Page 11 of Nocte

I’m horrified. The wounds inflicted by my “punishments” are invisible to me, on my back, hidden by my robes. I’ve never even seen them for myself. Just felt the neat row of scars.

My blood is a novel sight. I gape. Stare.

The vamryre is electrified. He breathes in, pale nostrils flaring. Then his tongue shoots out along his lower lip.

I feel like I’m falling all over again.

“We bleed,” I say. Then, I correct myself. “I bleed.”

“You make it sound so novel.” He rakes his fingers through my hair. The touch is harsh, snagging at my scalp. At the same time, it renders me paralyzed, awed by the sensation. He is ice cold, devoid of warmth.

He is the first stranger I can recall to ever touch me. Ever.

“What is your name?” His gaze rakes over me, bright and alarming. “Are you a Day or a Dawn?”

I frown.Dawn. Day.It is how we are named in accordance with our clan title. Since I have no clan, I have no name, not one sanctioned by our covenants, at least. So, I made one up.

I say it, and he scoffs. Sneers. In that cold, hissed voice, he repeats it, and I have goosebumps. “Neeve.”

He makes it sound harsh and vile.

“Niamh,” I repeat. So soft and gentle. I love it still, even in the face of his amusement. It’s all I have, and I love it still. “I found it in an old text. It’s an old mortal script—” I break off, betraying a forbidden secret. Mortal lore shouldn’t appeal to fae. Especially not a name, ancient and beautiful.

But to me, it was a marvel. If one could not be blessed with a clan moniker, then what could be better than choosing one?

He sneers. “You fae. Is that your family name?”

“I found it in an archive,” I repeat. “What is your name?”

I don’t care. It’s not a mystery. All vamryre are named for their masters, one of a collective. The same could be said about the fae, but our family names come with a wealth of heritage and ancestry. Vamryres are just dolls, meant to please their owners.

“Caspian,” he says in disgust.

I don’t know why. It is a simple name that sounds nice to the ears. C must be the initial of his master, from which all the names of progeny are derived. I am not familiar with their hierarchy, though, just the name of the main leader who signed their end of the treaty: Nataniel.

“Your name isn’t in the archives,” I say.

His eyes gleam even more. “Your archives. You fae and your historical references. I thought your kind named each other like categories. Boy. Girl. Day. Night.”

He laughs at our sacred traditions, though again, they are not mine.

“What do you want with me, vamryre?” I ask.

His smile falls. “What could I possibly want with a lone little fae?”

His voice deepened. I think he aimed to scare me, but I have nothing to fear. As long as I have the shelter of the Citadel and the grace of the Lord Master, what more could I want?

There is one thing,a part of me murmurs. One secret thing too sacred to voice out loud. A private thought. A wish.

“I brought you something.” He raises the rose I’d forgotten he had. So beautiful and fragile it quivers in his grasp.

I take it, surprised by its softness. Its sweetness. I sniff the air and gasp in shock.

Caspian laughs, and the sound echoes in a dangerous rasp.

“I knew you’d like it,” he declares.

I eye the object in question. Do I like it? I shouldn’t, of course. It is a forbidden taboo—an imported luxury from the human realm that vamryres indulge in, but fae should shun.

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