Celia Friedman: Black Sun Rising

“You would feed off my pleasure,” he challenged the demon.

The dark figure chuckled. “You’d have more than enough pleasure to spare in this hunt.”

“I don’t support parasites.”

“Not true, my prince. Not true at all. What about Karril? You’ve dedicated more than one hunt to him. While all he does is watch, and cheer you on. I can bring you victims, Hunter. I can read the hunger inside you better than any other, and scour the world for suitable prey. You doubt my skill? Test me, then. This one’s a gift. No strings attached—this time. If she pleases you as much as I think she will . . .” He bowed, deeply. “I live to serve, my lord.”

The taste of her was on his lips, in his soul. It was hard to keep his voice steady as he asked, “What have you told her?”

“The Hunter’s rules. The Forest’s tradition. That you’ll track her as a man would, in a man’s form, using no Working. That she has three days and nights in which to evade you . . . and if she succeeds, she’ll be free of you forever.”

“And did she believe that last point?”

“Of course she did. I understand how important that is, Hunter. It’s the death of hope, rather than of the flesh itself, which is your true kill.” And he added, “I have taken one special liberty, my lord.”

The Hunter’s eyes narrowed suspiciously.

“This is her third night here. I tracked her myself for two of them, just as you would have. So that her terror would be at its peak by the time you went out to take her. After such a long healing sleep . . . I thought you might be very hungry.”

“And you were right,” he said softly. “In that . . . and in your choice. I accept your offering, Calesta. If she pleases me as much as I think she may . . . then we can talk about the possibility of future arrangements.” He looked toward the window, at the Forest beyond; it seemed he could smell her fear on the wind. “That’s all for now,” he said quietly. “You may go.”

The demon smiled, and bowed again. “Good feeding, Hunter.”

The forest air was cold and dry, and her fear was something he could taste on his lips as he breathed it in, testing the wind for her scent. Beneath his feet her imprints were clear, hurried steps that dug deep into the half-frozen earth and then tore it loose-running steps that were skewed as if from exhaustion, a line of imprints that staggered from tree to tree as if she were desperate for some support, but dared not pause long enough to take it. Because resting, even for a moment, meant losing ground before him. And with only hours to go before her last dawn, she dared not waste a precious second.

Run, my fragile one. Run for the sunlight. Only a short time more before your safety is certain . . . and then, in those last desperate moments, I’ll take you. And I’ll taste your hope as it dies, drowned out in a sea of terror . . . He could feel her already, a faint flicker of fear against the edge of his mind, and desire filled him. What form should he take, once he had her? Her fears were so many, and so deeply rooted . . . he had never faced such a wealth of options before. The thought of taking her blood excited him, a strange sensation; not since his early days had he taken pleasure in so brutal an attack, or taken on a form so centered in pure physicality. Perhaps it was the result of traveling among humans again, of accepting their blood in cold, measured doses—enough to awaken that hunger again, not enough to satisfy it. Whatever the reason, he found that the thought of such a physical assault made him burn with hunger, and his hands shook as he brushed a drift of dead leaves from her trail, in order to read it more clearly. Perhaps a sexual assault would serve his purpose best. Not that he was capable of sexual congress, or even of mimicking its forms; procreation was an act of life, and it was as forbidden to him as fire was, or the light of the sun. But a woman such as that, who found herself overpowered by a man, who might be rendered naked with so little effort . . . she would come to her own conclusions regarding his intent, and those were nearly as nourishing as the act itself. He imagined the taste of her blood under those circumstances, and shivered from the force of his need. Calesta knew my hunger well, he thought. Better than I knew it myself.

And then he caught her scent on the wind, and he knew that he was close. Very close. He took care to move quietly, now, avoiding the crisp leaves that littered the ground about him. It seemed that he could hear her labored breathing, underscored by the pounding of her heart. So much blood, rendered so very warm by her terror . . . it seemed he could taste it on his lips already as he followed her trail, seemed that he could feel the rush of her fear as it enveloped him, hot and wild and utterly unfettered . . .

He ran. Long legs consuming the Forest ground at a pace her own could not possibly equal, sharp eyes picking out the marks of her trail in the near darkness. Calesta was right, he could never have waited. And this way there was no need to. For two nights now the demon had tracked her in his stead, playing all the subtle games that he had perfected in order to bring her terror to a fever pitch. All that remained was for the Hunter to harvest that fear, to drink it in along with her life and the last of her hope—to replenish the strength that two months of traveling with those humans had drained from him. A sweet prospect, indeed.

A clearing. Trees fell back, as though parting for him. At the far side a slight figure paused, then spun about in panic. Black hair whipped across a pale face, obscuring delicate features. Her slender fingers were red with blood, where thorns and rough bark had scraped them raw; her clothing, once fine, had been tattered by three days of flight through the woods. Fear blossomed out from her like a welcoming fire, and he had neither the strength nor the desire to resist its heat. He crossed the ground between them quickly and closed his hand about her wrist. Her pulse fluttered wildly, like that of a terrified bird, and she moaned softly as he pulled her toward him. Too weak to struggle; too overwhelmed to plead. He shut his eyes and let himself sink into the depths of her nightmare imagination, let all the images that were within her surface and take form, so that he might choose from among them. So many, so rich . . . the smell of her blood made him giddy with hunger, and he felt himself pushing the torn shirt back from her shoulders, baring skin as pale as the moonlight itself—

“You,” she whispered.

The word was like a blow. For a moment the world spun about him, dizzily—and then he managed to regain control, and he opened his eyes. And he released her suddenly, and staggered back. Stared at her, not quite believing.

“I won’t run from you,” she whispered.

Those eyes, that face . . . he remembered the night he had walked her home, so comfortably arrogant as he played at shielding her from the dangers of the night . . . remembered the promise he had made to her, the vow she didn’t know how to value. That the Hunter would never harm her. That he would never harm her.

“I promised myself that,” she breathed. There were tears in her eyes now—of sadness, not fear, a tender mourning that had no place in his brutal realm. “For what you gave me . . . if you wanted . . . whatever.” She bit her lower lip, fighting for courage. “I won’t run,” she whispered. “Not from you.”

“Son of a bitch,” he muttered. He turned away. His hands were shaking—with rage, with hatred. “That bastard . . .”

He drew in a ragged breath, tried to master his hunger. Tried to dim down the passion that had been driving him, until he could control it. Tried not to think how close he had just come to betraying himself, or at whose prompting it had almost happened . . .