To Bleed a Crystal Bloom

by Sarah A. Parker

  But there’s something else, too.

  I pause, elbow deep in gore, smelling the air ... picking up on a fresh array of other scents; one masculine, one feminine, one new and sweet and—

  “Fuck.”

  I hadn’t counted on anyone being out this late. Not all the way up here.

  This clearing is a thoroughfare—the moss, the grass, the trees all marked with a mottling of scents. It’s the main reason I chose this spot.

  Forest dwellers come to clean their kill in the brook that cuts through the middle, or to cook their meat to avoid drawing unwanted attention to their homes or villages. But most know better than to be out this close to sundown, and whoever those people are—the owners of the three fresh scents being shoved toward me—they’ll want to be far away when I start cooking this beast.

  I grip hold of warm, wet organs and rip them free, lumping them on the ground next to me with a heavy splat.

  The flies descend like they’re starving.

  I can’t begrudge them that, not when I know the pull of true, unrelenting hunger.

  A few minutes later, a male threads through a veil of leafy vines. He’s tall, dark haired and broad shouldered—his hand darting out the moment his gaze lands on me, preventing a petite woman from fully emerging through the same fall of foliage.

  I watch them from beneath the rim of my hood, hand wrapped around the boar’s still-warm heart.

  The female is pretty with shoulder-length hair, a dusting of freckles on her cheeks, and slanted eyes that look familiar. A squirming bundle is strapped close to her chest, shielded by one of her soil-stained hands.

  Neither of them moves as I rip the heart free and toss it to the ground, then push my hood back.

  The man lets out a startled sound and falls to his knees, dropping his wooden bucket. The woman lowers much slower; a cautious curtsy, likely to avoid disrupting her young.

  “Master,” the man blurts, voice strained. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t instantly recognize you.”

  I study them, noting their lack of weapons other than a small blade hanging from the male’s belt.

  A low rumble agitates the back of my throat, threatening to spill.

  “Are ... are you just passing through?” he asks, pine-green eyes meeting mine. They widen, his gaze flying to the carnage littering the ground next to me.

  “I was,” I respond, tone low and even. The last thing any of us need is for them to panic. “Do you have a bunker?”

  He frowns, the woman raising her other hand to her squirming bundle.

  “Ahh, we do ...” He gestures to the bucket tipped on its side, spilling white, tumor-like lumps over the ground. “We use it to store the truffles.” His eyes flick to my kill, back again. “Do you ... do you require use of it? To store your kill? That’s a lot of meat for one man.”

  “No,” I mumble, yanking my bloody dagger from the log and tossing it through the air. It plunges hilt-deep into the ground at the man’s feet. “Take the blade. Go straight there and don’t come out until sunup.”

  They both pale, and the wide-eyed woman falls back a step.

  “Of course,” the man says with a brisk nod.

  They collect the truffles with frantic, trembling hands, retrieve the dagger, and then the couple darts off, leaving nothing but the stark scent of fear.

  I finally let my growl spill, giving it weight, making sure it ripples through the forest. It’s a possessive sound that finds berth in the trees and the shrubs and the very ground I’m standing on.

  I toss some offal closer to the tree line and in the bubbling brook, then smear my face, chest, and neck with the blood of my kill. Impaling the carcass with a wet, sturdy branch, I suspend it over the flames, then sit on the red-slicked log, pull up my hood, and wait.

  The sun dropped a while ago, leaving the forest cast in a darkness that seems heavier than usual. The only reprieve is the crackling fire throwing off a deluge of heat and smoke.

  I reach forward and spin the stick, letting the flames lick at the boar from a different angle, making the skin bubble and boil, hissing in protest as juices dribble onto blazing logs and red-hot stones.

  It was a well-fed beast, and it’s letting off the strong, heavenly musk of roasted game. A scent that makes my mouth water as I watch the fat drip, and drip, and drip ...

  The breeze picks up, feeding the smell into the lungs of the forest while I rotate the boar to the rhythm of my slow, churning thoughts.

