Page 38 of Ma Petite Mort
I straighten up slowly, my back cracking like a shotgun, wand still buzzing like a wasp in my hand. And gods help me, Igrin.
He’s always there, isn’t he?
Lurking like a bad idea with good timing. Right on the edge of the madness—just close enough to taste it, but never close enough to drown. He watches me twist and break and bleed and fuck andkill—then disappears like smoke through fingers.
No hello. No scream. Just gone.
But not tonight.
Tonight, he’s standing there like he’smeantto be seen.
And my spine hums like the gods just whispered his name in my ear.
Wherever he came from, whoever he is—he doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t blink. Doesn’t beg to be taken.
No. He’s the kind who waits.
And I? I’m the kind whowants to know why.
He steps onto the edge of the ring. Silent. Intent. Watching.
He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t flinch.
He just holds out his hand.
I cock my head, grin spreading slow and sweet like blood down a throat.
“You want my wand, baby?” I purr.
He doesn’t nod. Doesn’t blink. Doesn’t do anything a normal person would do. But I give it to him anyway. Because let’s face it—I wanna see what he does with it.
His fingers brush mine as he takes it, cool and deliberate, and that’s when I see it. A flick of tongue against the metal, forked. Split. Like the devil got bored one night and decided to make art out of skin.
Gods, I like him.
He kneels in the puddle of blood I left behind, casual as hell, and presses the wand to the throat of a guest still twitching from my last round. The zap crackles, violet light dancing across skin as the poor thing spasms and gasps, caught between agony and bliss.
And him? He just smiles.
Not big. Not loud. But calm. Eerie. Like the type of guy who sings lullabies while sharpening knives. That smile belongs in a locked room full of bones and secrets. I’m obsessed.
I crouch beside him, giggling into my hand.
“Oh, you’re fun,” I whisper, heart hammering like I just found a new toy I don’t know whether to kill or kiss.
He finishes the shock, pulls the wand back, and without a word, hands it back to me. The blood on the handle glistens. His tongue flicks once more against his teeth, and then—he stands.
Turns.
And walks away like none of it mattered.
But I know better.
People like him? They don’t leave a mark on the night.
Theyarethe mark.
And now?
