9. Niamh

Here in the archives, apart from any race, I have learned to create my own creed by which to live by. A purpose. That of a fae is to fly on the rays of the sun, majestic and wise. The lunaria live by the light of the moon, powerful and bold. Aloof and mysterious, the vamryre dwell in shadow, comforted by their distorted truth.

And I…

I thrive in disappointment. Resilience. Honesty. I have learned not to expect anything from anyone. It was a lesson I thought I'd ingrained within myself.

Apparently not. The vamryre and his offer was a test, one I failed miserably. I dared to hope.

Never again will I fall for such a distraction. I will tend to my studies and my chores with vigor. I will clean and order the archives. I will ignore that hidden sketchbook. I won't think of him.

I won't.

It's been two nights, going on a third. How pleased he must be with himself. He dashed my hopes, but to what end? My mind can't conjure up a reason, and that is what unsettles me. I don't know why he came to me in the first place. Why he taunted and touched. Kissed. Toyed.

There should be a reason. One that explains his behavior—all vamryre have a motive, driven by the will of their master. He has to have one.

In the end, what matters is not his motives. I could have used him in my own greedy way. I could have glimpsed, maybe…

No.I shake my head and refocus. Rather than wait on the roof, I linger in my room until the complex falls silent. I've never noticed how enclosed this space is—a narrow box that spans the length of the bell tower. I never realized how cold it is—the wind whistles through the thin windows and their fragile shutters. My only source of light is a candle, not the fae magic that illuminates the rest of the Citadel proper. The flame on the wick dances as I cradle it to my chest and tiptoe down into the archives. Upon finding it empty, I creep back, back to the furthest, most darkened corner.

No one comes this far in. These shelves hold the books of least interest to fae kind. Some of these books have not been touched for hundreds of years.

I crouch down behind the most neglected shelf and…

I don't cry. It isn't allowed. I just breathe. In and out. Out and in. Then I bite my lip and dig the nails of one hand into the flesh of another. The pain is sharp and sweet, but it doesn't penetrate. I have to dig deeper. Scrape. My nails, however, are a pale imitation of the Lord Master's blade.

Still, as I scratch, my mind grows numb. Until, clarity. I can think. The thoughts aren't quiet like they should be. They're bitter and lingering, fixating on the vamryre no matter how hard I try not to. It's wrong to hate. Taboo. Forbidden.

But if I could…

I'd despise him.

"Little fae. Is this where you hide at night?"

I blink. Stiffen. Freeze. He can't be here—I conjured this hallucination from thoughts alone. It's why negative emotions are forbidden. They seep into our psyche and stain. Corrupt.

The vamryre standing here isn't real. He does, however, have a scent. This hallucination can also move, advancing toward me, pale enough to reflect what little lamplight there is. Despite his kind's aversion to daylight, down here he is the sun. He is blinding.

However, something isn't right. His steps are different, lacking the predatory ease. They're stilted. Stiff. As if he's fighting through lead with every inch he advances. Like it hurts him just to come near me.

Those eyes blaze, burning bright. They peer into me and turn any hesitation I had to dust. My body has already become accustomed to our transactions. The questions I thought I'd put behind me surge back to the forefront of my mind. I can't resist. My lips part, and they tumble out one after the other. "I waited. Where were you? What do you know? Tell me about?—"

"Patience." He snaps the word, utilizing it like a whip. "So eager, little fae. Little Niamh."

My heart stops. It's the first time he said my name without the mocking. The cold nonchalance. There is power in every syllable. Hot, molten hatred.

The hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. He pins me with that stare alone. I'm suffocating with every second, feeling his hands wrap tight around my throat. Only a heartbeat later do I realize that he's never moved.

He's still standing there just beyond the nearest bookshelf. The shadow cast from it drapes him like a cloak. It is only those crimson eyes that remain visible.

"Tell me what you want. I…" I lick my lips and change tact. "I know what you want."

I've studied it. I'm ready. My body tingles with anticipation. I'll sacrifice it and any other part of me he wants. I need to know. I have to.

"And what do you want?" he counters, his head cocked at a menacing angle. "Say it out loud, little fae."

I do. "Tell me about the other realm. The mortal one."

He cocks his head and leans against the nearest wall. His skin clashes harshly with the dark stone. He's a creature of light and darkness. A representation of all the races in one. Fangs bared like the lunaria, blood red eyes of the vamryre, the confidence of the fae.

But what does that make me?

A creature in the shadow of all three. A hybrid of immortality and something else. An enigma that lingers in obscurity, ignored by all but the corrupt few. An illness. A disease.

"Why should I do that, little fae?" That voice is colder and sterner than any I've heard before. "What will you give me?"

My lips tremble. I run my tongue across them, but it doesn't seem to do much. Still, I swallow hard and say, "I know what you want."

At least before I did. Tonight, he is different. The mention of corruption doesn't excite him. He grimaces as if the thought is too repulsive to contemplate. In the blink of an eye, he lurches closer as if drawn to me. Pulled. His hand flies out, fingers outstretched. They brush my hair and then grasp a handful in a fist, yanking me toward him. His lips brush mine and hover. Not quite contact. Something in between. I can hear his ragged inhales, drawing my scent into his lungs.

And I…

Go limp. My back arches. A strange ache pulses through my belly, moving downward. It's like the hunger pains I feel when I've gone too long without eating. Harsher, if that is even possible. Pressing my knees together is the only way to find relief. Sanity.

Suddenly, I am unable to meet the vamryre's gaze. I have to stare down at his throat and watch it jerk as he swallows. I shiver with every controlled movement. Jump. His mouth nudges my jaw without warning, urging me to face him. Present my mouth again for him to brutalize.

I shouldn't.

I can't stop myself. It's as if my neck begins to twist of its own accord. In a blink of an eye, I find my chin tilted, my lips parted, mere inches away from his.

Then, all at once, he steps back. "No," he tells me. "I don't think you're worth it."

Like that, he turns away and stalks toward the mouth of the archive. How he got in, I suppose I'll never know. I should be relieved that he is gone. I should hope my brain conjured him as a brutal reminder.

I'm not supposed to hope for anything. Ever.

Disappointment is all I'll ever know.