by Zoe Parker
“Occasionally. It is not a biological function for me. I eat purely for pleasure.”
I shiver. The way he says that word, just wow.
“What do you like to eat?”
“Anything with cinnamon in it.” Oh, look, sarcasm.
Concentrating, I force my stiff hands to continue washing. I refuse to turn into a ninny head around him. The look on his face is so intense that it makes it hard to remember exactly why I’m not turning into a ninny head.
“They starve me.”
Starve him? What about the snacks they bring down here?
“You’ve uh…eaten since I’ve been here.” It’s so weird to say that when it involves eating people.
“They give me food that is near death. To keep me weak. It is a full life that gives me strength.” That’s interesting to know.
“Do you always need to kill when you feed?”
“No. But to absorb their memories and knowledge I must consume them fully.” I also tuck that information away for later and refocus on the weak food bit.
As the idea forms in my head, I quickly finish washing. Finally, I can do something useful, something for him. He’s done so much for me.
“Can you feed from me?” I blink and find myself pressed against the wall. God, he can move fast. Always audacious, I smile. Being trapped by his body is not something I'll ever consider scary.
He always makes sure I eat. This is the least I can do. He moves just a little, and my damp skin rubs against his. I shiver. Certain parts of me let me know it’s definitely not scary. It’s a whole different kind of something. Stubbornly, I push my hormones to the side and focus on what I'm going to do.
Sort of. My nipples aren’t cooperating. Or really any other part of me.
Without a word or one bit of fear, I bend my head to the side to give him full access to my neck. Since the very idea of those black shadows, of his, fill me with something other than fear, I'm winging it. His eyes brighten a scant inch from my own. He dips his head and plants a soft kiss on my neck.
A moment of tenderness from a monster.
My smile broadens. Without warning he pulls from me—no biting required, I might add—and there's a little bit of pain but not much. I close my eyes and feel him literally grow stronger in front of me.
Ha, I am full of life.
When he pulls away, his eyes meet mine. For seconds we stand there, skin to skin staring at each other. Then his mouth is on mine. All sharp teeth and demand. I meet his with my own. Eyes open, our mouths mesh, nip. Devour.
Just as suddenly his presence is gone, and cold air bathes my sensitive skin. On wobbly legs, I walk to my blanket and plop down as gracefully as I can. I smile, feeling his eyes on me from the shadows.
For the millionth time, I wish I can read his mind.
“Have you ever had a Twinkie?” I ask, trying to master the whirlwind of feelings inside of me.
Trying, probably in vain, to sort out what they can possibly mean. Or fight it. I’m still loopy from the kiss.
He steps from the shadows, his mouth opens as if to reply and then stops to look over his shoulder towards the door. Within a minute Jameson appears. A small part of me is relieved. Jameson’s arrival broke the tension in the small room. Now calm, I face Jameson. No one needs to see us interacting.
Especially Jameson.
For the most part, I kinda like the man. He has a wealth of knowledge and is not shy at sharing it. He’s like an encyclopedia of information to me. But he isn’t trustworthy. Jameson has already tattled once, at least. It took a day or so to keep me from wringing his neck. Fortunately for him I didn’t hold a grudge, this time. Then I also thought through the whole thing.
Does he really have much more of a choice than anyone else does?
This visit is Jameson trying to make up for things. In his own weird way.
“I thought you might like something to pass the time since you’re awake more.” The door opens with a wave of his hand and he walks hesitantly into the cell, hands full of books. Books that I will never return. For some reason, I just have the unexplainable desire to keep them. I tend to keep anything I’m given that isn’t edible.
He shies away from where Phobe stands. Jameson is always nervous around him, no matter how many times he comes to visit.
I bet my precious blanket Jameson doesn’t know he is in the same cell as Phobe.
Mentally, I shrug. If Phobe was going to hurt Jameson it would’ve already happened. Jameson is just being a scaredy cat. I take the books from him, not missing the single book that Phobe commandeers from the stack. It disappears into the darkness surrounding him.