  Perhaps because of the late hour and my body’s internal clock surging with anticipation, but I think of those lilac eyes glaring at me with unguarded rancor ...

  I hate you.

  Oh, precious. You don’t even know the meaning of the word.

  Better her hate than those heated looks she’s been blindsiding me with recently.

  Another turn of the bubbling, spitting, sacrificial animal.

  The boar was foraging for truffles in a glen—at least until I put my blade through its heart—and truffle is a strong flavor; one which has infused the meat, adding a botanical depth to its roasting smell.

  It’s staring through wide eyes as it spins its circles, tusks still jutting from a wide-open mouth. It squealed at me as it died, and I can see the echo of that sound on its half-charred face.

  In hindsight, lobbing the head off might have been prudent.

  I grab a pointy stick and give the pig a prod, freeing a squirt of fragrant juice the exact color of the liquid Orlaith offers me in her goblet every night.

  I sigh, shoving the thought aside.

  Fucking hate that color.

  The krah stop squawking, the songs of the forest coming to a silent crescendo, and I twist the boar again, hearing a twig snap from just outside the tree line.

  There’s some sniffing and an almost inaudible growl.

  The hairs on my arms and legs lift, a violence threatening to arc up inside me.

  Another twist of the meat, the thick branch groaning under the weight. Another mouth-watering drip splashes onto the blazing wood.

  Another snap of a twig.

  It goes against my nature to keep my back to a threat, especially one with such a potent musk. But I weather the pull of my instincts, waiting ...

  Listening.

  I sense a presence step into the clearing behind me. Can scent his desire to slay. I move off the log, kneel, and rip a chunk of meat free, layers of it shredding apart as ripe juice dribbles down my fingers.

  The air shifts.

  I snatch the pommel, whip my sword off the ground, and whirl on the Vruk galloping forward in long, powerful strides. In the same motion, I slash through the animal’s exposed chest and throat, spilling him before he even has a chance to roar or push talons from those huge, feline paws.

  Leaping sideways, I watch him continue to amble forward, drop to his haunches, and collide with the spit.

  Sparks and coals and rocks scatter.

  He lets out a gurgling lament, then tips, and the ground absorbs his hefty weight with a shuddering protest.

  He jerks once, then stills, black blood pumping from the gaping wound, muddying his thick, winter pelt and buttering the entire boar with oily muck.

  I toss the piece of shredded meat, listen to it thwap against the dirt as I turn from the beast and scan the tree line.

  Two ... four ... seven hulking, snarling Vruks prowl free from the bush, heads low and talons out, pelts thick like the one I just slew. Their lips are peeled, ears flattened against their bulky heads, drool dripping from sharp, exposed fangs.

  I sigh, slide my foot back, and draw a steady breath.

  All at once, they charge.

  I wake before the sun has hatched, the sky still a velvet blanket freckled with stars, though it’s hard to appreciate when phantom nails are being hammered into my skull.

  Glued to the bed by the weight of my body, I smack my tongue against the roof of my mouth, feeling like all the moisture has been leached out of me ...

  If I ingest another
drop of caspun, I might never wake. And if I stay in bed, staring at the roof, I’ll just tie myself in knots over the fact that The Safe is housing my crystal goblet, filled to the brim with Rhordyn’s nightcap, all because I couldn’t let go.

  I just couldn’t.

  Because even though he’s not here to accept my offering, I still did it—like leaving food out for a stray that never came.

  Best I just roll out of bed, run laps around my balcony once the exo kicks in, then paint some rocks until the sun rises.

  Groaning, I hang my arm off the side and thud to the floor in a heap of listless, jutting limbs. I peel the rug back, lift the stone, and reach into the hole, slapping around the edges of the smooth, empty base ...

  “No. No, no, no.” My heart lurches into my throat as I dig a second arm in and scour the barren fucking tomb.

  Gone.

  The realization trips a memory surge, and I roll, face crumbling. I sling a belt of vile words at the roof, massaging my temples and hating Rhordyn just a little bit more.

  Hating myself just as much.

