His lips part experimentally before his tongue sweeps into my mouth. I can taste myself on him. A small smile curls my mouth as I loop my arms around his neck and hold him closer.

  Lie with me.

  Lips locked, the embrace is all he needs before his pace lengthens some; his strokes pick up, sliding in and out of me, his pelvic bone grinding against my sensitive bud.

  I meet his kiss with a hunger I didn’t know was carving into me. I need him desperately right now, I need him to love me. So I deepen the kiss and bring my legs down to run my feet down his muscles. I find just the right position, arching my back some, and give him a nudge.

  Harder, it says.

  Faster, it begs.

  He obliges.

  Cliff starts to buck against me, a hint of desperation to his movements, his breaths coming out rougher at my mouth. We don’t kiss anymore; his lips just press against mine. Our legs, entwined, are like snakes writhing in a pit. My hands reach for him, grabbing onto any muscle I can grip.

  My heat is pulsing, the swell tightening against him. It spurs a deep groan through him. He’s pistoning in and out of me, filling me to the brim. Then, just as sparks ignite deep in my belly, a sudden spread of warmth floods me.

  We finish together. My cry is blissful; his comes out strained and gravelly.

  Then he slumps over me, his face burying into the nook of my neck.

  Lazily, I run my fingertips along his spine. His muscles jump beneath his skin.

  I stay in my pretend-bubble of love and care and protection.

  Not much longer now…

  41

  Sprawled over his chest, cheek pressed against him, I stare at the smooth caramel complexion facing me.

  My mind is on the pills, though. Already, I feel the calming effects starting to creep into my bones and relaxing my muscles, but I expect a while longer before I’m hit with the bad.

  This is a pleasurable way to kill time. Not just the laying together, but the ‘after’ too, because he holds me. Sort of.

  His arm is loose around the small of my back, his hand resting gingerly on my waist. It’s me who cuddles up to him. And I do, with my bare leg—tangled in sheets—draped over him, my arm reaching all the way around his broad chest, my head rested beneath his collarbone.

  If the moments like this were all that mattered, maybe I could be happy one day. But grimmer realities sneak into life, and that is what consumes me.

  This moment between us won’t last long. Not when his unit marches through the commune and he drags me off to join them. Then, I’ll be all alone, just like I was at the sanatorium. I won’t face that again.

  So I let Cliff believe he has won the battle of my life and death matters, and embrace the heat of his skin against my cheek. We swim in a light, warm silence that envelopes us entirely—

  Until he speaks the thoughts apparently whirling around his head; “You have made me weak.”

  I blink, my lashes catching on his chest. One by one, my muscles lock beneath my skin and, slowly, I peel myself off of him.

  Moment shattered.

  See? I did say they can’t last very long.

  As I sit upright and hold the sheet to my chest, his onyx eyes follow me.

  “Weakness is not for my kind,” he goes on, his tone low and dangerous, as though he blames me for all that he’s feeling. “It is reserved for the lesser species.”

  My face crumples into a scowl that I throw down at him. “Apparently that’s my peoples’ specialty,” I spit before I shift down the bed, keeping myself covered, and grab for my fresh clothes. “You don’t let me forget it.”

  “I did not mean...” he trails off with a sigh, then moves to sit up against the headboard. He watches me, the sheet shifted off of his body, his nakedness revealed so proudly. “What you did to yourself,” he says, “is not a mark of weakness, but of pride. Some of the litalves do much the same—in lost battles, standing alone, they will fall on their swords.”

  As I wrestle on my underwear, I throw him a withering glare over my shoulder. I know as well as he does that he considers the litalves a ‘lesser species’ and I’m lumped in with not just them, but the humans too.

  Now, I understand pieces of the puzzle that were inexplicably lost to me in all my thoughts and mulling-overs. He doesn’t simply fight his feelings for a kuri. He looks down on them—looks down on me.

  And that must just tear him apart inside, how a warrior like him can lust after a mere despicable human like me; a crossbreed between the ones he loathes and the ones he despises.

