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Taking my place on the center of the stage, I sway my hips to the sultry beat still pulsing over the crowd. I turn down the damper I have on my powers, allowing the natural draw of seduction to seep from my skin and filter through the crowd. Everyone quiets as I dance, slightly entranced as I grab holdof the sturdy pole and lift myself around it, rolling my hips and leaning back in a graceful way that is both familiar and comforting. I love dancing, it’s one of the only escapes I’m afforded.
Flavors hit me all at once—some luscious and rich, others acidic and bitter. Each ribbon of desire makes its way into my soul as I tease and coax the crowd into a puddle of lust and need. Each hit has my senses sharpening, my mind clearing, my hunger temporarily sated, and my energy levels restored.
Some mortals and creatures need food to survive, and while I love a good pastry any day of the week, it doesn’t sustain me.
Desire is easier to come by—especially while dancing—and helps feed me. When I don’t absorb enough lust, my body weakens along with my powers, leaving me vulnerable to attacks should a drifter cross my path or the collector core.
Blood is much harder to get on a regular basis. Animal blood can do in a pinch, but it doesn’t give me the fuel I need to operate at full power.
Mortal blood is good, but the best kind is from those who are at least half something else—centaur, pixie, goblin, and more, whichever has more power in their veins.
Unfortunately, thanks to my kind being feared and hated,thatkind of blood is a rare treat. I’ve had consenting partners in the past, those who were interested in being bitten once or twice, but what I wouldn’tgiveto have a steady supply. If I did, I wouldn’t constantly be walking the edge of starvation, leaving my powers weakened and my body just as bad. The weaker my body is, the more my heart acts up, and that’s a recipe for danger.
I came close to starving once, right after I lost everything.
I’ll never let that happen again.
That’s why I love the stage. Before I discovered dancing, I’d resorted to pathetically flirting with any random stranger whocrossed my path in order to try and feed myself. They could almost always smell the desperation on me, and desperation doesn’t exactly attract the most savory of partners. I was barely sixteen the first time someone took my innocent flirting as permission to try and use my body for their own pleasure.
He didn’t succeed, but it came too close.
I could taste his fear as I sank my fangs into his neck, ripping and tearing like an animal. Just as he was trying to do to me, but only in ways mortals are capable of.
I will never be that helpless again.
Shadows of sadness overtake my vision, threatening to kick me right out my performance as memories assault my mind.
Memories of dark alleys and cold nights.
Wandering the continent alone, afraid, and with no real understanding of what I was or how dangerous I could be to those around me.
“Run!” my papa screams, waking me up from a dead sleep. His movements are frantic as he rips me from my bed. I can hear horses clomping around outside our house. There are raised voices, and someone bangs on our front door. I look around but can’t see Mama. Torch lights flicker in the moonlight outside my window. “Out the back, baby girl. Run. Run and don’t you dare look back.” He wraps my thickest coat around me, sliding a leather satchel over my shoulder. I’m crying even though I don’t understand why.
“Papa,” I say, my voice a whisper in the night. “What’s happening?”
“They’ve come for us,” he says. “They’ve come for us. I need you to run. I need you to do what the princess does in all our stories, okay?” He grips me hard against his chest, rushing through our small home before slipping out the back door. He sets me on my feet, kissing my forehead. “I love you. Rememberthat. You’regood, Livana. You’re the best of us. Now go. Do what the princess does.”
Something sharp tangles in my chest, but instinct carries me away as Papa rushes back into the house.
It’s on fire.
Flames dance from our thatched roof, hopping over to the beautiful, ancient trees surrounding our home. I race deeper into the woods, faster and faster, twisting and turning just like the princess does in all of Papa’s stories.
She’s a strong princess. Six years old, just like me. She’s good at escaping the stickiest situations. She never gets caught.
The air in my lungs burns like the fire behind me, and a scream breaks the night, filling my entire body with dread.
It’s my papa’s scream.
And then there’s silence.
I swallow the lump in my throat, and keep running.
The princess never gets caught.
I grip the pole harder, pushing my body to its limits as I dance my ass off, trying desperately to push the memory from my mind.
Maybe it’s because I’ve started to settle here, started to find comfort in the routine and inclusion atThe Red Lion. Maybe it’s because when I settle, the sting of loneliness is harsher than when I’m on the move…when I’m working toward the same goal I’ve had since I was six years old. Since the night I became an orphan with no understanding of how to take care of myself or how to properly feed.
