Page 87 of Lux

It would bite into the body of Niamh before its jackdaws could finish her off. It would drain her dry. Extend its life. Feed.

For it had waited for this moment for twenty years. Not out of hunger or necessity, but…

Revenge.

“I’ll filet your body, little whelp,” the creature told me. “Leave it for your sire to see. That bastard. That fucking prick. He must think himself so smart.” The creature laughed at me. Then it kicked me hard in the stomach, tormenting me. “So godly. But he failed. He failed to sniff you. Suss you. He let you out of his sight. Despite the little dog he saddled you with, hand-picked.Perfectly placed. All a waste, for I will drain you dry.” He moved, and there was no denying that the fae curled on the ground would soon be dead. She was too weak.

Suddenly, the vision shifts yet again. A new figure emerges from the shadows of the room. She throws herself at the monster though she knows she is no match. Minchae.

Easily, the creature tosses her aside. She lands in a crumbled heap across the tent, lifeless, broken.

But in that moment, something changed. It happened the second he touched her. A bright light emanated. A figure appeared as if summoned from the shadows themselves. Like the woman from before, their shape was obscured, covered in shadow. Only their voice gave them any sense of definition. Lilting. Soft. Female.

“It has been a long time,” they say to the creature. “Decades for you to become sloppy. What a shame.”

The creature snarled something in return, but it is too garbled to make out. Whatever it said devolves into a shout. Then a scream as the shadow lunches. Ripping, tearing noises betray the scene I don’t remember. A heart being devoured right out of a chest. Body parts tearing. Ripping. Becoming strewn about.

Then a moan from Minchae. She is still alive. Finished with the creature that once was Cyrus, the figure cloaked in shadow approaches the part-fae. They crouch down beside her and gingerly extend her forearm for their inspection. Then they bite.

I wince at the sound. Bone cracks with the force of it. Flesh sizzles, dissolved by venom. Yet, the figure does not tear into her. They do not kill her then. They incline their head toward the ceiling as if knowing a disembodied figure watches them.

“Hello,” they say. “Give Altaris my regards. Tell him his bloodling remains, for she is his punishment. His doom. He shall be seeing us soon.”

The vision fades. The pressure relents and I find myself gasping on a cold hard floor. My stomach roils. I fell sick. Without caring for decorum, I hunch over and vomit then and there. Too many thoughts and recollections swirl in my brain. I can’t tell what is mine. What is another’s. Something went rampant in my brain and left a mess behind.

Even Caspian’s comfort can’t soothe the ache.

Because his comfort is a lie. He is a lie. A dog. A plant, meant to retrain me. Manipulate.

All as a part of someone’s plan.

Altaris’s plan. He knows something—more than he let on. He is a liar. A villain. A monster.

He wanted this from the start: me, a wingless, lonely abomination.

All in a game of revenge.

There is no time to process these recollections. No place to think. I need to think. I need to breathe. I can’t. I can’t.

“We can help you, mistress,” those voices tell me, surging to the forefront of my mind, louder than ever. The jackdaws that hid inside of me, so fearful of the figure draped in shadow that they had no choice. “Trust us. Come. Come!”

I stand. As if from miles away I hear Altaris and Dinara converse as though I don’t exist. As though I don’t matter. Somewhere,beyond the wreckage of my mind, I can sense Caspian, demanding to be let in. He is calling for me.

But I can’t answer.

There is too much shame, and guilt, and hatred. I drag myself upright. I spy a window and I run toward it without thinking. I listen to those greedy little voices urging me forward.

“Go! Go! We shall catch you!”

The glass gives way as though it was made of tissue paper. An illusion that shatters into a million sparkling shards. I fall in a sudden, terrifying motion. There is no audience below. No series of movements to perform.

I just fall.

Then lurch upward as if tugged by a hand clenched around my spine. Caspian’s? No. For this strange, gripping contact yanks me higher. and higher still.

Then I feel a rush of air, rhythmic fluttering against my skin. I hear a strange, whooshing sound.

Then I look down and see the entire city at a glance.

---