  Ramming my arms into the sleeves of the grey top, I mumble moodily, “Yes, they might, but I doubt your kind do the same.”

  There’s a rustle of movement behind me. Then, when he speaks, his breath is hot on my shoulder. He’s shifted to kneel at my back. “You are not of my people.”

  “You don’t let me forget it,” I echo my earlier words at him.

  His hands find my waist before I can push off the bed. Closely followed, I feel his chin settle on my shoulder before he says, “You are angry with me.” The softness of his tone startles me still. “I am selfish, Cora-lee. Your wish to die is not one I can grant.”

  “It’s what’s best for me.”

  His jaw tenses against my shoulder. “It is not in my nature.”

  “Hunger is in mine,” I grumble and jerk out of his hold. “So at least let me eat.”

  He doesn’t stop me as I bend forward to slip on my plimsolls, then push up from the bed. But he does follow me—in all his nudity and with the lantern—out of the bedroom.

  As I expected, the apartment is a modest one. Out of the door, the kitchen I’m in search of is connected to the small lounge and a tiny study nook embedded into the wall by the front door.

  He shadows me into the kitchen, lingering by the counter as I dip behind the pantry door.

  As I rummage through the dusty tins and packets, he says, “You want to die, but if you continue with your foul mood in my unit, then your wish might be granted.”

  I slam down a tin of beans, hard. The shelf rattles.

  Leaning around the door, I narrow my eyes on his stony face and blazing eyes, eyes that reflect the orange flickers of the lantern.

  “Let me die,” I hiss at him, “but don’t let me be tortured or ruined or enslaved. That’s my fear—and it’s the fear you’re delivering me to.”

  His lashes lower over his molten eyes. “I have already enslaved you.”

  I make a face at him before I dip back into the pantry. The sooner I eat, the better. It’s a matter of urgency, really. On a full stomach, the nausea from the pills is less likely to hit me too hard. And the better I avoid it, the less I’ll be sick and tip Cliff off.

  The bastard.

  But my loot isn’t all that great and, in all honesty, I’m not very hungry at all. Still, I find it within myself to snack from a full packet of corn chips, switching between those and Mars bars.

  There’s also an unopened bag of parmesan cheese that calls to me, but since I don’t know exactly how long the world has been lost to the attack of the dark fae and their eternal blackness, I don’t think the expiry dates can be trusted.

  Digging into the corn chips, I wander out of the kitchen and into the lounge. Still by the counter with the lantern in hand, Cliff’s gaze trails me around the couch.

  I find myself headed for the heavy curtains on the wall, but I know better than to peel them apart and look outside. Without the black powder, Cliff is more vulnerable to wounds should another group of survivors find and attack. From my recent experience, he has stray dark fae warriors to worry about too.

  I don’t fancy getting caught in the middle of any of that again. To attackers, I’m not a person—I’m collateral damage.

  “What’s out there?” I ask, wanting to pinpoint exactly where in the commune I am. I’m guessing near the mouth of the Tunnel since he’s waiting for signs of his army.

  “Grassland,” he says, his voice rigid and gravelly. Definitely still annoyed with me.

  “I can smell the sea,” I tell him.

  “It is not far from here.”

  Turning my back to the curtains, I lean against a ribbed pillar and eye him up. Despite having been with him three times now, my cheeks still flush at the sight of his length between his legs.

  Though, he is not as impressed with me. His cool gaze is like ice to my skin.

  “They make the best toffee in France around here.” My statement carries a hint of want. And it is what I want—to enjoy my final moments of life. “It’s nice to sit and listen to the sea, too.”

  Coolly, he arches a brow over a bleak inky eye. “Will that end all talks of your wish to die?”

  Didn’t realise it got under his skin so deeply. A kuri shouldn’t have that much of an effect on a dark fae. And that’s a twisted truth we are both glaringly aware of, but we sidestep it.

  “If you take me out of here to find toffee, some wine, and to listen to the sea, then I’ll put a lid on it.”

