‘My plans have changed, and I might be away from Mushenska for a little while. I thought you might be amenable to an unexpected visit?’
Ainsel grinned at him and picked up the bottle to examine the label. She was a tall woman, as thick with scars as she was with muscles, and her blond hair was tied back in a short braid. Ainsel nodded appreciatively at the Gouron; it was an expensive bottle.
‘I’m always glad to see you, Tor, especially when you bring me such gifts. You’re lucky to catch me, actually. Roland the Liar ships out with his Exacting Blades tomorrow, and I am to be aboard.’
‘You’re off to be one of his Blades?’
‘For as long as the money lasts, at least.’ Ainsel put the bottle down. She had brown eyes, which Tor had always found striking against her fair hair. ‘Is it to be as it usually is?’ Her voice turned ragged on the words. It had been a little while.
Tor nodded, feeling a wave of hunger blow through him again. ‘The usual agreement.’
Ainsel came to him then and kissed him, and Tormalin slid his fingers, still chilled from the evening air, through the soft hair on the back of her neck. The First Step: The Rising Chorus.
Some hours later and they were a sweaty tangle of limbs on Ainsel’s narrow but comfortable bed, most of the blankets long since thrown on the floor. They had both reached satiation twice now, and Tor sensed this would be their last climax. He shifted his body minutely, relishing the gasp of pleasure the small movement elicited from Ainsel; all was rhythm now – The Crashing Wave. With Ainsel’s knee looped over his shoulder, he gently reached over and nipped her skin with his teeth.
‘Yes,’ gasped Ainsel. ‘Take it now. Please, do it.’
On the bare mattress next to them was a long, slim bone-handled knife. Tor snatched it up and quickly, without losing his own momentum, cut a shallow wound in the skin just above Ainsel’s knee. Immediately, he pressed his mouth to it, although this required lessening the pressure he was applying to other parts of her body for a few moments. Ainsel moaned, begging for final release, but Tor slid his hand up her thigh: the same message as always – soon, my love.
Blood. It filled his mouth with its salt and copper tang, and the feeling was indistinguishable from the knot of pleasure at the centre of his being. Ainsel was there in that taste, just as she was pressed beneath his skin now, vulnerable and so alive. The scent of sex in his nostrils and the taste of blood in his mouth, Tor let his tongue move across the torn skin, taking up the last of it, and then in one, smooth movement quickened his own pace. Water Across Sand: The Final Step. Beneath him, Ainsel caught her breath, gripping Tor’s shoulder fiercely. A moment later, and Tor let go of his own control, carried on a tide of blood and memory and lust.
They lay together afterwards, the two of them almost falling out of the narrow bed. Tormalin stared up at the damp-stained ceiling, thinking, as he always did, that he should give Ainsel the money to buy a larger bed. She was already asleep, one arm stretched out for Tor to lean his head on, but Tor had never felt so far from sleep. It was the blood, so fresh it had been hot on his tongue, and now its heat was curling around his bones, making him stronger, healing all hurts. It was beautiful and intoxicating, so much so that it was almost possible to forget that it could eventually kill him.
Ainsel shifted slightly in her sleep, sighing heavily. Tor held himself still for a moment, sensing that she was close to waking, but she turned her face away, the sigh turning into a soft snore.
From somewhere down the street the sounds of an altercation drifted up to Ainsel’s small window. The shutter was wedged half open, letting in the cool evening air that smelled of stale beer, smoke and the thick scent of the fat vats across the way. Tor stared at the window for a moment, wondering if people passing below had been able to hear them. Likely the whole street had. It never seemed to worry Ainsel.
The blood was still thick in Tor’s throat. He should have a glass of the Gouron he’d brought to clear it out, but he was warm and comfortable and reluctant to move, and besides which, he savoured the taste of the blood. The rush of strength it brought him, the sense of power and rightness – and on the back of that, the taste of his own death. Did he enjoy that too? The danger of it, the inevitability. The blood, the sex, the strength, the dying. They were all tied up in each other.
Next to him, Ainsel moaned, her brow furrowing even as she slept.
Tor remembered clear, quiet nights in Ebora. When they were young, and long before the crimson flux swept their parents from their lives in a dark tide of misery and pain, sometimes their mother would extinguish all the lights and light the big lamp in the centre of the living room – it was longer than Tor’s arm and shaped like an ear of corn – and then open the doors that led out onto the courtyard. He and Hest would wait, shifting and giggling, until tiny points of green light would begin to slip in through the open doors. They were moonflies, their rear ends filled with an emerald glow, and they loved the light of the lamp. They would swirl around the room in a great, excitable spiral. Tor and Hest would laugh and chase them, crashing into the furniture until Mother put out the lamp or Father would arrive and make them stop. Then the moonflies would leave in a stately procession, until all the light left the room. He thought of Ebora like that: a place where all the light had left, and all laughter had fallen silent. All save for his sister – the last, desperate moonfly.
Next to him, Ainsel gave a sharp gasp and Tor half sat up, thinking that something in the room had alarmed her, but all was still. Ainsel whipped her head from one side to the other, her eyes tightly closed, and Tor realised what it was: she was having a nightmare.
Tor propped himself up on one elbow, frowning down at the woman. Watching someone else have a nightmare was a uniquely unnerving experience. He watched his lover’s face contract with fear, her eyelids twitching as her eyes rolled to watch something Tor couldn’t see. The muscles across Ainsel’s broad shoulders were tense. The blood tasted sour now. Lightly, Tor placed his fingertips on Ainsel’s collarbone.
‘Hey, Ainsel. You’re having a bad dream. Wake up.’
Ainsel did not wake up. Instead, she drew her arm down to her chest sharply, nearly clouting Tor as she did so. Tor huffed with annoyance.
‘Really, Ainsel, you’d have thought our evening would have brought you sweeter dreams.’
Ainsel went rigid, the cords on her thick neck bulging from her skin. She began to shake, making tiny noises in the back of her throat.
‘Shit. Shit. Ainsel? Ainsel, wake up!’