5. Niamh

My days are simple and orderly. I wake up before dawn and gather the firewood for the two large fires in the heart of the underground archives. I must do this in darkness before the others wake up. Even when my lungs are filled with soot from stoking the fires alone, the old stone rooms are warm and comfortable.

Then I go to the main archives, wipe the floors, and clear the loose scrolls and bound books. The workers leave them for me to find, left open on desks and in stray corners. My duty is to collect them all like wayward children and tuck them back in amongst their brethren. Every volume has a place, no matter how dusty or tattered or neglected. Every one. When nestled in their home, they seem to sigh and settle into the cobweb-coated shelf with content. Yes, there they belong.

They don't despise their nature or rail against their fate. It doesn't matter that they may not be read as often as others. They matter, for they are in the Citadel halls, which means something.

Even for living beings, it means something.

I toil away like this until the sun begins to rise over the horizon. Then I tiptoe back to the empty east wing, climb into the bell tower, and then into the room above.

I am meant to stay there, out of sight, until sunset. Sometimes, I do stay.

Sometimes the itch for fresh air is too great, and I creep up onto the roof instead. Or sometimes I want solitude and head into the deepest depths of the catacombs where few venture.

Only Day will visit me now and again, and on those three important days of the year, I will be seen by Lord Master. Otherwise, the workers leave food for me at the mouth of the bell tower, but I never see or know any by name. One of them must have helped care for me when I was younger. Stern hands and a blurred face are all I can remember. Should remember. We live in two different worlds, much like how the mortals dwell alongside us in their own realm, oblivious to our very existence.

My heart pounds. It's forbidden to think of it—at least for me. The other races are feasibly allowed to transverse between the two worlds but there is a process.

What that entails, exactly? I'm not allowed to know. Fae, lunaria, and vamryre alike can leave and see those things mortals hold dear.

Once, a long time ago, I found a volume covered in dust at the very back of the shelf. I lied before—not everything has a place. It's a lie I tell myself; maybe one day I will believe it.

I have to believe it.

But this volume did not belong. I knew it with one look. The cover, though battered leather, was once a glossy sheen embossed with the title: sketchbook. On the first page, depicted in color and inked lines, was a building the owner thought important enough to transcribe in breathtaking detail. Not just any building, either. It wasn't composed of the stark gray stone that forms the walls of the Citadel. It was vibrant. White marble columns and gleaming steps.

Beyond that page was a wealth of other sins to discover: one of them being defacement, written in someone's hand on the inside cover. Collin Webber. A stranger who so permanently marked what he once saw as his. Owned. Possessed. My guess is that he created the images that fill the rest of the narrow book. Pages upon pages depicting the most wondrous things. Drawings. Paintings—some scribbled as belonging to The Museum of Art, the very building on the first page.

I'd never seen anything so bold. Beautiful. My favorite page is so worn it's nearly broken free of the binding. Still, I flip to it almost every day and gape. The use of color was wild and seemingly random, and yet the image was perfectly clear: a park with various people spread throughout, each one as lively as the next.

Artwork, I learned this collection was called. A sketchbook.

Never would I admit as much out loud—it would be a sin to—but that book contained images of the most beautiful things I've ever viewed. Collin Webber was the owner of his own realm contained in pages. More beautiful than the Lord Master, even. All of it created by mortal hands with nothing more than pigment and brushes.

I'd give anything…

Wait. I clear my head and shake it firmly. I own nothing. But if I did. Well, I would give anything to see such artwork in person. To look upon the strokes up close. Are they as realistic in person as they are in the drawings?

I will never know. Only fae are allowed to leave the realm, them and the other races. Even that vamryre could leave if he wanted to. Maybe he has.

I couldn't ask…

But to do so would be to humor his request. Tonight. I don't want to.

Yet, I do. The question won't leave me alone. It buzzes around and around in my head, and then I remember that, yes, he has. Not only has this vamryre been in the mortal realm, but he lived there once. Was mortal once.

He would know better than any.