  For one nonsensical second, I consider searching the entire castle by candlelight for my three-year supply, coming to the conclusion they’re likely destroyed or hidden in his den. Probably the former.

  I curl into myself, shaking ...

  What a waste.

  If Rhordyn were here, I’d march to his den, pound my fist against his door and give him the sharpest, most poisonous piece of my mind.

  Letting my head tip to the side, I stare out the window through slitted eyes, trying to find some sense of calm in the winking stars and crescent moon. But they’re too close—the ground too far away.

  I need my feet dug into fleshy soil; need to pull some peace from the earth and pretend I’m not fraying at the seams.

  I just need.

  Pushing onto all fours, I crawl to my refreshment table, toss back two glasses of water, then clamber up and shuffle toward the wooden bench littered with jars. I plunder one brimming with dehydrated ginger and peppermint, stuffing my mouth half full in hopes of taking the edge off the pain in my temples.

  At this stage, I need all the help I can get.

  Trying not to gag from the sharp explosion of taste, I pull on some pants, then shrug on a coat to ward off the chill frosting me from the inside. I shoulder my bag, open The Safe, and grip the glass by its long, fragile neck, then tip the flushed contents all over the floor with a sneer.

  Shame to waste such a pretty shade of pink.

  The steps of Stony Stem are unkind to a caspun hangover, and I flinch with each featherlight footfall that feels the exact opposite. The passageways are endless, The Tangle relentless, but after cursing Rhordyn and Baze every step of the way, I finally pop out on the eastern side of the castle, drawing a lungful of crisp, morning air as I plant my feet on the grass and bore my toes into damp soil.

  The relief is instant.

  I release a sigh, shoulders loosening, head tipping back to stare at the dazzling sprinkle of stars. Closing my eyes, I bask in the stretch of peace only fractured by the odd chirping cricket.

  The pull of the earth eases my pain, shoveling substance into the hollow space within me. It’s a relaxation method I relied on before discovering the recipe for Exothryl, but that feels like a lifetime ago.

  I barely remember that girl anymore.

  If I could bottle this feeling and constantly sip from it, all my problems wouldn’t feel so heavy.

  Glancing down the wall, I realize how close I am to the little round window ...

  How convenient.

  I tiptoe toward it, hiding from the moon in a pocket of shadow pooled at the wall’s base. Though I can’t see any creatures crawling around the forest at night, I know they’re watching. Can feel their eyes on me, leering from behind my Safety Line.

  Incorporeal fingers walk up my spine while I hunt through scrub for the rock I discarded yesterday, a smile curling my lips when I locate it.

  Hauling my arm back, I picture Rhordyn’s face and toss the stone, causing an explosion of glass ...

  Shit, that’s loud.

  I pause to see if Baze is going to leap from the shadows. When I’m certain the coast is clear, I use a spare jar from my bag to chip off any remaining glass before I turn and edge my feet through the hole, then my body, hanging there by strained fingers for a few tense moments.

  Bracing myself for the fall.

  Landing with a dense thud that rattles my tender brain, I delve through my knapsack for a candle and match. I spark the wick, casting the ghostly objects scattered about the room in a fiery glow—a stark contrast to the stretched shadows that creep up the walls and dance to life.

  Nothing shrinks back. Nothing moves or makes a scuttling sound.

  It’s just me.

  The air feels almost syrupy, like it’s been trapped down here so long it’s become lazy with its movement.

  Clearing my throat, I tiptoe between broken bits of glass and edge toward a large shape, its veil of white weighed down by pockets of dust. I lift the corner of the sheet and peer underneath. Frowning, I pull the whole thing off and swat the air while I study the freestanding wardrobe.

  It’s the softest shade of pink, embossed to look like a sketched garden.

  Gripping the delicate handle, I tug, releasing a puff of dust that threatens to blow out my candle. The door creaks open, and I peek inside the cupboard’s hollow interior ...

  “Perhaps this is just a dusty old storage room.”

  I move to the next sheet and fold it back, unveiling a set of side tables to match the wardrobe. Next is a headboard, then a pretty bassinet that cradles a stack of crochet blankets yellowed with age. They’re soft like butter, and I dig my nose into one, noting the faint, unfamiliar scent of vanilla beans and a hint of damp soil.

