Page 46 of A Hunt Bound in Blood

“What do other emotions taste like?” I pressed, happy to jump on this new line of questioning as a distraction, however temporary, from my own incompetence. “Anger?”

He canted his head and sidestepped a sprout of weeds growing from the middle of the lane. “Spicy. Like a hot meal. But the quality changes depending on the source of the anger. Righteous fury, hate-filled rage. There are nuances. Some are more appetizing than others.”

I hopped over a few stones that had fallen free of the rock face that stood along our left side. “Grief?”

“Not an enjoyable one. It has a thickness to it. Cloying. It tastes a bit… herbal. Like a too-strong tea. I avoid that one as much as I can.”

I’d had no idea this was the way demons experienced the world. No wonder we didn’t have that many in Golthwaine. To be under constant assault of other people’s emotions sounded exhausting. Even if they did feed off us, it was surely better to be somewhere they could control the intake.

“How do you feed in Karhasan?” I asked, only appreciating after the question was out that it might be a sensitive subject. After all, he hadn’t been home in a decade, and being pushed to think of his revoked crown might not put him in a good mood.

Sure enough, he was quiet for a few moments, clearly lost in thought, though he hid it behind his attempts to navigate a low-hanging tree. I tried to use the bond to figure out what he was feeling, but the only emotions I could place were my own. Yesterday, I’d sensed him so clearly, but I must have acclimatized to our connection. Which was a good thing, I told myself. A person’s emotions should be private.

Without the insight of the bond, I tried to read Cammon’s face. The pinch of longing around his eyes, the bob of his throat.

I expected him not to answer, but finally he said, “There are always humans in Karhasan. Most by choice, but some are my father’s prisoners. The willing humans tend to keep to the homes of their sponsors until they’re needed, and then their emotions are triggered based on the appetites of the group they’re with. The prisoners are brought up whenever and fed on until they’re drained.”

I listened, intent and fascinated. This was more than I’d learned about the demon’s country in all my years of reading. They were a notoriously reclusive race, almost as much as the fae, and based on this, I understood why. My human half veered towards unnerved, but that faint repulsion was drowned out by my historian’s interest in devouring all knowledge of other people’s cultures and customs without judgement.

“Sponsors? That sounds so formal.”

Cammon stiffened and cast his gaze beyond the rock face, then relaxed. I followed the path of his attention but saw nothing except more rock and more trees.

“It is a formal process,” he said. “Not all demons have control over how much they feed, so humans wouldn’t survive long on their own. To live among us with any degree of protection, they need someone to vouch for them and keep an eye on them. It avoids conflict with other countries, which is a priority for my father.”

“Understandably. But is that really the only purpose humans have in Karhasan? To serve as donors?”

He shrugged. “The other humans live with their mates, and they aren’t passed around.”

My eyebrows shot up. “I didn’t realize demons and humans could mate.”

The look he shot me summoned a heat in my belly that travelled all the way down between my legs. “It’s biology, Buttons. Pheromones attracting a compatible subject.”

“Not love? You’re such a romantic.”

“What’s love but a chemical reaction and the brain telling us we want and need someone else? Give it enough time, or the right addition of any other chemical, and your love dries up like an old river bed.”

I couldn’t help but think of my parents. Their adoration of each other had been my guiding light for so many years I’d begun to believe finding someone to share that with was the greatest goal in life. Apparently they’d never suffered the pain of having that additional chemical thrown into the mix.

I was just about to press him further on his emotional experiences—not about love, obviously—when my eye fell on a strange-looking formation at the top of the rock face.

I drew to a halt and pulled out the clue we’d found at the last landmark.

Halfway to five, you’ll find a man with long grey locks and an ashen tan.

I stared from the parchment to the formation, and a cheer escaped me. The rock was shaped almost exactly like a humanesque figure, with a rounded top covered in stringy moss and a squat little body that made it look as though it were sitting and waiting for someone.

“We’re going the right way!”

I looked to Cammon, expecting to find him as relieved as I was. Instead, I found him standing on the side of the road, frowning at something in the dirt.

“Cammon?”

I stepped towards him, but he held up a hand to stop me and knelt to get a closer look at whatever it was. I did as he said, waiting for him to explain. The muscles in his back were taut with tension through his black shirt, and I wondered if he was struggling to keep his wings retracted.

He stood up and brushed the dirt off his knee. His brow was furrowed, and in the crease, I read his confusion mixed with concern.

“Mutts,” he said. “Probably the same ones the shifter said were crossing their territory. The tracks aren’t fresh, probably a day or so old. It looks like they were moving our way.”