Asking him would be wrong. Forbidden. Though, picturing those wild red eyes, I doubt he would mind. He radiates a wild energy that seems antithetical to how vamryre should be, according to the texts I've read. He has none of their poise. Their aloof mystique. If anything, he seems unhinged, like a bloodthirsty lunarian. Yet, his beauty alone designates him as one of the blood-sworn few. I wonder who his maker is. Not Nataniel, known for his quiet patience and icy wisdom. Clearly, he is the spawn of another.

I shouldn't let thoughts of him persist—but they do.

All day, he lingers in my skull, taking up space for useful knowledge. Obedience and honesty are my two redeeming traits. I have chores to tend to. Silence to maintain. I must remain hidden.

But as night falls, I am there, perched on the edge of the sloping roof, watching and waiting.

He won't come. The vamryre played a cruel trick. Cruel because even he knows what the rest of the fae do. I'm tainted. Unworthy. Unwanted.

"Little fae."

I startle, swaying on the edge of a tile. As if born from the darkness itself, the vamryre appears at the base of the tower. His eyes glitter in the dark, his hands empty.

"Jump down to me," he commands. "I'll catch you."

"Liar." I don't know where the refusal comes from. My legs still smart. I had to use parts of my robe as makeshift bandages. Even so, it isn't my place to refuse anyone, even a vamryre.

Aware of that, he smiles, his teeth bared. "Come. I won't bite."

He will. I can see the desire displayed clearly in his gaze. His teeth practically quiver with the urge to clamp down over flesh.

Yet, he seems restrained as well. As if he's balanced on tiptoe, ready to spring into action for another reason.

My throat tenses around a swallow. Oh, how he unnerves me. I start to back away, toward the safety of the bell tower. Then I remember.

My question. My heart races and my tongue dances, poised to ask it. Eyeing the vamryre, I say instead, "Don't let me fall."

His eyes narrow a fraction. "I won't."

He will. Even as I shuffle close to the roof's edge, I can see that he never moves. Doesn't even twitch. Still, I throw myself forward anyway. A little pain will be well worth it if he answers my question.

So, I brace…but the cold, hard impact never comes. I'm cold, then hot all over. His hands are on me, his arms so rigid the embrace hurts. His skin is ice, his gaze electric, igniting the skin of my neck. I hear him breathe as he sets me down. A harsh inhale. A hiss. An audible swallow.

My entire body quivers, though I'm not sure why. It could be shock. No one has ever touched me. Now this. He held me in his arms, just for a second before scuttling back as if I burned him. Did I burn him?

My eyes sweep over his hands, but they're unblemished. Perfect, even. His flawless skin seems to mock me with a quality I will never achieve. I wouldn't blame him if he cringed at the sight of me.

I look up into his eyes.

He is oh so very hungry.

"Caspian," I say, tasting his name. It's dangerous, like having live embers on my tongue.

He winces at the sound. Grimaces. Sneers. "Little Neeve," he replies, stressing the wrong syllable.

I say nothing. It's strange to hear someone call me that out loud. Even Day doesn't know it. I don't think I could tell him. He calls me sister and that is a gift enough. It would be wrong to expect more. Ask for more.

But near this vamryre, I find the strength to say, "I want to know something."

His nostrils wrinkle as his eyes narrow again. Then widen. "You want." I think it sounds mocking at first. Then my mind replays his tone and I decide he sounded cold instead. Want. He said it the way Day did when he spoke of our sister Day Aurelia. Anger. Bitter. Jealous?

Of me. I'd laugh if his gaze wasn't so stern. He pins me in place with that look. Holds it for so long I can't breathe. He'll drain me dry if I let him. I need to blink. Run. Anything.

I can't move.

"Speak, little fae." He advances a step, looming above me. His height is something I notice only now. With one blow he could strike me down. With one stride, he'd swallow at least four of mine. "What do you want?"

My throat trembles. I can almost hear the Lord Master scolding me from their place high up in the Citadel proper. Then I shake my head and remember: Lord Master isn't here.

"I want to know if you've been beyond."

"Beyond?" He cocks his head, his nose wrinkled. He is so strange. On him, curiosity is nearly indistinguishable from rage. He lives in anger and yet it suits him. Those cold, fiery features seem alight in the darkness. Day with his polished words and careful nature would warily ask me to continue.

