Page 69 of Nocte

No one has ever wished me as much before.

No one.

CHAPTER25

Caspian

Isit in a bar on the motel’s first floor. Noisy. Half-empty. Chaotic. Mortals crave enclosed, dank spaces, like rodents. They obscure their boring surroundings with cigarette smoke and drink liquid until they vomit.

Disgusting creatures.

Lonely creatures.

How I used to hunt them with excitement and glee. I used to enjoy those brief moments off my leash doing my master’s bidding. Like a good dog.

I remember more now. Things I don’t want in my skull. Memories of all the people I hurt and plied and seduced for him.

Recalling those memories isn’t so fun in this realm. It’s not so fun to remember what a monster I can be. The monster I am.

How greedy and desperate I was for a chance to run. Slip away. Bleed and bite.

I used to think I was being rewarded for being such a good boy for him.

Now I can see: I was being played with, like a toy within a game ofmanydancing toys.

Even now, with her…

She was another game for him. Another prey at my disposal for good old Cassius. I should go up there and kill her now. Kill her far away from the ceremony, where it will matter to no one but me.

No,I swear I can hear my old master shriek.No. No. You’ll ruin everything.

I should ruin everything for him.

I stand, and as if to aid my plan the blond mortal comes skipping past, down the hall out of sight. I don’t care where she’s going or why she came here. I only care that she’s gone.

No one to witness. No one to see. No one who matters anyway to watch as I creep up those stairs and toward the last room on the left. I grip the doorknob and breathe.

I can smell her in there, alone. Niamh. My Niamh.

No—his. She is his cog in a grand scheme. The object of his devious plans. What? I don’t remember. Don’t care to remember.

Something about the ceremony and the fae and rules. Something about control. Something…

Killing her will be within my control. I twist the knob and push the door open. I watch her there, thin and frail, curled up on her side, dark hair spilling out around her. She has a black pouch cradled against her chest and I know her bundle of things is inside of it.

I step inside. Close the door behind me—quietly. Not slam it like I want to. Like I should.

I move quietly. Inhale quietly. I watch her. I swallow. Observe her.

She remains lying still, deeply asleep. Not the fake, fitful slumber she struggled through in that shitty room atop the bell tower.

Her chest rises and falls, her dark eyes closed, her injuries faded to mere bruises.

I want to touch her. Rip. Tear.

Touch. I run a finger along her shoulder and grit my teeth.

Damn.She’s so soft. Too soft. I finger a thick coil of dark hair. Lower myself to the mattress and inhale. So sweet. Sweeter than she was in that dank, dusty archive. It’s as if the mortal air has stripped some of the stifling sadness on her away.