  A frown creases between his brows.

  “I mean I’ll shut up about suicide,” I clarify.

  The frown smooths out and he lifts his chiselled chin to look down his nose at me. For a beat, he studies me, considering my promise.

  Aren’t fae all about bargains?

  That’s what the stories say. But then, how much of the stories came from the litalves and not the dark ones? It’s hard to tell. And I don’t fancy asking, either.

  “I accept,” he finally says and, leaving the lantern on the countertop, he marches into the bedroom to dress.

  I finish as many of the corn chips as I can manage before he leads the way out of the door. I note that before we go, he carries no satchels with him, so he expects to return. Maybe I have some more time before his army come than I first thought. And that’s a great relief—the pills will have plenty of time to do the job before I’m forced into a band of brutal fae.

  A long-sleeved top was the right choice, but I should have gone for a cardigan, too.

  So close to the sea, a chilly breeze runs through the darkness and ices over my skin. I hug my prickling arms around myself, sticking close to Cliff.

  With only the lantern to guide us, the darkness feels much as it did when my old group would pass through towns without a torchlight in sight, keeping as unnoticed as possible.

  Now, I hear the faint skittering and slapping of critters in the distance. They are becoming a white noise, I’ve been hearing them so much lately. The noises fade away as we walk down the main road to a sweet shop tucked beside a green grocer’s.

  No need to break in or destroy the handle, since the door is already ajar. Orange light illuminating my way, I slip inside after Cliff and head straight for the glass counter under the till. Grabbing a white paper bag from the rack, I stuff it full with stale clumps of toffee, some powdered bon bons, and salted caramel slices.

  Then we move on to the grocer’s shop across the road. Cliff doesn’t let me wander; he leads the way straight to the back corner of the shop where the sign above the shelves reads ‘De l’alcool’.

  As I roam the shelves, eyeing the rows of dusty bottles, I find I’m suddenly appreciative of Cliff’s reluctance for small talk. A sleepy effect has climbed over me from the pills and, with conversation, he might be prematurely tipped off to what I’ve done.

  To mask the effects, I grab a bottle of vodka and snub the wine. I need a better excuse than ‘one glass of wine too many’ to explain away the new increasing weight to my eyelids and how I’m forced to clench my leg muscles to stop myself from swaying.

  Cliff leads me out of the shop without a word and finds us a bench on the main road to park on.

  First, I dig into the vodka. It goes down a treat, so nicely that my lashes flutter with a special pleasure and, as I pull it away from my lips, I loosen an ‘ahhh’.

  I trade the bottle for a clump of toffee that’s so stuck together that there’s just no chance of prying the pieces apart. I nibble on it instead for a beat before I offer some to Cliff.

  Staring straight ahead into the darkness with those bleak eyes of his, he simply shakes his head. I lean my temple on his solid arm and tuck in.

  Over the skittering of the critters, the faint song of the sea climbs through the dark. I can make out waves crashing on rocky shores and even the squawk of seagulls out there somewhere.

  It amazes me as much as it befuddles me that these animals are still kicking. How can they survive in the darkness? How do the flowers still bloom and the rodents still scurry down alleyways and the birds still fly?

  To us—the humans—it’s a thick blanket of blackness draped over the world, suffocating all the light and therefore photosynthesis from this world. But maybe it’s much more complicated than that. What if, Mother forbid, the darkness will slowly eat away at our world and not kill it but change it, turning it into something like theirs?

  Is this an evolution?

  If so, what will be the end result?

  Blinking ahead at the thick blackness, barely penetrated by the lantern, I break into Cliff’s silent thoughts; “Is your world beautiful?”

  In his quiet moment, I let my eyes shut and I savour the sweet taste of the toffee melting on my tongue. His bicep relaxes against my head, and I lean into him that bit more.

  “Yes,” he finally says. “There is no sun or moon,” he adds. “Our light comes from the earth.”

  I smile sleepily, then take a blind swig of the vodka. It blends nicely with the toffee. “Tell me about it.”

