as your love starts to surround you
all of their words are trying to drown you
It took a second for Pyxis’ weak human eyes to adjust to the light. Her hand did not leave Daemron’s arm where it was clutched until she began to make out the shapes and shadows of their surroundings. Her breathing was ragged, her thin chest heaving, and had she not already emptied her stomach, she was sure she would have again. Even so, she turned from him and gagged, one pale hand splayed against the wall as her body wretched violently several times—the image of Ilka’s slender body being torn asunder too much for the girl to bear. No matter how hard she closed her eyes, all she could see was the blood-matted hair, the shredded throat, the innards of her stomach steaming as they hit the cool, foggy London air.
She heaved again, but nothing but spittle came out.
Suddenly, she felt a warm hand on her lower back and heard a throaty voice. “I hate to do this,” Daemron paused, “but I don’t think we have the luxury of sitting around for too long.” Pyxis stood up frighteningly fast, flinging herself toward him, hands pounding his shoulders. “How dare you!” Her bright blue eyes were glazed, tears falling down her red cheeks. “It should have been you! That should be you out there. It should be Ilka here with me.” Her hand went limp, and she slumped against him, the sudden ferocious energy draining from her as quickly as it had come. She pushed away and leaned against the wall.
Daemron said nothing. Pyxis returned the favor. The air between them was ripe, and she could tell that she had struck a nerve, but she was too tired to apologize. She wasn’t even sure that she wanted to. Instead she stood up, hands trembling, eyes downcast. “You’re right,” a murmur. “We should go.” Pyxis pushed past him, flinching when their shoulders touched, and walking down into the darkness.
The wall was smooth and the air smelled…damp. Like something had been in there too long without ever drying completely. It made Pyxis’ stomach turn and her skin crawl—and her throat itch? She scratched at it absentmindedly, wondering if she was coming down with a cold. Being a human was such a bitch.
It was then that the wall on her right suddenly stopped, and she almost tripped from surprise. Her hand reached out for a second, feeling through the air, hoping to find the continuation of it before she frowned. “It’s…gone.” She squinted. “Do you see anything?” She felt him stepping up to her side, the air between them tense. “I think it’s a maze,” he breathed. Pyxis cursed. Of course it was a maze. She rubbed the heels of her palms against her eyes, taking three deep breaths. “A maze. Naturally. Why the fuck not?”
Irritated, she shrugged, yanking at her sleeves. “Okay, well, just make a choice. It’s not like—”
Something whizzed by her ear, and she felt a distinct burning. Before she knew it, Daemron was grabbing her sleeve and they were rolling on the ground to the right. Her hand went up instinctively to the side of her face and it came away wet. “What the—,” she was cut off again when he threw his calloused hand over her mouth. “Shut up,” he hissed, and she was suddenly acutely aware of his weight holding her down to the concrete, her hips aching as they pressed into the floor. “Someone is here.”
Her pulse quickened and the burning in her throat intensified, the metallic scent of the blood running down her temple giving her a migraine. Soft footsteps filled the alley and Daemron shifted off of her; she was impressed with how lightly he moved. She saw him slip quickly into a crouching position, his hand moving to the waist of his jeans where she saw him pull out something sharp and flinty, the edge of the knife reflecting the minimal light in the area. The other’s steps paused, and she felt Daemron move before she saw it. He was animalistic, feral, shoving off the wall and into the…thing with a grunt.
The two bodies fell to the floor. Pyxis couldn’t make out what was happening—didn’t even know who had the upper hand. Suddenly the knife thudded to the floor, skidding near to her. It all happened in slow motion. She saw Ilsa’s body again, practically tasted her sister’s gore, and fury erupted in her belly. She pushed off the ground hard, sneakers finding purchase on the concrete as she scrabbled for the knife.
Pyxis heard the screaming but didn’t realize it was her. Her vision went dark, and her mind numb. When she came to, there was a body underneath her that was riddled with stab wounds. The knife clattered against the ground and she wiped her mouth with the bad of her hand. It was wet. Shaking she looked down. Suddenly, everything was in perfect clarity. She could see her hands perfectly despite the darkness of the room. She saw the hairs lifting from the cold, the blood caked under her fingernails, the gouges across her wrist. Her eyes narrowed and saw that the body beneath her was human, and yet not at all.
