Sometimes the darkness had to eat.
Yva hummed as she took her needle to Jak’s trousers, listening to her old friend feasting on the offering she’d thrown him a minute ago. Copper and wrongness perfumed the air, a mix of brutality and magic others would find abhorrent. But Yva was a good little housekeeper and vanilla spice candles made any room cozy. A little potpourri and no one would detect the telltale tang of meaty death.
Open a window and let the breeze in, see her mother’s lace curtains billow.
The blackness in the corners writhed as the felhound gorged itself. There’d be no bones left when he was through, but there never was with Flaadhun in service. Nothing wasted because he was a good doggy – he was mommy’s little nightmare, and mommy’s little nightmare cleaned up neat and tidy. Swallowed it down because he was the maw of oblivion, and wasn’t that simply adorable. Mind the tentacles, sweetness.
Snarfing and the gnashing of teeth, a man screamed and begged for his life from below. Yva concentrated on her steady line of stitches, yelping and plucking her thumb into her mouth when the needle took her in the pad. Careful now. Blood on the floor, blood on the walls, blood dried to a crust on her new black dress. But never blood on Jak’s clothes. No, not his new slacks.
That simply wouldn’t do.
“GODS, HELP ME. PLEASE HELP ME,” the man screamed from below, his words tapering to a whimpering groan and a sob.
“My love is ice and fire and wind,” was all she said, turning the pant leg over to work the hem. No hope for him or his like – no hope for any of them now, with war on the horizon. There was only Yva’s tender shadow mercies and ice. So much ice. Better than fire to cauterize a wound.
He’d live a long time alone in the dark, the creepy crawlings bearing witness to his lamentations. Only one eye to see, but there was nothing to see. She made sure of that. Only darkness and despair. Now was the time for waiting. Waiting before giving him over to those who might remember a more merciful time.
“The rush of the river, the lark that sings,” she hummed to no one and everyone, dipping her dark head to finish her work.
Almost done, almost time. Another stitch, another song.
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