25. Caspian

CHAPTER 25

Caspian

A nger and rage. I dwell among those emotions and embody them the most. Not softness. Not fleeting niceness, and soft, lingering glances. Not savoring kisses and gentle caresses.

I require none of those things.

I can ignore them.

Ignore her.

Focus on what I do best: enjoy the hunt.

The Pol-spawn, silent and strange, suits one purpose best of all. He, too, enjoys the hunt. He is skilled at it, tracking this mortal mundane with a skill honed over vast centuries. Eons. Pol was rumored to let her toys loose on the population in droves. Killing for them was a sport, not a game. The winner would be praised by her, the loser torn to pieces.

A cruel mistress, but she trained her spawn well. They do not question. Do not hesitate.

They would not see a fae and deign to play with her rather than kill her.

Even now, her thoughts distract me. As does her body. Her scent. My hand twitches at my side, itching to grab her. Hold her close and tight. My thoughts spin, aching to worm their way into hers. See her hurt and pain. Relish in it.

Or not.

Damn her.

There isn't time for her. As we near a busy street blocks from Altaris's dwelling, I notice the Pol-spawn stiffen. He raises his head, nostrils twitching as if scent alone is how he tracks this mundane.

But it isn't.

The Poppy one has a skill for knowledge. The Ginni one is insane enough to pick apart bodies and know how. This one's gift is for tracking. Pinning down a piece of prey with surgical precision.

He glances at me and nods toward a building up ahead. I follow his gaze. Hiss.

Not this place. That wretched motel. The Bleeding Hearts.

Fortunately, it's not where we're led by the Pol-spawn, but to a smaller building next to it. It looks like a laundromat—where mortals wash their filthy clothing in large, square machines.

Or so it appears to the uneducated mundane. There is a secret here. A flickering around the edges of the boring store facade. As the Pol-spawn approaches, the illusion blinks and gives way.

There is another establishment here, hidden behind the fake. Not a laundromat, but something else. A place for dark and seedy mundane. A place that Cassius would never let me wander unattended.

There are too many distractions in this place: once you slip inside the glass doors and into the real world beyond. Mortals must not be able to see it: a yawning space at the back of the room, behind a row of machines. Step behind them and enter a world of lights and brick and wood.

A city within a city.

A black market for mundane magic. Cassius knew of it. For a dark, hidden reason he knew of it and tucked the secret into my brain. Maybe I have been here once, but I don't remember.

Or…

Perhaps it was before him?

I don't remember.

In any case, I navigate these narrow paths, impatient and restless. As the Pol-spawn takes the lead, I stay within his shadow. My attention is drawn to the thin, fragile fae lurking behind us both.

I try to ignore her, but others are watching. Their eyes are drawn to her as if she is a wayward doe in a den of predators, bleeding. Fresh. An easy kill.

I am angry with her, unwilling to be owned.

But…

I am the only one who owns her . Stopping short, I let her catch up. The Pol-spawn continues, too intent on his tracking to notice that we do not follow. Still, when she nears I forget everything. Altaris's request. My purpose. My sole, fucking reason for being.

I look at her, and nothing else makes sense in the face of her pain. I've hurt her—I'm hurting her still. Good, a part of me sings, gleeful. Let her hate me. Let her remember. I am a monster. A monster. A…

I reach out my hand. Her eyes find it, but she fidgets with the skirt of her orange dress rather than take it. That dress makes her seem like a flame. A burst of starlight in the dark. These seedy mundane see her and they can't take their eyes away from this being. This unnatural creature in their midst.

It's the pain in her eyes. Pain I put there.

It makes her far more enticing to those with evil in their hearts.

"Come," I tell her, extending my hand again.

Nodding, she stares past me, still moving toward the Pol-spawn. I watch her go, seething. Restless.

I should be angry with her, but she's angry with me. My eyes roam along that slender frame, tracing every inch. I could break her so easily. Chase her down. Rip her limb from limb. Dangle her disembodied hand in mine if she will not offer it willingly.

Within seconds, I gain on her. One of those pale hands catches my eye.

I don't move. Something won't let me, and I glower, teeth clenched, a growl caught in my throat.

She is angry with me.

Hurt and angry.

Were she Cassius I would savor the emotion with glee. Yes. Hate me. Wretched, miserable Cassius.

"I am sorry," I tell her instead. "I do not want to change who I am. You are changing me."

A chill shoots through her. She hugs herself, still walking. Limping. Wading through quicksand as if every step hurts.

I don't understand.

Then I remembered what Altaris taunts her with. The same words they hissed at her in the other realm. Evil. Corrupting everything she touches. Unworthy.

The words to fix this don't come to me. I am at a loss. Violence is my specialty, not this.

So, I watch her and follow. I keep my head low and lose sight of everything else. The winding alleyways. The sellers hawking illegal goods.

The Pol-spawn lurking nearby.

I watch her, my wayward little fae. I imagine leaving her again. Letting her get picked off by another dark, demented thing.

I wince. The thought hurts. Stings. Irritates.

I try again. "Niamh?—"

"That's her." Her gaze wanders across the haphazard arrangement of stalls and mundane items. An unknown pale woman emerges from the shadows, wearing a green jacket with its hood drawn low. She is not vamryre, and it isn't the light she shields herself from.

Niamh surges toward her, nimble and quick. It takes effort to keep up with her, weaving around the bodies she easily slips past. Effort to draw level with her. Effort still to keep from grasping the hand she reaches out. "Minchae!"

The woman looks up with different-colored eyes, one green and one blue. She sees Niamh. Her face pales even more. She tries to run.

From the shadows, the Pol-spawn descends, capturing her arm in a firm grip.

"Let go of me!" She swings at him. Then shouts. "Help me! Help! This sick fucker is after me!"

The Pol-spawn blinks as a man in black leather shouts and approaches. He must be a boney, and there seems to be no love lost between them and Altaris's spawn.

He loosens his grip. The woman flees.

"Minchae, wait!" Niamh takes off and I follow. It should be easy, but she is fast. How the fuck is she so fast?

I run harder. Faster. She manages to stay just beyond my grasp until she suddenly stops.

"Something is wrong," I hear her say. "Look."

The mundane is slowing. She trips, sinking to her knees and doesn't get up again. Approaching her now is child's play. Still, she frees something from her pocket and waves it.

"Stay the hell away from me! Stay! …Niamh?"

She looks at my fae, her eyes clouded with pain. Feverish. A damp sweat cloaks her forehead, gluing down the black strands.

"Stay back," I warn Niamh.

She doesn't listen. She crouches low before the woman and extends her hand. "What happened? Are you okay?"

"Am I okay?" The woman scoffs. "You were dead! I watched it! I watched him kill you and…" She breaks off, her shoulders heaving beneath wracking sobs. "It bit me and I'm dying. I can't find a healer. I'm dying. Dying."

Niamh murmurs something, but I move past her and snatch the woman by the sleeve of her coat. I wrench it up.

I see the proof of something I sensed from the second I saw her. The stench of sickness. The pallor of death.

"She's been bitten," I say, eyeing the vicious wound marring the flesh of her wrist. "By a lunaria."