by Plum Pascal
Carmine gasps, craning her neck to peer over my shoulder. I can’t tell, but I’m just willing to bet those big quicksilver eyes have gone wide. Maybe her mouth is hanging open too. Mine sure as fuck was when the cellar-level of the church merely shrugged off the layer of dirt that held the foundations in place and reached eight spider-like legs from the hole and stood up. That first step it took nearly pulverized me.
My right arm is screaming from the effort of trying to support her weight. On a good day, the one-hundred-twenty pound girl wouldn’t trouble me, but with all the fingers of my hand and most the ones in my wrist snapped like twigs, grinding together as I move, it’s all I can do not to throw up. I keep moving out of sheer recalcitrance, as Sabre would say. I won’t let myself be done in by a fucking house, mechanical legs on it be damned. I won’t be like the tale from a far-off land where a witch was crushed by a farmhouse.
One of the church’s clawed feet impacts the ground only a half-mile behind us. Its stride is incredibly long. In no time at all, it will close the distance and then we’re fucked. Where have my brothers and those damn dragons disappeared to? Taking Neva away, writing Carmine and I as lost causes?
No, I can’t believe that. Draven, at the very least, would cut off his own balls before he’d let any harm come to her. There has to be another battle going on elsewhere. Perhaps those damn maenads are still attacking Herrick. Yes, that has to be it.
“Titus, put me down,” Carmine says quietly.
I almost don’t catch her voice over the whipping of the wind in my ears and the excited clicking sounds issuing not far behind us. I know it’s the spider-legged dark fae that stood on the dais. If I’d been in bird form, I’d have been able to snap it up in my beak, scissoring it in two. If it had been an oversized spider, I’d have swallowed it in all likelihood. But knowing it’s dark fae, I’d have to spit it out. Dead fae are unpredictable creatures, Seelie or Unseelie. The magic still imbues the flesh, dead or alive... shit could get strange fast. I hear they cut the pixie dust from the corpse of the Blue Faerie into drugs these days.
“No,” I grind out. It’s a real effort not to scream.
“Titus, please. It’s going to keep following us and then Bacchus’ revelry will know we’re coming.”
“Doesn’t matter!”
“I think I can stop it, Titus. Give me a chance.”
I should just keep going, but there’s something about her wheedling tone... I can’t deny her.
I pause, cursing every second we’re stationary and set her gingerly on her feet. She sways, still a little shaky after the rough landing we took. She plants her feet a little apart, steels herself, and sets her jaw in determination. She’s ruffled, her clothing ripped in places, and she’s bleeding. My libido doesn’t care. For the second time since she joined us, I see the hints of a warrior queen peeking out from beneath the soft veneer of a demure princess.
If only we could find a way to strip away all the propriety and leave the core of steel beneath. She has it in her. She knows what she wants, at least in bed. She is sure and confident. I could make her a warrior, given time. She could at least be as tough as Kassidy. But we have to live through this to get there. I pray to the Gods she knows what she’s doing.
Carmine kneels, placing a palm flat on the ground. Her eyes flutter closed and a strange calm seems to come over her. Words, in a language I’ve never heard, flow from her mouth, tumbling over each other like the sound of running water. It’s mesmerizing and I stand, trance-like, watching the little witchling, our little Chosen One for a second longer than I should.
Then the twitching shape of the spider-like dark fae bursts onto the footpath, leaping down from the mushroom head nearest us.
It isn’t alone. Gatz is riding on its back, arms locked around its torso. He looks faintly nauseous and clambers off as fast as he can. The thing’s skin must feel as revolting as it appears. His avian form is as useless as mine in these close quarters.
There’s a blade in my hand before I even consciously think of it. I’m not as good with my left, never learning the skill equally with both hands, the way Draven and Sabre did. The shortsword is my least favorite weapon. Give me a shuriken, a chakkar, a scythe on a chain. Anything, but this fucking thing. Of course, I am left to do melee with Gatz, who’s possibly one of the best swordsmen the Order of Aves has ever seen. That’s not even counting the threat of the spider-fae.
Fate loves to stick it up my ass… dry.
