Page 300 of Rage

They feast and drink. The revels grow in volume. Lord Stilton’s face reddens red as he drinks and eats. Grease shines on his chins as he raises a goblet to Declan.

“To our hunter!” Wine spills over the rim, splattering like blood against the dais. Red drops bleed into Declan’s linen sleeve and collar. He raises a hand to his neck to wipe the ruby-red splatter away. All the while, his eyes never leave mine.

I cannot deny what the sight of that red wine on his throat does to me. How hunger claws as he lifts his chin, showing me the long tendons and flutter of his pulse. It has been more than a week since I last ate. More than a week since I stretched my limbs and fought.

More than a week since I pressed Declan Margrave to the ground, drove my knees into his sides, and turned that silver-tipped stake against him.

My fangs itch, and a deep, cloying need thrums my belly, demanding to be sated.

Soon.

“The hunter!” Men and women cry, raising their goblets to the dais. Lady Stilton subtly lifts a finger from her armrest, and servants flurry into motion. New casks roll into the hall and are quickly tapped. Red wine so deep it is almost purple flows freely, filling the goblets of every man and woman as a sharp, floral scent teases my nose.

She’s done it. I do not dare meet her eye, though I can feel her gaze on me as well as I feel Declan’s.

My night siblings stir in their cages, no doubt catching the same scent I do. They know, and they will be ready.

The tallow candles in the chandelier burn lower, the moon passes into view through the window at the rear of the hall, and Declan is the first to leave. He lingers by my cage, his handgripping the hilt of his stake as he stares down at me. Those eyes burn with contempt and something else—something molten and hot, trailing my filthy skin and greasy hair.

“I’ll see you in the morning,” he says before striding away. I cannot help but watch him, drawn to the easy saunter and sway of his broad shoulders and narrow hips.

And then he is gone, and it is only a matter of time.

The women drop first, cradling their heads in their arms and falling asleep at the table. Then, one by one, the men fall—some beside their women, others to the floor. Lord Stilton holds on longer than I expect, drinking and eating from abandoned plates as he wanders the cages with an ewer of holy water. He pours it over my night siblings, guffawing as their skin bubbles and sloughs off, leaving them raw and bloodied.

“Watch you burn,” he slurs in a sing-song voice. “And then we’ll watch you buuurn.” He fills his goblet a seventh time, downing the contents and throwing his vessel to the floor. Gold clangs against the stone, dented from the strike, and Lord Stilton sways before my cage. He sets the ewer down and grips the frame, leaning close enough for spittle to strike my leg as he hisses, “I will save you for the last.”

I say nothing. He is drunk and more of a fool than I had reckoned if he thinks he can goad me to speech. I know better than to give weak men what they desire.

“Declan’spet.” Stilton fumbles with his waistcoat and trousers. “The bait he never takes for the hunt. Useless bitch.” He pulls a stubby worm of a cock free, stroking as his watery eyes trawl my body. At this pathetic display, I remember the second failing of weak men: their predictability. “I will use you if he will not.”

He lurches for my cage on drunken legs, tripping and falling heavily. The bars rattle, and the ewer tips onto its side. Holy water rains down, and there is nowhere for me to run. My legsburn. The flesh on my feet bubbles and melts away to reveal bone and charred tendons. This time, I scream, letting the pain and rage shred my throat. Stilton fumbles for his keys, his eyes unfocused and movements slow and clumsy.

But he shoves the key into the lock and manages a half-turn. I shrink back, ignoring the hunger that grows in my belly as his rapid pulse pounds in my ears. The pain is unfathomable, drowning out all thoughts beyondblood, drink, drain.

If he gets in, if he gets closer, there is a chance I can override the pain and sink my teeth into his pale, fleshy neck—a chance I can strike a vein.

A loud thunk tears me from my hunger. Lord Stilton gurgles a wet, pained sound, and his mass collapses in front of my cage, revealing Lady Stilton with the ewer in hand. The base is dented, and her face twisted in rage.

“Him first.” The ewer flies from her hand, clanking against and rolling across the floor. She twists the key in the lock, hesitating before she opens my cage. “Drain him until his body is as dry as winter wheat.”

I nod, lips curled in a grimace—blood thrums in her veins, close enough that I can smell the tang of unpoisoned iron. My fangs descend, and her eyes widen as she sees me for the monster I am. For a moment, I fear she will prove as weak as the man lying on the ground, but then resolve settles on her thin, pinched face.

“Him first,” Lady Stilton repeats, jerking the door to my cage open. “And then you and your siblings will kill them all.”

“All of them?” I let my surprise show on my face, casting a glance at the unconscious bodies around the hall. “What have they done?”

“Does it matter?” she hisses. “They locked you and your siblings in cages. They reveled in your capture and wouldwitness your death. Take your revenge. Kill them all, and I will shelter you from the sun.”

Disappointment overtakes my shock as I see Lady Stilton for who she truly is. Not weak, like Lord Stilton and Declan, no. She is something worse. She is what happens when weakness prevails.

She is cruel.

“Promise me,” Lady Stilton presses, blocking the door of my cage. My only way out is to treat with her, and my body craves what she offers—a chance to feast, to fill my belly with life-giving blood, and heal.

“I promise,” I rasp. “I will drain those who sought advantage in my capture. I will take my revenge.”

A slash of a smile creases Lady Stilton’s cheeks. She rises, leaving a clear path between myself and Lord Stilton, and without a moment to spare, I launch from the cage.

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