Caspian, chin in the air, commands it. "Beyond where, little fae?"

I gesture blindly. "Beyond the realm. In the mortal world." My mind races before I can help myself. Beyond the realm. These walls. This gray, dark solace. Beyond rules, and regulations, and stiff order.

"And if I have, why does it matter?" His smile is sweet, his gaze deadly. "You can never leave."

I can't and I know this. I know this.

It stings to hear him say it. It irritates.

"You can leave," I toss back. "So, have you?"

However, I can see that he has not. His anger fades in favor of a brief, momentary glimpse of confusion. Has he left? He doesn't know.

I suppose his master doesn't let him question as much.

What a shame. I start to turn away. Lightning-quick, he lashes out and snatches my wrist, yanking me closer.

"Don't turn your back on me," he warns.

I wrench my arm away. "I would have humored you if you could give me what I wanted," I say. Then I wince. It's so mean. So greedy to be so transactional. My cheeks hollow, and my face goes pale. Then I remember, he isn't fae.

"Ah, so you are one to value repayment," he says, like a snake hissing a warning.

Too late do I realize my mistake. I've provoked him worse than the sight of blood on a skinned knee. He stalks forward, pushing me back.

"Do you?"

Back.

"If so, you owe me. Do you remember?"

For his rose, still tucked in a hidden corner of my room. I remember. He gave it offhandedly, with only mocking in mind. I know it.

Even so, I can't deny…

It's my only possession, rotting away. Petal by petal, it is all I have. Even if he demands it back…

I want to keep it.

"Do you?" His hand cradles my jaw, aiming for my throat. I feel the kiss of a nail, unnaturally sharp. He teases a vein with the tip of it, barely grazing at first… Then biting a little deeper.

I wince, breathing heavily, chest heaving. He is too close. My senses are overrun with this strange creature. It should be a bad feeling—worse than being on the wrong end of Lord Master's wrath.

He's too foreign to process properly. I go numb in the wake of his touch. I'm enthralled by the power of his stare. It lingers and stabs and swallows parts of me that draw his interest: my throat, my chest, the heart beating beneath. He looks at me the way the Lord Master does when eyeing the walls of the Citadel during their visits.

As if he owns every last inch.

He reaches for my hair again and I resist the urge to swat his hand away. Why? I don't know. It's a foreign sensation that jolts through me as he winds a dark strand around and around a twisting finger. My stomach churns. My skin heats.

He watches my reaction and he smiles. My fear excites him. Though, am I afraid? Fear is meant to be an unknown emotion to me. I live in the safety of the Citadel, what could I possibly be afraid of?

The answer: everything. I'm afraid of this quiet place, all I've ever known. I'm afraid of what lies beyond it. I fear the look in this vamryer's eyes and most of all…

I'm terrified that I won't be able to take hold of something I desperately want. I'm greedy. I want something badly enough to sin for it.

Head tilted, I say to the vamryre, "You can go outside the realm. Can't you?"

He laughs and lowers his face to mine. Up close his beauty is searing. It's packed into every pore, a delicate and violent mixture of strength and loveliness. He never has to think of the effect he might have on someone should they see him. He wields his beauty as dangerously as any weapon. Yet he seems careless with it, also. He doesn't seek to sway or impress me. He doesn't care to.

"You owe me something, little fae," he murmurs in a low voice, ignoring my question. He heard me, though: that brief streak of irritation crossed his face. For whatever reason, the topic of leaving…aggravates him. Frustrates. "What should I take in return?"

My pulse jumps. I'm rendered frozen as he inhales my scent. His very lungs seem to pull on the air, sucking bits of myself down into him. Rather than furrow his brows in disgust he… He hums.

"Give me something worthwhile enough and perhaps I'll enlighten you on the other realm, little bird. Give you another treat."

Like the rose.

He's lying. Yet I can sense that deep down he doesn't mean to. Perhaps his master's hold on him is far greater than he realizes. Still…

It's something. Anything. I'll grab hold of it, even so.

"What do you want?" I ask him. The words have scarcely left my mouth before I feel his own lips nudging the arteries straining in my throat, forcing me on tiptoe to grant him better access. I know what he wants.