  Did these belong to one of Rhordyn’s ancestors?

  Frowning, I refold the blanket and reveal the next item: a chest adorned with the same intricate design as everything else. Sitting on the ground beside it is a stoppered urn and a littering of jars no bigger than a finger.

  I lift the lid—heavy and curved and groaning in protest. My eyes widen, and I gasp at the hoard of fat gems glinting in the flickering light.

  Rhordyn isn’t one to flaunt his wealth. Aside from my diamond tools, the only jewels I’ve ever seen around the castle have been dripping from other people’s lobes at the Tribunal.

  My eyes narrow on a clear one partially hidden beneath a large, black gem, and I pick it up, holding it close to my flame so I can assess its clarity. Warm light ricochets off the many flat edges, scattering a confetti of color and light all around the room.

  Something inside me twinges at the sight, like a lute string plucked too hard.

  I return the gem to the pile, sweeping my hand through the treasure to reveal the front of an old book with gold writing pressed into its leather-bound face. I pry it from its grave and set my foot on the edge of the chest, resting the book on my thigh while I trace the scripted title.

  Te Bruk o’ Avalanste

  I repeat the phrase three times over, working my tongue around the new sounds, testing their feel. My gaze darts to the chest, back to the book, and I shrug, deciding it’s of no use in a dusty, old storage room. I slide it into my bag and close the chest, sealing all those pretty gems in a tomb that’ll probably never see the sun again.

  The birds begin to chatter, alerting me of the cresting sun, and I turn, looking for something to wedge against the wall so I can climb out the window easier.

  The galvanized corner of a picture frame otherwise covered in cloth catches my eye. No dust has settled on the sheet, suggesting whatever’s hiding beneath it has been recently viewed.

  Frowning, I do a tight spin, peering into the darker sections of the room.

  No door. Nobody standing in the shadows.

  Returning my attention to the cloth, I give it a tug, hand fluttering to my chest as it pools to the floor ...

  I�
�m fearful to blink lest I sever the view, my serrated breath a tribute to the masterpiece before me.

  Trapped within the confines of the ornate frame is the most beautiful painting I’ve ever seen.

  A male and female, knee-deep in grass, are walking side by side atop a rolling hill. There’s a storm brewing in the distance, wind pushing the woman’s long, raven hair to the side. The detail is so delicate, I feel I could brush the individual strands with the tips of my fingers—smooth them out or plait them into a long braid to keep it off her face.

  The man is half cast in shadow from the approaching storm, stance strong, shoulders broad. The real beauty lies in what’s strung between the adults, swinging through the air, caught in an oily eternity; a small girl with long, gray hair flicking about her in suspended animation.

  I feel her happiness bubbling inside me, as tangible as the hammering organ in my chest.

  It bleeds away in the very next moment.

  Who are these people? What happened to them? Why is all this stuff packed in a room nobody uses?

  I scan the space ...

  It feels like a crypt where beautiful things came to be forgotten about, at least until I snuck in and poked my nose around.

  I don’t belong here.

  My curiosity has taken a step too far this time, and there’s no covering my tracks. No unseeing the happiness in this painting; a bliss that feels empty like the bassinet, the cupboard, the bed.

  Guilt has a taste I’m far too familiar with—bitter and biting.

  I replace all the sheets while that taste sours my stomach, making the already sickly organ turn. Leaping, I grip the bottom of the bare window frame and haul myself free of the room.

  The Grave ... that’s what I’ll call it.

  A grave for happy things.

  The climb back up my tower seems longer, a weight pushing on my shoulders with every silent step.

  Shame.

  Shame for breaking into that reliquary. For having the book stuffed in my bag ...

  I should return it. Probably will.

  After I’ve read it.

  My door clunks shut, and I slam the deadlock into place, sealing myself inside a different sort of tomb. One I intend to stay in all day while I nurse my throbbing, lethargic brain and search for the desire to move again.