Page 45

Needful Things

Elarian’s silver had a way of clarifying immortality.

Lucan always seemed to forget that until the pain seeped through his veins and his thoughts turned sluggish.

The nick across his wrist had already healed—his vampiric flesh always did—but beneath skin and bone, he felt her poison spreading through his veins. A persistent drag in his limbs. The heatless ache in his heart. Vision tumbling into black.

He had endured worse.

But that hardly meant he enjoyed feeling this way.

Right?

But why else had he let her draw her silver? Loosened his grip until she slipped away? Provoked her by debasing her?

A fool wearing a crown, that’s all he was.

Driven by need, Lucan had wandered to his chambers and summoned a thrall to feed upon. It had been months since he’d drunk anything but bloodwine. The thought of fresh blood, its crimson warmth coating his throat, eased his agitation.

At last, a knock came at his door.

“Enter,” he barked.

Lucan sat at the edge of his bed with a bare chest. Wood slid over stone as his chamber doors opened. A thin-limbed man stood at the threshold. His glassy eyes raised to the witchlights overhead as he stumbled forward. Senna stepped inside behind the man, one hand on his shoulder to steady his swaying form.

“As requested, my prince. A man, black of hair.”

“You are dismissed.”

Lucan rose and motioned for Senna to leave. Without a word, his chamberlain ducked out of sight and pulled the door shut with a resounding thud. The sound startled the thrall; he lurched forward, grasping for something unseen.

“Down.”

A hideous moan fled from the man’s lips as he sank to the floor.

“Come.”

Setting his hands down, the thrall crawled to Lucan like an eager dog greeting its master. Lucan flared his nostrils as the wretched thing’s stink settled over his tongue. Fear-broken minds always reviled his senses.

But he had to heal.

The only good part about feeding from a thrall was watching them squirm even as they obeyed his command.

When the man at last reached Lucan’s feet, he lifted one hand as if looking for reassurance. Lucan grabbed it and yanked the thrall upright. He obliged without complaint; disappointment flared in Lucan’s chest.

Disappointment?

Grinding his teeth, Lucan’s free hand wrapped around the thrall’s throat and pulled him close. Still, he only gazed at Lucan with those glassy, brown eyes.

“Let’s just get this over with,” he grumbled.

As if anticipating his master’s actions, the thrall tilted his chin high. Lucan huffed, then opened his mouth. Fangs flashed in the moonlight.

A mute cry, and then—

Soft flesh resisted only for a breath before breaking. Sharper than even a freshly-smithed blade, his fangs pierced deep. Hot, sticky, dangerously intoxicating blood flooded his mouth. He closed his eyes and drank deeply, letting each frantic beat of the thrall’s heart push more of his crimson lifeforce past his lips.

Lucan had always enjoyed feeding slowly.