The skin was olive green and stretched tight across a face with too many ridges. It was male, she assumed, and wore nothing but tan pants. She could see the ribs jutting from beneath its alien flesh—but more than that, she saw the punctures where she had slid the knife again and again into his torso: through its ribs, into its heart, nearly gutting it. Her supernaturally clear gaze flicked upward to the throat.
Puncture wounds. Gouges. It had been nearly torn out completely. Just like Ilka’s.
She wretched and stood up weakly, looking around for Daemron. She found him, several yards down, leaning against the wall and staring at her with wide eyes, his hands white-knuckling a spare knife. He was bleeding. She wasn’t sure how she knew he was, but she did. “You’re hurt,” she said, and it did not sound kind. Her voice was rich, seductive, and she practically drawled a sentence that had meant to sound concerned. Involuntarily, she took another step toward him. “You should let me take a look at that.”
He fell back against the wall, and she laughed. “Stay away from me,” he said, and despite the fact that his voice did not falter, she had to wonder what she had ever found attractive about him. He was weak. He had killed her sister—or at least not saved her. Pyxis’ lips pulled back over her fangs, and she stepped toward him again. “Stay away from me, you bitch,” he snarled, but that only made her laugh.
“It should have been you,” was all she said.
Pyxis was on him before he could stumble away—her hands gripping his shoulders, her teeth finding purchase in the sweet, delicate flesh of his neck. Fuck, he tasted good. She was almost drunk with the power and the burning hunger snaking through her veins. She groaned into him, hands dragging him closer to her, clambering for more. She could feed for days. She could drag it out—or, she could make it fast. She could feast on him as savagely as that shape-shifting beast had feasted on her sister in the alley. Either way would be sating. Either way would be sweet justice for the way Daemron had killed her sister.
She was so enraptured with her options that she did not notice the knife slipping into her neck before it was too late. “What—,” her grip loosened, and she stumbled backward, falling against the wall, blood smearing on the concrete. Daemron’s gray eyes were blank, glazed over, and his hand dropped to his side. His neck was mangled. For a second—just a second—some human part of Pyxis reared its head, and she saw him for who he was, what he was. “RUN!” she croaked, her vampire hand already rising to grab the hilt of the knife and yank it from her neck. “Get out of here,” the words ended on a hiss. Pyxis was gone.
It had been enough to scare Daemron into moving though. Enough for him to start run-limping down the hall, choosing directions at random. But it hadn’t been enough to save him. Pyxis pulled the knife from her neck, already healing as she took after him. She enjoyed the hunt. She took her time, trailing him slowly, yelling out soft encouragement and then harsh insults. She sniffed at the blood he left behind, tasting it and moaning. Whatever humanity that had been stored away in her was snuffed out.
“It really should have been you.” She was behind the corner and her voice drifted through shadows. “You deserved to have that monster tear you open.” She was closer now, and she could taste him on the air. “I meant it when I said I wish Ilka was here with me instead.” She sliced through the shadows and grabbed him by the shoulders. “I never should have met you at all.” Her fangs slipped into his neck, but this time, she didn't let go. Not when he screamed. Not when his hands pushed against her. Not when he went limp, and she lowered him to the ground. Not even when his flesh began to go stiff—death upon him.
It was only when he was a husk that she finally reared back for air. She wiped her mouth daintily before kissing his gray flesh. Humming, she stood up, her eyes seeing the light spill around the corner. Pleased that she had got the kill and found the end of the maze, she made her way toward it, seeing the pedestal with the silver liquid in the middle. Suddenly parched, Pyxis glided over to it, plucking the small vial and uncorking it. Cheering to no one in particular, she tipped it back, letting the foreign substance slide down her throat. She didn't realize anything was different until the bottle was empty. She didn't feel a thing until she was falling to her knees, tears pouring silently, fingernails clawing at her bloody, scarred cheeks.
This time, she was not sure she has survived.
But this time, she knew the exact cost.
and you break, it's too late for you to fall apart
and the blame that you claim is all your own fault
