Page 5

REMINGTON

Thirst isn’t a strong enough word for the fiery emptiness that chokes from the pit of my stomach to the tip of my bone-dry tongue.

It’s hunger and red-hot rakes.

Without fresh blood, I slip in and out of reality. Only one thought sticks when I can’t remember who I am or why I’m clinging here.

I’ve lived enough lives.

In a rare, clear moment where I’m able to think in full sentences, I find myself in the fortress of my office.

The windows are welded shut. Every floorboard and wall seam is engraved with magical arrays to block out scents. Dozens of doors and miles of distance stand between me and the nearest battlefield.

All worthless.

I can still taste blood.

The blood that I crave.

The blood that I’d need —if I intended to survive.

On the edge of my final rampage, I try to focus on the report crumpled in my tremoring hands.

Years of built-up poison erode my ability to function. I can barely read, but a line of text cuts through the fog.

GUIDE LEVEL: S

I grab my throat as my fangs sharpen. Tracing the delicious S-curve of that letter, I lick my lips.

There’s a personnel transfer.

A new Guide on the way.

One last drink before I go?

“Major Azrid?” A familiar voice intrudes along with a tentative knock at my iron door.

“One moment.” I can’t remember the woman’s name—or much else—but I recall the throat that matches the voice.

It tastes like a lead pipe.

To stop myself from being tempted, I fumble for the mask in my drawer. It’s dwarven-made. Straps pull the leather tight below my eyes and seal down my throat.

I use my tongue to push aside the copper bit that overwhelms my senses with the tang of metal.

It helps curb my bloodlust during battle.

On second thought, I drag the bit back to my lips with another curl of my tongue.

The foul taste helps me remember that I’m?—

Who am I?

Ah.

Too late to care.

I open the bolts with a flick of shadow.

The simple gesture drives spikes through my head.

My vision blackens around the edges.

Pain. Pressure.

The rampage is coming.

The last, I pray.

My manners are conditioned. I manage to respond through the thickening darkness. “Come in.”

The air shifts.

Breath and sound blast into my sanctuary.

I catch the rhythms of three beating hearts.

One I can ignore.

One I need to destroy.

And one that silences everything else.

Thum-thump.

Is that her heart? Or mine?

Thum-thump.

The scent of the Guide’s blood slices through my muzzle.

It tastes like passion fruit juice in a glass so cold that the dripping condensation leaves a wet circle behind.

Thum-thump.

“Major Azrid,” says the disembodied voice. “Iris Ashbourne is here to swear her oath.”

The sweetest Guide I’ve ever breathed steps willingly into my lair, tracking kobold blood on her sneakers.

A brunette with a ponytail, soft cheeks, and a challenge brewing in the depths of her cornflower eyes.

Her soul-silks flutter the same impossible blue.

The wisps reach out to me.

I can’t remember what that means. I know I’ve never felt this resonance before.

There’s a sense of welcome.

Of… belonging?

I feel a stirring in my soul, but it’s quickly lost.

The roar of her blood yanks the cord in my throat.

The man I was is gone.

What’s left is thirst.

Searing, clawing, drydrydrydrydry?—

Choking, I fumble off my mask.

I have to taste her raw.

One whiff of her undiluted scent and her fate is sealed.

She’s my perfect match in power and in blood.

There won’t be a wet spot left when I’m finished with her.

I’ll devour every drop.