1
ATIA
Fear tastes like spiced honey.
It’s thick and sweet as it moves across my tongue, and carries a distinctly familiar warmth once it slides down my throat and fills my empty belly.
“Atia,” Sapphir says in a frantic whisper. “Are you done yet?”
I shake my head and start to hum a little sea ditty I once overheard by the docks.
Sailors like singing, even if they should know better what kinds of creatures it attracts.
“That melody is awfully sinister,” Sapphir says.
“I hope so,” I tell her.
She laughs and her fangs shine under the light of the moon. “No wonder you don’t have any other friends.”
“I have plenty of friends,” I say. “They’re just all dead.”
Like my parents and the rest of my kind.
Sapphir’s laughter trickles over to me. “That doesn’t bode well for me.”
I reach out a hand to the lake below, my fingers circling ripples across the muddied water. “You’re already dead, Sapphir,” I remind her.
Though not in any permanent way.
Vampires have that luxury.
I sigh as the moon cascades over us, casting a cool glow on the small fishing plank that overlooks the waters of this village. Its splinters are damp enough to smell like rot. Behind us a forest of purple thorn trees lingers like a watchful audience, the branches kissing a clouded winter sky that promises snowfall come morning.
It is quiet and deserted, save for us.
“Well?” Sapphir presses. “Your kill or mine?”
I look down at the human, trembling between us.
The only fun I ever get these days is from tormenting them.
Humans who stumble from the one tavern this village of Rosegarde has to offer, or those who sail across oceans and worlds, seeking adventure.
It’s the adventure that I take. The hopes and the comforts—things I can never truly have for myself—until fear is all that remains.
And I like fear.
“I’m still feeding,” I say, as the man’s dread clings to the air.
Even seeing me in my human form, he’s scared.
The Nefas can change shapes with our whim, and while we can appear human—perfect for inconspicuous hunting—in our true form our hair is cast from moonlight, skin blue from the tears we drink, and ears receding back in golden spirals. Our great wings are made from thorn and bramble, tree-branch veined and dressed with forest leaves.
When we fly, it sounds like screaming.
Like the nightmares we steal while the sun sleeps.
Now, though, I look like any human. The only exception being my eyes, which turn white with magic when I feed.
The man sobs beneath me, and I smile.
The Nefas thrive on chaos and illusion, but for most centuries we’ve stuck to nightmares. It’s safer to feed in the shadows.
That’s what my parents always taught me.
Fear is an easy meal to take while our prey sleeps, my father always said. Do nothing to draw attention and risk the wrath of the Gods.
But I’ve never wanted to live my life rationed to the darkness like they did. I want to bring my illusions out into the open. Creating worlds from other people’s horrors is the only way I know I’m real.
Besides, a girl needs a little fun.
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