Sneaky bastard.
“Thanks,” I mutter, realizing that it’s what Jameson is waiting on.
Jameson sits a bag on the floor, and my mouth waters as the smell of food reaches me.
“I brought some food too. It’s not much but I figured it was better than nothing.” I nod again and shuffle back to my corner.
There’s no way I’m going to show how excited I am about the food. It shows a weakness I’m not prepared for Jameson to see any more than he already has, not after what happened.
Jameson stands and fidgets nervously, looking around the room like something is going to jump out and bite him. I find myself feeling just a little sorry for him and decide he needs a rescue. To be fair, there is something in this room that might, in fact, jump out and bite him.
“So, how goes the potion making?” At my question, he perks up.
Dusting off a place on the floor, he sits facing me. Subconsciously as far away as he can get from Phobe without looking too obvious. I chew my lip to hide a smile.
“Wonderful you asked. I have discovered this little plant called Camis that seems to alleviate some of the symptoms of Magiks’ sickness. However, it has a nasty side effect of diarrhea that I can’t seem to figure out how to avoid…”
As he talks, I nod when I figure it’s appropriate and just let him keep talking. He is very animated when it comes to his research, and sometimes it’s a nice change from mister tall, dark, and gloomy.
The suddenness of the Magiks inside of me waking up startles me. Gasping, I put a hand to my chest. The point of something sharp pokes me. I look down at my hand. I have always had thick nails, but now they are completely black and have lengthened to points.
This is way new and not malnutrition related after all.
Frowning, I look up at Jameson and for the very first time see more than just another Feyrie. It’s like I am looking past everything straight to the heart of him. I can even see the Magiks of the Magistrate’s clan in the amulet around his neck that weakly ties him to the man.
The Magiks are allowing me to see the need to prove himself as a mage, the fear he has of failure. Loneliness, the potential of him to be so much more. But that isn’t what holds my attention. It’s the urge to bring it out of him, to call that darkness that’s hiding deep, to me.
The feeling that it’s mine to call.
“Embrace the Dark, Jameson,” I whisper, not realizing I have spoken out loud. His shocked face shakes me out of the strange moment. “Sorry, what were you saying?” I cover. He hesitates only a second and then smiles. Jameson doesn't wear guilt well. The confident smile he used to wear is no more.
“I brought you some clothes. They are my old ones but I figured it would be better than...uh...your current condition.”
Distracted by the thought of clothes, I jump to my feet and go to the bag and happily dig through it to get the clothing. Without a thought of anyone else in the room, I let the blanket fall to the ground and begin putting the clothes on.
“It’s not much but—" Jameson starts and abruptly cuts off.
The silence draws my gaze up from my happy little clothing reverie.
“What?” I ask, pausing with one leg in the pants.
Jameson closes his open mouth and averts his eyes, his cheeks pink in embarrassment. I smirk a little at that and finish dressing. He
has seen me naked a bunch of times, why be shy now? Silly man.
His clothes are a little big on me but not by much. Jameson isn’t a big guy. I cuff the pants to keep them from dragging and roll the sleeves of the shirt up.
Being dressed feels like heaven.
“Your wounds look very good, almost healed. Quite amazing really. Do you always heal this quickly?” He asks, his cheeks still pink.
“Meh. They weren’t as bad you thought.” I go back to my spot on the floor and open a book. Deflection works best with Jameson.
“I figured you’d like that book. It’s a shame that no one is around from that time to tell us how it really was, but since you liked history so much, I chose those.” Jameson's voice echoes in the cell.
I look at Phobe. The book I hold is a story about the Primals, and for some reason, it gives me an eerie feeling that the knowledge between these pages is important.
