

"An orc is messing with my plans."

"Then talk to him."

A few steps behind her, Khiva was returning from the kitchen with a tray of fruits and an iced blood beverage.

As I said, he's an orc. I won't," I flatly said. "Khiva is trying to come in. Move."

That's when she hammered an arm on the other side of the doorframe, barring the exit with her maddened body, which made Magnus blaze brighter than a candle. She nipped at the wood with her claws, clenching both sides of the frame.

Anger and fear flashed in her stare, and my head hit the headboard as I jerked back.

"So you think you can do nothing but fuck all day and let the world burn while I do everything!"

My voice trembled. "I tried approaching her."

"Try harder!"

"My pet's standing behind you."

She looked at me, tears welling up as she smiled from ear to ear. "Good for you. Mine isn't able to anymore."

Mordana has been struggling lately, and my father and his poor taste in women are to thank. His thirst for power had to ultimately drive Fidr into his bed, or was it this bitch who guided him in hers? Either way, I hope they'll end up killing each other.

This filth found nothing better than to execute my father's Right Hand's lover, Mordana's pet.

Fidr's words that day, "When a wrong glance is cast, the throat is slit." My sister's clasp was tight on mine. While she squeezed my flesh, I felt her heart pinning through her fingers as blood flowed near our feet. Her mortal partner was emptying himself before her, and she could do little aside from letting rage stir inside her.

And ever since, she's been crashing here when not burning our father's assets.

She has all my support—I even provide her with gasoline. I could toss the matches for her, but she gripped my throat tightly enough to make it clear I had to stay put. And I do as she says. We have a plan now, and everything is about to fall into place. All we have to do is play coy and capture the one before my father does.

"Mordana..."

My ears pick at nothing besides Khiva and the traffic rumors. She's probably out.

Darkness framed by gray hues loom before me. I blink several times, and my sight adjusts to a long corridor. There are rows and rows of giant windows enclosing this endless tunnel, which feels more like a death march than making my way to breakfast.

But it's dark, and it suits me well.

Dark... My brows knit as I glance left. I should be able to discern a familiar glow in the space between the blinds. And I wince.

There is no sign of the orange fog hovering above the urban lights, nor car honks, not even the Restless's two great Klieg searchlights, usually visible in the night's distance. Instead, piercing light and the recalling of a curfew...

My business will be severely inconvenienced by this.

In all cases, the rolling blinds haven't been drawn, and I'm experiencing a sudden spike in cortisol.

"The blinds, Khiv—" My lungs are reluctant to expel his name because I cough. And this cough fumbles us all, body and mind. My shoulder goes sideways and knocks against a panel.

I rest my head against it, and I stay there, shutting my eyes.

Intent on resting my arm against the ivory sun blocker, my feet barely lift as I try dragging myself to the atrium.

I have to make it to the kitchen. At least to the atrium...

Though a space dweller by nature, something unexpected comes to mind. I don't need a penthouse this spacious.

My legs hurt. Each step I take is a stark reminder of my state. There isn't one part of my body that doesn't ache. It might be dusk, but it still feels like sleep conned me, fooling me into believing I was asleep when, apparently, I was not.

My ankle twists. I curse, not at the white floor closing on me, but at my weak, stumbling body.

The marble floor catches my knees. My palms take longer to brace and slap against the cold stone, a mere second before my face can.

I need a moment.

Huffs and puffs are hijacking my throat.

A clench forms in my jaw.

I stay there, struggling to catch my breath. I stare at the veins in the marble as they compete with the strands of my dark hair. Dizziness sets in as I track their loops and coils. "I need blood." My voice, it's the agonal breath of a dead corpse. Even speech has left me.

I bring one foot toward me and pause, taking the stance of a frozen sprinter. My balance refuses to cooperate, as if it keeps getting thrown off by nausea.

"Khiva." My call is no more than a murmur.

Intense trembles invade my sore being.

I force my arms to stay tense, but they fail.

"Khiva..."

My eyes become flooded with black, blue, and white blotches before sharp pain flashes through my skull and darkness takes hold.