I hope Carmine knows what the fuck she’s doing, because I’m not sure how long I’ll be able to defend her against both. She’s still murmuring and, like before, things begin to sprout from the ground. Drecaine vines slither over the barely worn path like verdant snakes, choking out the ferns and thistles that litter the ground here. Gatz and the spider edge away from them with sharp sounds of panic. Carmine isn’t paying them any mind. Her eyes snap open, and the silver sheens her sclera now, giving her the look of a proper night hag.
A prickle of fear eases up my spine, adding to the already potent unease I’m feeling. A byproduct of her magic. There’s more night hag in her than I dreamed. God help me if she goes full night hag in this clearing. She could turn on me as easily as Gatz or the dark fae.
For now, her focus is on the approaching church and the couple of fae that ride atop the roof. It’s so near now, I can see the pair of conjoined fae swinging from a busted out window. They’re dangling the priest out the window, their joined tail forming a sort of noose. He must have pissed them off in some way.
The snaking vines reach the foot of the nearest leg and wind around the claw-like foot. It reaches another leg a few moments later and I finally cotton on to her plan. Clever, clever girl.
We don’t need to destroy the church, just slow it down or take it out of commission. Tipping it will do nicely. Unfortunately, I’m not the only one who’s had the revelation. Gatz’s eyes burn with hate and fix on Carmine. His blade is out as well, flashing what light is to be had into my eyes in a calculated move to blind me.
“You get the girl,” he hisses at the dark fae. “I’ll deal with my dear cousin.”
My stomach lurches violently, and I teeter on the verge of throwing up again. This is exactly the scenario I’ve been attempting to avoid. Gatz is a deluded, short-sighted bastard, but he wasn’t always a villainous asshole. I don’t want to kill him. I also don’t see other options.
The spider is moving, faster than a crossbow bolt, the disquieting clicking echoing along the narrow footpath. I don’t have long to consider. It’s a trap and I damn well know it. If I go for the spider, I open flank to Gatz, who will gut me. If I don’t, Carmine will be dead in a matter of seconds. This type of dark fae likes to rip heads off and drink from the stump of the neck.
There’s no choice at all, really.
I pivot, placing my body between Carmine and the charging dark fae, thrusting the blade at the point where a heart should logically be on a human torso. Who the fuck knows if it will have any effect on the dark fae. They could keep their hearts in their assholes, for all I know.
It backpedals a step, and the thrust misses. The mouthless face slits open with a wet slurp of sound to reveal a set of large mandibles. They snap shut on my blade, almost wrenching the whole thing from my grasp. Fuck.
With a grunt, I’m able to free it, slashing a bloody streak across one side of its face, but the tip breaks off, leaving it useless for thrusting cleanly. This blade isn’t good for slashing, but I’ll just have to try. With a vicious curse, I take a page from Carmine’s book and bring the blade down on one of the spider’s legs. It doesn’t take the thing off completely, but it hangs as limp and useless as my broken hand.
It’s enough to slow the thing down, make it cringe away in pain. I don’t have time to deliver the killing blow, however.
If Gatz hadn’t had the fatal flaw of announcing his attacks with a grunt, I’d have been a dead man. As it is, I’m only able to keep the blade from parting my head from my shoulder
s. The blade cuts neatly through the tail at the base of my neck at an angle and my head feels a little lighter as the hair tumbles to the ground. A brief flicker of irritation consumes me. Petty and vain, yes, but I liked my hair, damn it. So did women.
No choice. No fucking choice.
It’s him or me, him or Carmine. But it fucking hurts. Why does it hurt so fucking badly? I knew this could happen. I just didn’t know it would be me delivering the death blow.
The punch I deliver to his diaphragm is a favorite move of Sabre’s. One good punch and you could freeze the muscles there for just a second or two. More than enough time to slide a knife into the heart. Real fear bleeds into Gatz’s eyes when he realizes what I’ve done, realizes the shortsword, even a broken one, is enough to end him for good.
But… I can’t.
I can’t fucking kill him. Even to save me. Even to save her. I can’t slide a blade into his heart and watch the light leave his eyes.