“I do think it’s pretty cool that several of the clan’s history is very similar. You might get a kick out of that.” Jameson indicates the book in my hands. “In fact, my father named me after one of the Eldest. He thought it would make me stronger. Eson was the eldest of Earth. Imagine that, a lowly Feyrie with the name of an Eldest.” Jameson chuckles at his own words.
Partially in derision. Poor Jameson, he has no faith in himself at all.
I study him in a different light. He’s a pretty good-looking guy, with rich brown eyes and thick dark brown hair that sticks out in just the right way. A masculine face that is just a bit soft around the edges. He looks sort of like the guy that most women would be happy to call their own.
And he does absolutely nothing for me. Not even a blip on the radar. Well, crap.
After a moment Jameson perks up. “I was told I am handsome today,” he flicks his thumb towards Phobe’s empty cell. “Nothing compared to blondie over there, but I think I muddle along.”
I tilt my head at Phobe, ignoring Jameson’s fish for a compliment. Blondie? Do I see an illusion, too? Because the man I’m looking at is so far from blonde it’s not funny.
No, my gut tells me that I'm the one seeing the real man.
“I can’t really see how blonde he is. Can’t see too much of him.” I fish right back at him.
Jameson pauses for a moment.
“Really? I figured you were all gaga over his big, blue cat eyes and pretty face like all of the other women.” He laughs at his own joke, and I can’t help but laugh just a little myself.
For a totally different reason.
Cat eyes, huh? I met those ‘cat eyes’. Phobe shrugs. So, I am right. He glamours all the time.
“So, any news?” Jameson’s face sobers at my question.
“None so far. They haven’t filed for you to join general population yet. Darvena has sent out inquiries about your tattoo, which I figure is the delay. I have to admit, I can understand her curiosity. It’s a unique marking.” He pulls a little notebook out of his pocket, mumbling to himself as he flips through its pages.
He continues, “Ah, here it is. I haven’t shown them this, but I did a little research myself. Just as I thought, the spider is a representation of the Nightmares. They were the original Feyrie King’s guard. After his death, they disappeared. I doubt they really existed but the legend itself is quite fascinating. It is said they were the original Children of the Primals.” He replaces the notebook in his pocket. “Now, that Rune, I can’t shake the feeling I’ve seen it somewhere before. I’ve looked through hundreds of books and texts, and I can’t find it.”
He won’t either. But Phobe knows, he knows and won’t tell. Stubborn Dillhole.
“So, how went the date with whatshername?” Jameson smiles brightly at my question, which means he got laid.
Plus, he likes to talk. And is extremely easy to distract.
“Well, we went out to the meadow for a picnic, and I did as you suggested and discarded the poetry reading. I have to say, things went a lot better than I expected. I figured that all ladies loved poetry, but come to find out, Hilda isn’t a fan. So, I’m glad I took your advice. It really made my day much more enjoyable.”
He takes a breath and then continues. “I feel I must add that I probably won’t be taking her out for a second date. After we uh…cuddled she started talking about babies and such, and I’m just not ready for that kind of commitment.”
Who knew? Jameson is a player. This makes me chuckle in genuine amusement.
“Babies are a big commitment with the diapers and the pooping and such. I can’t say I blame you.” I add, making him laugh too.
But inside, the thought of babies makes my heart pang. Just a little. It’s not something I will ever experience. I shake it off and join back into the conversation with Jameson.
Sixteen
Phobe
Watching her has become a habit I can’t seem to break. No matter what I tell myself, still, I watch her. Just like I am watching her now and listening. Not to what she says but what she thinks.
Still tasting her on my tongue.
Jameson’s’ head is filled with mostly frivolous things. Other than the thoughts of the Rune and thoughts of Iza, I have no interest in anything else in there. The Schoth may tolerate Jameson’s presence but they don’t trust him with anything important.
Right now, I am paying more attention to Jameson’s thoughts of Iza than the ones about the Rune.
The man likes her. And as he laid with another this very afternoon, he was having thoughts of Iza that make the Mage uncomfortable. Part of me is unfazed by this, but another part is…not.