"No," I say as firmly as I can manage. "It's forbidden."

But so is this.

"So is this," he grates out through clenched teeth as if I've become one of his collective and he can read my thoughts as easily.

"No. No blood."

He hisses in annoyance. He doesn't like that word: no. He must hear it a lot in the complex where they live—which is odd to consider. Vamryres are supposed to be one and the same. Yet his very nature is to resist.

"Then what?" he demands, his lips still pressed incessantly to my skin. As I remain silent, he deduces his own answer: what he can't bite, he will touch. His hands turn into grasping claws, gripping at the fabric of my robes. He doesn't discern between soft flesh and bone. He treats it all with the same rough, almost desperate groping. He captures a breast against his palm and squeezes it so hard I gasp. Then he's onto prodding my ribs. Hips. My thighs.

A strange thought comes to mind: he's never touched another. Not like this. Just to feel, with no care given to the body on the receiving end.

When he brushes a part of me that holds no interest—like my hands—he moves on with little attention given. But when he comes across a part he likes. He grips it, digging his nails in, making me wince. I'll feel his hands on my upper thigh for days.

"S-Stop," I choke out when he starts to wind up my skirts.

He does, panting, his head lowered, eyes downcast. "What?"

I don't know. I don't know why this feels so dangerous or why my heart is thundering like mad. I don't know why the thought of him stripping this layer of fabric unnerves me so much. It feels wrong. At the same time. It doesn't.

I want what he knows, and he wants… Something to do with contact. Feasting on me in a way that doesn't entail drinking blood. Should be an easy trade.

But he is so hard to decipher. I don't think he even knows exactly what he wants.

"Tell me about the other realm," I try.

He scoffs and pulls away, bored already. Then he stops. Whirls around. Lunges into me, pinning me back against the hard stone.

"I want to know what a fae tastes like," he counters, a challenge. His eyes glow, his upper lip quirked at an angle. "Let me taste?—"

"Can't bite," I insist, though what good would mere words do against fangs? I can see them, threatening to pierce the flesh of his beautiful mouth. He wields them carelessly. In fact, I wonder if he has ever bitten himself by accident.

"No blood," he echoes, his gaze unreadable. When he pushes a knee between my legs, I freeze solid. He uses the foothold for leverage to bring his forehead to mine. When his lips descend, I'm sure he'll ignore my request. Bite.

He doesn't. At least not yet. He presses and presses, forcing my lips apart. His tongue shoves forward, brushing past mine. I stiffen at the contact.

He hisses, his mouth moving while still pressed to mine. "Do you fae not know how to kiss?"

Kiss. I should know the word. I think I do, but the meaning doesn't come. My head is swimming, my body alight with the feeling of him. I don't like this: kiss. It feels more dangerous than biting.

"Now tell me," I choke out, pulling back as far as I can. "You got what you wanted."

His eyes flash. He wants to deny it. But vamryres are transactional, or so I've read. It's in his nature to accept this payment, whatever it was.

"I could go to the other realm," he says, and I feel my eyes widen. I half expected him to deny me my prize but here it is, an exchange for an exchange. "The process is easy. If I wanted to."

Easy process. Easy. My brain won't let go of those words. It feeds on them, and that greedy ache within me grows fervent. I need more. I need to know.

"How?"

"Now, now, you are owed something," he says, sounding on the verge of a growl. "This is my gift to you: the ceremony…"

I suck in a breath. "What about it."

"They aim to show you then," he says with mocking derision. "Parade you before them all. Acknowledge. Does that make you happy?"

Does it? I don't know. I don't…

Stepping back from me, he laughs. "Until next time, little fae." He adjusts his robes with a flick of his wrist. I know little about vamryres, but he should be disappointed by his inability to feed from me.

Instead, he smiles in a menacing way, sated by something else I'm too ignorant to understand. Perhaps he enjoys unnerving me and vamryres can also feed off of pain and discomfort. It would make sense.

Long after he turns and stalks into the darkness, I'm still thinking about it.

And for once, I almost forget my greedy hope in favor of another mystery. What exactly did he take?

And why do I feel so empty without it?