I thrust it into his thigh instead, pinning him to the ground. The blow takes him down to one knee and he lets out a porcine shriek of pain as I drive the metal to the hilt. There are large arteries in the leg. Maybe I’ve killed him. Maybe I haven’t. But it’s a damn sight better than ending him like a felled buck. There’s still a chance for him.
I seize Gatz’s shoulders, whipping his coat off as best as I can. It’s heavy, loaded up with weaponry, precisely what I was hoping for. Mine was lost the moment I had to shift. The fabric tears in places, but doesn’t slide off my shoulders when I shrug it on. There. Protection from the elements and weaponry.
The spider is hissing mad, spitting some sort of acid onto the ground. It sizzles through some of the drecaine vines that have pulled taut. A few of them snap, but not enough to halt the inevitable result.
Three of the church’s mechanical legs go out from under it. It tips slowly backward, with a groan of protest, launching the remaining dark fae off the roof. I can’t tell if the building crushes them as it topples. The impact shakes the ground, every tree and mushroom in the area shaking.
I can barely focus on it, even the flame of pride I feel doused by horror as what I’ve done catches up to me.
Gatz is still wailing.
His blood has splashed onto my bare skin. Oh Gods, what have I done?
I punch him hard enough at just the right point to knock him unconscious. Better for him that way.
Distantly, I see Carmine stand at last, turning her attention to the dark fae. The silver is spreading out from her eyes, black tears slipping down her cheeks. The darkness pools on her skin, spreads. Her lips are turning violet.
Fuck, she’s going full night hag. Even the spider knows better than to face down a Chosen One who’s losing control. It scuttles away as fast as its good legs will allow. Carmine’s dispassionate eyes track it with the speculative hunger of a lion on the hunt. Her tongue flicks out to trace one violet lip, tasting the fear on the air, savoring it.
“Carmine,” I croak. “Carmine, we need to go.”
Her head swivels to face me in an almost serpentine motion. It’s damn eerie, and I shrink back a step. With the silver gaze turned on me, I feel the hot sluice of blood all the more acutely. Every wretched emotion rises to choke the breath from me.
There’s something horribly compelling about her still.
Dark beauty, but beauty nonetheless. I never understood why Leon married the plain Salome, with her wicked other half. Now I understand a little better. This is the magic of the night hag, the feared mora, the nightmare made flesh. This power would compel a man to let the crazy bitches to crouch over his chest and steal the sanity from him.
“Titus,” she murmurs. There’s a new resonance to her voice. Deeper and echoing, like it’s coming from the bottom of a well. “Titus I feel... strange.”
“You need to feed,” I say, barely able to keep the tremor from my voice. “You’ve used your powers too much in a short stretch. No training and... God, have you fed it at all, your whole life?”
“Fed what?” She sounds genuinely bemused. That would be a ‘no’ then.
I can’t fucking do this. I won’t let her dredge up my worst memories and drink them down like so much Sweetland port. It’d be fucking terrifying for me and the Princess will hate herself when she wakes from this insanity. But what else is there to do? Night hags are only consumed with two things. Fear and violence. I can’t very well attack her or allow her to attack me.
“You look so... good,” she murmurs, licking her violet lips again. “Smell so good. I want to taste you. Feel you in my mouth.”
“So most women say,” I respond, unable to help the quip even as she glides closer, the aura of malevolence growing every passing second.
Then the thought really penetrates. I’m not sure I want that violet mouth on my cock (at this juncture, at any rate) but if I could subdue her harshly enough, fuck her roughly enough... would it be enough to satisfy the hunger for fear and blood?
I shrug off the coat after a moment of consideration and draw myself up to my full height. I’m bloodied, one hand broken, my hair is probably lopsided from Gatz’s unintentional role as barber. Still, she ca’'t seem to take her eyes off my chest. If I hadn’t known better, I might have thought her one of the blood drinkers.
“Want this?” I say, pointing at my cock and stuffing as much bravado as I can into the taunt. “You think you can take me, Princess?”
“I want you,” she repeats, tracking the line of blood from one pectoral down to my navel. She looks at it the way I’ve had women study my cock. Like she wants to swallow me whole.
“Do you want to fuck me? Bloody me?”