Jameson doesn’t have any harmful thoughts towards her—for the most part, they are very shallow. He is even considering propositioning her, which will not work out well for him. If Jameson finds the courage to go through with it, either Iza will kick his ass or I will eat him.
She is fully aware that he ‘tattled’—the phrase she uses, on us.
It will be much better for him if Iza does it. Or if Jameson wises up and does not do it at all. He is already on my menu. The only thing saving him is Iza.
The slight tightening of her face draws my gaze. Carefully, I slide into her thoughts. Why does the talk of babies distress her so? I grasp at the thoughts but she locks them away too quickly for me to catch them.
There’s something she doesn’t want me to know, then. A secret. Interesting. I do catch the brief one about death in her future, one I can do nothing about. That is not what made her so sad. She has already accepted that death is coming for her, with a grace I rarely see. It is probably coming sooner than she realizes but I will not tell her. I do not want to see that look on her face.
I do not want to like her either—but it is already too late for that.
Seventeen
Iza
“You’re having a nightmare.” The deep accented voice startles me right out of the nightmare, bringing me wide awake.
My eyes fly open. On pure gut reaction, I roll sideways and to my feet, back braced against the cold stone wall. Seeing Phobe’s familiar face, I slide down the wall in relief.
“Well, at least I didn’t have to stab you,” I say breaking the silence. I refuse to talk about my dreams. To anyone.
“Do you always dream of violence?”
“Stay out of my head, Phobe.”
“Your head is an interesting place to be. Chaotic.” A compliment and insult in the same sentence. Typical.
“Don’t you have nightmares?”
Going through what he has, surely he does. Regardless, I’m not going to talk about mine. If he was in my head while I slept then he knows what I dreamt. So there is no reason to discuss it.
“I don’t sleep.” Isn’t he a lucky bastard?
“So, you eat people, grumble around hiding in the darkness, and you don’t sleep? Pretty well-rounded guy, yeah?”
“How did you become so educated?” My lips quirk while I look at him and think through the question.
“This was this guy who was briefly
‘generous’, a Magiks teacher who taught me to read, write, and speak several languages. The rest I picked up from other prisoners. There were books, too. Some were fiction. Some were about school stuff or history. Once, I was even given a Magiks book.” The woman who gave it to me disappeared after a guard caught her.
But by then it was too late. I already knew about my own little drop of Magiks.
“How about you?” Then I remembered—he got it from eating people. “Well, that is much quicker than reading, right?” Thoughts turning darker I ask, “Why haven’t they sent me back to General?”
“Maybe they won’t,” he answers.
Instead of it perking me up, it fills me with dread. That means that something is either delaying it, or something else is being planned.
“You like Jameson?” That is not what I expect him to ask.
“He’s okay, but I don’t trust him after he blabbed,” I answer. Then I ask him why.
Phobe says nothing. There is a reason he asked, but not one I’ll know unless he tells me.
He studies me a moment and then settles back down on the floor, a book open in his lap. It’s the second book he silently swiped from the stacks of books Jameson brings me. He’s not someone I would peg as a reader. But he isn’t like anyone else I have ever known either. All Magikal and mysterious and... stuff.
Making myself look away I fall into my thoughts.
As a child, I wished I had been born to a normal family, even a Schoth one. Paul would’ve never touched me, never noticed me. I would’ve just been another chicken nugget to him, undeserving of notice. At least other than the ‘eat me’ kind. It is my firm belief that being killed and eaten quickly is much better than years of him and this shithole.
Of course, the Schoth aren’t exactly the coolest bunch. Because of the Clans’ rule, they have changed and not in a good way. They still have their Electronics and cars, they steal from other realms, and some of them live mostly normal lives.
But they do uphold some of their ancient customs just to keep people in check. Customs that make Feyrie, the Dark Half of the spectrum, have to fight daily for survival. The Schoth aren’t known for their democracy.