  He takes a long, deep breath that shifts him beside me. As he exhales, he says, “The fruit that grows on our trees glows as your moon does. Stones deep in the caves of the mountains glitter like your midnight skies. Some of our fields gleam white, wild peaches burn orange, and the leaves our hollow trees shine with pinks and deep blues. Light is all over our world, as is the darkness.”

  I pick on one thought. “Are your peaches like ours?”

  His arm shifts against my head; he twists to look down at me. “Sweeter, juicier, and intoxicating to your kind. One of your favoured bottles,” he adds, grazing his light fingertips down the length of the vodka, “would be less to your body than a whole wild fruit from my world.”

  In answer, I hum. His stare still cuts over my face as he studies me.

  “No more of this,” he decides and takes the bottle from my loose grip. “It is interacting with the black powder.”

  Lazily, I just nod, my hair rustling against his arm.

  “You need rest,” he tells me. “Can you walk?”

  I pry my eyes open and look up at him, at the worried crease between his brows, the grim set of his mouth, and my heart flips in my chest.

  “I’m fine,” I whisper and peel myself off of him. It takes me a moment but I build the strength to push up from the bench. I snatch the bottle of vodka from the bench on the way.

  Saying nothing about it, Cliff is beside me in a split second, his hand snaring onto my arm to keep me upright.

  He helps me back to the apartment.

  Cliff means for me to fall onto the bed, but I push past him and stagger for the ensuite. He shadows me, his bootsteps silent on the floorboards. But I feel his presence near me as I double over at the toilet and let heaves of sick jolt through me.

  Could be the pills, could be the vodka, could be the powder—or all three. Either way, it’s starting, and it feels like the room is twisting and bending and moving all around me.

  Sick on my mouth, I look back at Cliff. He stands at the doorway, his face wrinkled with a frown.

  “It’s just nerves,” I tell him. “And maybe a bit of that powder.”

  His response is cold, “You should forge a stronger stomach if you want to go unnoticed with my people.”

  I click my jaw, a flutter of anger ignited in my chest. “I only have to do that if you take me to them—”

  I flinch as his fist comes down on the doorframe. The force rattles the whole wall.

  “We had an agreement,” he hollers at me, and chills rain down my spine. I sink to my bottom, clutching onto the toilet bowl. “I will hear no more of this!”

  “Get out,” I whisper, my voice shaking. “Get out and lose yourself in the pits of hell, Cliff.” My lip curls as I snarl at him, “I wasn’t lying when I said I fucking hate you.”

  I don’t need to tell him again.

  Cliff spins around and snatches the door. He slams it shut behind him with enough force to shake the entire apartment.

  My face crumples and, as I turn back to the toilet to vomit again, tears start to stream down my face.

  42

  Curtains bunch up at the rear curve between my neck and shoulders. The window is shielded by the thick, heavy drapes, stealing away my view of the darkness.

  Sitting on the floor, I watch Cliff use a rag to polish the blades from his weapons belt. Beside him on the couch, his daggers and knives are spread out in order of size. The sword is balanced on the arm of the couch, so clean and shiny that I can faintly make out my warped reflection on the edges.

  Dark curls falling over his shadowy face, his back is curved over as he works meticulously on the same short and razor-sharp knife he used to carve up Spike.

  A twinge of guilt hits me hard at the reminder—not necessarily for Spike, but that he died because Cliff somehow couldn’t bring himself to punish me directly. Back then, he told me that the reason he didn’t torture and kill me was because I wanted to die. Now, I’m doubting that this was ever his true reasoning.

  Sure, he intended to punish me. Yet I suspect his motivations ran much deeper than either of us really knew at the time.

  Back then, he spared my life.

  Now, he has saved my life. And he won’t let me die.

  Picking at a loose thread on the curtain’s stitching, I wonder aloud, “Why did you save me?”

  He pauses, holding the rag to the shiny blade, and keeps his stare down at his work. He doesn’t look at me. Still angry.