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His fists clenched with rage as he thought back to the vapid townsfolk he had overheard talking of Ruby. His sweet, stubborn witch, doing all this work for people who didn’t appreciate her.

The Skullstalker stepped back, admiring his work. “Are you ready?”

“Do it,” Slate said quietly.

The Skullstalker hummed. One claw came back out, the movement jerky with effort. He pricked their palms and dripped blood into the jar of oil. Then he painted one last mark onto Slate’s lower lip.

The Skullstalker lowered his head. He mumbled something low under his breath, the words reverberating through the cave and making both Slate and Wick shiver.

Whatever language it was, Slate didn’t know it. But it sounded old, and it had the short, clicking syllables he remembered from his early existence before he had a void.

Something tingled deep inside Slate’s groin as the Skullstalker spoke. Then it expanded, spreading until his claw tips were resonating with it.

The Skullstalker fell silent. The tingle stopped, and Slate realized he was sweating. He stumbled back, falling into Wick, who chirped in shock and grabbed him.

“What have you done?” Slate repeated, struggling back up. “If it is anything other than what I asked?—”

“I have done what you wanted, brother,” the Skullstalker assured him. “When you mate with her, her body will oblige. There will be no pain and no damage.”

Slate wanted to sag with relief. But he had already embarrassed himself by falling into Wick, who was watching Slate with a concern that both touched and annoyed him.

Slate straightened, ignoring the heaviness weighing his bones down. He felt weary in a way that sleep would not cure.

“I owe you a boon,” he said.

The Skullstalker waved another dismissive claw. “I do not keep track. I would ask you to return someday and tell me the next chapter of your story, as determined by my spell.”

“I will,” Slate promised. “And if you are ever in need, my void is open to you.”

The Skullstalker bowed once more. It seemed to take him great effort to straighten again.

“I do not leave very often,” the Skullstalker said. “But… the offer is appreciated.”

Slate turned to leave. Wick stayed still, watching the Skullstalker rub a cloth over his oily hands.

“Brother,” Wick said beseechingly.

But Wick wasn’t talking to him, he was still watching the Skullstalker.

The Skullstalker didn’t look up as he answered, “Yes?”

Wick rubbed the edge of his wing worriedly. “Is there… is there anything you can do for me? I am?—”

“I know what you are.” The Skullstalker glanced up, a hint of genuine sorrow in his cloudy eyes. “The frenzy is nothing I can cure. It is in you, as deep as your bones.”

Wick stared at him, his jaw tightening. His fiery eyes flared, his wings snapping out, and Slate readied himself to leap on him. Wick asked so little of him, except to hold him back if the frenzy started.

Then Wick’s wings drooped. The fire in his eyes dimmed.

“Okay,” Wick said softly. “Thanks, anyhow.”

Slate waited. Wick walked back to him, so drooping and dejected that for a moment Slate could not imagine him hurting anyone.

Then Wick looked up, and his fiery eyes glinted. Slate was reminded of an old Skullstalker saying he had not heard in hundreds of years: a beast is a beast is a beast .

They stepped through the glowing portal into a pile of dripping black leaves.

Slate breathed a sigh of relief as he took in the familiar shadowy trees.

He was genuine in his offer to the Skullstalker, but he had no urge to visit that place ever again.

He would, of course, return to tell him the story as he wished.

But depending on how things ended with Ruby, he would give it a hundred years or so for the bitterness to leave his words.

He turned to Wick. “Thank you for bringing me to that place. I owe you a boon, too.”

“I will keep that in mind.” Wick gave him a half-hearted smile, not bothering to keep his lips over his fangs in case Slate thought it was a threat.

“How do you feel?” Wick continued.

Slate rotated his shoulders. He still felt weak. It was fading fast, but there was a noticeable heaviness to his bones that wasn’t fading. He wondered if it was permanent.

“Diminished,” he replied honestly. “But it will be worth it.”

He started toward the castle. His mind was so consumed with thoughts of Ruby he didn’t realize he had forgotten something until Wick called, “Brother.”

Slate turned to find Wick standing uncomfortably among his trees. He opened his mouth to tell Wick to stop standing there and open a portal already, only to remember that his brother was useless with magic.

Slate headed back, claw raised. “Where do you wish to be?”

“The mortal realm,” Wick replied. “Where you summoned me from.”

Slate’s nose wrinkled behind his skull mask as he cut a circle into the air. “Every time I visit, the air feels more stale. It does not want us there. I don’t know why you prefer it.”

“Some do,” Wick said softly.

Slate’s claw paused in midair, a mere inch away from completing the portal. He thought back to Ruby speaking of her town with such fondness, even if there was sadness in it. Of her delight whenever he brought her something from that realm that his barren void could never provide.

He finished the circle. The portal sealed and started to glow, pulsing in wait.

Wick stepped toward it and paused. “Good luck, brother.”

Slate watched him step into the portal. His wings were still drooping, his fiery eyes dull with disappointment. Slate did not understand why his brother was so upset about his blood frenzy, but he sympathized. It must be a heavy burden, carrying something inside you that you hated.

“Brother,” he said. He waited until Wick looked back, half of him shimmering beyond the portal.

Slate inclined his head. “May your fangs be dull.”

Wick huffed, tail swishing sadly. “We can only hope.”

Then he vanished through the portal, leaving Slate to seal it behind him.

He scratched at the oil drying on his face. He would have to wash it off. And then…

He looked into the forest. His nest wasn’t far. He had time.