Page 2
Two
T he mortal stared at the portal that was fizzing in the middle of the shadowy tree like it was going to attack her.
“Where are we going?” she asked timidly.
“Nowhere,” Slate replied. “We are waiting for someone to come to us.”
“Oh.” The mortal swallowed, fidgeting with her thick cloak. “Who?”
“My brother,” Slate replied, his tail flicking in irritation. “Do you always ask so many annoying questions?”
She fell silent—for about five seconds.
“Did you steal him?”
“The dog spirit?” he realized. “No. Why do you look surprised?”
The witch attempted to wipe the shock off her face. “It’s just… what you do. Right? The dreaded Bygone, stealing people from forest paths. Then you eat them.”
Slate laughed, making the witch jump.
“Is that what they told you?” Slate asked. “I am a guide . This is the void of wanderers. I lead souls where they are supposed to be. When I must eat, I do it outside my void.”
Unless you didn’t bind me, he thought. Then I would have had you for breakfast.
The mortal was quiet again, to his relief.
Still, he couldn’t help but admire her annoying spirit. Most mortals he interacted with screamed at the sight of him. And she was clearly scared, evident by her trembling frame. But she kept meeting his eye, and her hand was steady around her chipped dagger.
He let his gaze travel over her once more: long ebony hair, surprisingly inky eyes. A dark cloak and skin almost as pale as him. Framed against his forest, she almost looked like she belonged there.
Then he noticed the blood in her cheeks. Heard her heartbeat fluttering in her flushed chest and tasted her salty sweat in the crisp evening air. Her cloak wasn’t black at all; it was a deep brown. She was pretty for a mortal. And she smelled good enough to eat.
If only she hadn’t bound him. Now, he had to complete his half of the deal.
If she still wants to do it after she learns what is needed, he reminded himself.
He adjusted his loincloth. He hadn’t straightened it in… several centuries, at least. Granted, he had been asleep for most of that time.
Something the mortal had said niggled at him.
“That name,” he said. “What did you call me?”
“The… Bygone?” The mortal frowned. “Is that not your name?”
Slate had never heard that word in the entirety of his long existence. Before he could answer, the portal pulsed. A Skullstalker stepped out of the flaming door. He had huge horns and spiked wings tucked into his back.
“Brother,” Wick greeted as the portal whirled in the dark tree behind him. “I thought you were sleeping through this century.”
Slate growled. “Something incredibly irritating woke me up.”
“Oh?” Wick’s fiery eyes landed on the witch. “Who is this?”
Slate ignored him. It hardly mattered, mortals died too quickly to bother learning their names.
“Paimon has not been answering his followers,” he said.
“Paimon? Huh.” Wick frowned, gaze dragging back to the mortal. “Slate, who is this? She smells like…”
He leaned in, sniffing her long, dark hair. The witch stiffened, her hand twitching around her bloody dagger.
“Back,” she said, her voice breaking. She cleared her throat. “Get back.”
Wick blinked, stepping back. “Why is this mortal bound to you, Slate? Is she a sacrifice?”
“They have not sacrificed anyone to me in centuries,” Slate said, annoyed. He quite missed the mortal sacrifices. He would untie them and let them try to escape first. He never got to chase the lost souls who ended up in his realm, so it was fun to finally give in to the hunt.
Slate pushed the fond memories away. “Have you heard from Paimon?”
Wick shook his head. “No. Out of all of us, I would have expected you to know.”
Slate hummed. It was a fair enough expectation, once.
But things had changed. Nothing dramatic, obviously—they just drifted apart.
Paimon was getting annoying, always intruding on his void and waking him up.
Slate had been relieved when he stopped.
Now he was thinking maybe he should have been worried.
“Have fun with your not-sacrifice,” Wick said.
“Go away, Wick.”
Wick shrugged and stepped back through the portal.
“Good to meet you,” Wick called as it closed behind him. “I hope he doesn’t eat you!”
“Thanks,” the mortal called back, sounding bewildered.
The portal sealed shut. The mortal gasped, reaching out like she was going to touch the bark it had closed on.
Slate considered. He knew all of Paimon’s hidden places. He could seek them out and avoid the ritual altogether. He doubted she would want to do it in the first place. Mortals were so small, after all. It would be difficult, maybe impossible, for them to mate.
And importantly, he did want to know where Paimon had snuck off to.
He opened his mouth to tell her to stay put.
She cut him off. “What did he say about you sleeping through the century?”
“What of it?”
She frowned. “Why sleep through a century?”
“Why not? There is not much to do around here. If a soul shows up, I will sense it and guide it out.” Slate’s tail swished uncomfortably. He didn’t encounter these questions often. He didn’t encounter any questions lately—he was too busy sleeping.
He smoothed his loincloth. “Stay here. I must attend to something.”
“Wait!” She moved like she was going to step in front of him, then faltered. “Why am I here? I-I thought?—”
“You thought I would eat you,” he finished.
She nodded faintly. She was still flushed with prey-animal fear, her skin shimmering with sweat. She had been convinced he would eat her. And she still came.
Slate was rarely impressed by mortals. He was surprised to find himself impressed now. Not fully—he felt very few emotions fully nowadays—but a hint of it.
He turned to her, watching her pulse thrum against her delicate throat. “I thought of it. But something stopped me.”
She swallowed. “What?”
He stepped closer. “Do you know what renewing Paimon’s protection ward entails?”
“No,” she admitted.
“It requires an old and powerful magic. A mating ritual.”
“ Oh .” Her eyelids fluttered, and Slate thought, for some reason, of the spiderwebs in his forest, sloughing shadows from their threads.
“Mating,” she whispered. “You mean… lying together?”
He nodded. He waited for the screaming to start or for her to say she would rather leave her town to die and start anew somewhere else.
Mortals despised Skullstalkers, after all.
Especially the ones they feared so much they gave special names— the Bygone.
The last time he was in the mortal realm, they had no name for him at all.
The witch lifted her chin to meet his eyes again.
“If that’s what it takes,” she said softly. “When do we start?”
Slate hesitated. Something was stirring in his gut.
He was surprised when he realized it was desire.
He had spent so long slumbering the years away and half-heartedly ruling his void to feel much of anything, let alone desire for another creature.
He had not expected it to happen because of the witch in front of him, all dark hair and flushed skin, chest heaving under her plain mortal dress.
“Soon,” he promised. “I must search for Paimon. Perhaps he is lost or trapped.”
“Did you…” She squinted up at him. “ Know him?”
For an odd moment, Slate considered telling her the whole story. Then he was reminded how useless it was to tell anything to a mortal and stopped.
“I do,” he said instead.
He turned for the door.
“Wait,” she repeated. This time, she really did step in front of him, black leaves crunching under her boots. “That other Skullstalker called you ‘Slate.’ Is that your name? Your real one?”
Slate hadn’t realized humans had forgotten. It must have been a very long time since he visited the mortal realm.
“It is,” he allowed.
She nodded. A strand of raven hair fell over her face, catching on her lip.
“I’m Ruby,” she said in a rush. Like she was afraid to give it but determined all the same. Just like everything else she had done since stepping through that portal into his void.
“What will you have of me?” the witch continued. “After you grant me my boon.”
He watched the stray lock of hair resting over her lip. Another urge rose in him, just as powerful as the urge to lunge and devour her whole: he wanted to reach out and brush the hair from her face.
“I haven’t decided yet,” he said.