Page 44 of Lux

Daisy. A fake name. A lie.

“Her name is Cassiopeia,” I snap. “We were spawn of Cassius. You kept her here, broken, and desecrated. Why?”

“Kept her.” Altaris scoffs at the term. “Call it what you will, but we strive to keep poor Daisy contained until her mind is healed. Away from any tender mortal necks she may chew upon. As important as our individual work is,” he adds, his tone scolding, his gaze fixed on a far corner, “protecting one another is ourmostimportant task. I haven't seen a vamryre die at boney hands for over one hundred and fifty years, and I prefer to keep it that way.”

“Sorry!” The voice is anything but contrite. It belongs to a tiny woman—barely as tall as my elbow. She scurries into a darkened corner of the room wearing an oversized, white coat and silver-rimmed glasses. There are a set of large, metal drawers there. She opens one, and peers inside. Opens another. Beams.

A thick stench wafts from both. Decay. Death. In the dim lighting, I can make out body parts--an arm here. A leg. Beneath the acrid decay is a scent I recognize: Niamh’s. It appears that this dank basement is the final resting place of those who attacked her.

“I was very busy,” the female chirps as she slams a drawer shut. “Poor Daisy. It is my fault!” Yet she is still smiling as she spins to face us.

Similarly to Cassiopeia, she has also been desecrated by time spent in this realm. Although her hair is reddish brown now, I know it was once white. As the greenish light illuminates her eyes, they reflect a dark, amber gleam. Like mine, they used to be red.

She is one of Cassius’s. An old one, well before my time. In essence, she represents everything the bastard desires in a prey. Tiny. Beautiful. Young and ripe.

Yet, she is not simpering and sweet. She is sharp, moving like a furtive mouse, always hunting for something. A mind that easily diverted wouldn't do well in a collective cage. I bet this one wasn’t discarded as useless. It is likely that she wandered away on her own, distracted by something shiny.

“I apologized,” she reminds Altaris sweetly. “You say apologies show contriteness. Therefore, I am contrite. My work is important. Very important. I keep us from starving?—”

“I know,” Altaris insists, rolling his green eyes. They have played out this conversation between themselves before. Many, many times. “But Ginni, darling, when I ask you to look after a young one, you should at leasttryto. Especially when you were the only one of us she seems to respond to. One of Cassius’s, you say?” He asks, looking at me. “I suppose it makes sense.”

Of course it does. He knew, all along, which monster each wayward spawn belonged to. He can tell with far more precision than I can. Yet, he is feigning ignorance. Why?

Because of me. His eyes flicker with that fleeting guilt again. Maybe Cassiopeia was the reason all along? The explanation for why he seems so damn guilty around me. Always sighing. Always casting his pitying looks. My dear one was locked away in his hovel.

Yet…

He knew me even before then. He said so.Caspian, one of Cassius’s toys.It sounded mocking to me then. Viewed from another lens, the words sound sad instead. A punishment to himself. A cruel reminder.

Caspian, toy of Cassius.

Why?

Why?

I can’t remember.

Wait... Something comes to mind; two letters scribbled over and over on a decades old contract. Another name.

This vamryre knew me as another name, once. C.W.

I could ask him. When our eyes meet, I see a yearning in his empty gaze. Longing. Hope. Hope like Niamh's when she begged me to take her to the mortal realm. As if with one single question, I could ease his mind. Free him of some terrible burden. One word.

I open my mouth.

“Your noises are bothering me,” Ginni snaps, rubbing at her forehead with a slim, pale hand. “So many noises. Angry and seething. Get out. All of you, get out!”

“Ginni, darling,” Altaris starts without moving an inch, “We are here for a reason, remember? Try to think, my darling. Any news on the black-market sites? We are trying to find someone.”

“Yes,” I hiss, turning on the smaller woman. “A fae. Where is she?”

She blinks. “Don’t know. Don’t know. No news of fae. I wish there was. Fae blood is rumored to be sweet and nice. Magical. Oh, how I would long to chop, chop, chop delicate fae limbs and see the bones underneath?—”

“Caspian, darling.” Altaris’s tone is sharp. It hooks into me, locking my body into place. “We do not fight here, among fellow darling ones. That is a rule and it is one I take great pains to enforce. Don’t we, Scythe?” He looks to the blue-haired one of Pol. The bastard nods and flexes his limbs.

So that is why he is here. To protect the tiny one, Ginni. Her work is important, it seems. The work of death and decay. It reeks in this wide room. Traces of blood stain the floors. Those metal drawers contain more than paper or trinkets.

Body parts.

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