A moan catches in her throat and I can see her nipples tauten even beneath the coat she wears. Despite myself, I want a taste. I’ve been fucking curious since the night she touched herself for me. Breasts are my gift. I wonder if I can make her climax touching them alone?
“Gods, yes.”
I’m not sure who moves first, but within three steps we meet in a tangle of thrashing limbs. She has small claws that I’ve never seen on her before, still more of her night hag biology peeking out. They score marks on my abdomen. Her mouth latches onto my neck the instant she’s in range and she rubs her body catlike against mine. Fear and anticipation do battle in my head. I don’t think I’ve had a more confusing hard-on in my life.
My hands move, almost on instinct, as though I’ve been waiting to do this since the moment we met. Around her waist, digging my fingers in hard. I can’t let the fear show, can’t show weakness in front of her. Weakness makes me prey, and prey gets eaten. She’ll gobble up my sanity and possibly end my life right along with it. So I dig my nails in until they’ve carved bloody crescents into her skin, holding her as tightly as I can, exerting all my beast’s strength. She’ll have bad bruises by tomorrow morning, but she doesn’t seem to care. The force draws a protracted moan from her throat. My cock strains toward her, unperturbed by the chill of coming dusk. I grind it into her front.
She struggles with her clothing and with a bestial snarl, I tear her top from hemline to bodice. It draws a startled gasp from her. I shove it and the coat off her as quickly as I can. Her arousal is drowning the acrid scent of my fear. If I slide my fingers between her legs, they’ll come away wet. Soaking. That’s gratifying. And wrong. Draven will kill me for fucking his woman. On the other hand, I don’t think he’ll be too pleased with her if she murders me in an out-of-control feeding either.
When her eyes meet mine, the silver is so goddamn mesmerizing, it takes my breath away. She looks like some sort of goddess, with those swirling quicksilver eyes, those scarlet curls standing around her head like a bloody halo around her breathtaking face. She looks carved out of ivory.
“Titus, please.”
“Please what?”
“I want pain. Fear. Blood.”
I slide my hands up her back, shove one into her hair like I did that evening in the clearing and bring my lips down on hers in a crushing kiss.
I drag her lower lip between my teeth, worrying it until the tang of blood fills my mouth. I’m afraid I’ve done too much, but she moans, winds herself around me. I edge her backward, forcing her into a rhythm like we’re in a savage sort of dance. I don’t stop until her back hits the hard trunk of a tufted yellow and blue barked tree. She impacts so hard, the violet leaves above us shudder.
I undress her quickly, easily.
“Titus,” she gasps.
I stroke my fingers along the underside of her breasts. Small and pert. Her nipples are rosy, peaked, and dying for my attention. I stroke one lovingly and trail kisses across her jaw, down her neck, and across her collarbone until I find the swell of it. I nip her skin, drawing another gasp from her, then press my teeth in harder, until I leave the imprint on her skin. She’s flushed now, panting for air.
I lick along the swell of her breasts, down, until I reach a puckered nipple. She lets out a sharp cry, arching her back hard when I latch on, giving her just an edge of teeth as I lavish attention on it. Part of me wishes she had a piercing or two here, the way some of the strumpets in Grimm do. The texture is something else, and I could add a layer of pleasure by tugging them, giving her some more of the pain she so clearly craves.
“Harder,” she pleads. I hesitate. “Please, Titus.”
I tighten my grip. Her pale skin will be littered with bruises by this point. I don’t think either of us care. She’s mewling, almost crying with pleasure as I lavish attention on first one breast and then the other. Her hips roll, brushing my cock on every revolution until I’m teetering on that edge as well.
“No,” I grind out. I am not orgasming on her thigh like some hormonal teen with his first lover. I want to be seated between her thighs, fucking her until her legs give out.
“Please,” she whines. “I need you… inside me, Titus.”
I release her breast after a few more seconds of teasing, trailing my fingers down her body, sliding just the tip of my finger between her folds. Her bud is swollen, ready with need and she lets out a half-sob when I feather easy strokes over it. I keep at it until tears actually stream down her face. Clear, human tears, instead of the black of her night hag form. It’s working. She’s becoming more herself. A less selfish man would bring her to orgasm with his fingers and let it be done.