The evil you know can’t protect you from the evil you crave…

That’s what I realize each time I see Soren.

I crave this vampire’s bite.

His kind brings fear to the hearts of all living creatures on Protheka - even my dreaded dark elf masters.

But he brings a different feeling to me. Not dread…

…but desire.

He promises to lead my people to freedom. He promises to lead me to safety.

He swears he will turn my tribe of humans into a vibrant nation. Yes, he can do all that.

But he doesn’t realize that there’s only one thing I want to be for him…

…Bedsport.

Chapter 1

Raziel

My fangs elongate to pierce through
the throbbing vein that pulses along the underside of the caesin, its elongated
body providing an adequate enough blood flow for a meal. The thick scales along
the aquatic creature usually would protect it from a predator, but even in the
water, it was no match for me.

Still, the scaly creature squirms in
my hands as I drain it. I have to be careful not to pierce it with my claws as
I hold it or I will waste some of its blood. Or maybe I'll draw a better meal
into my home with its scent. I thought I heard a likar prowling by earlier, its
screams amplified on the throbbing winds, but I'm in no mood to hunt.

So, the caesin will have to do for
now. It was an easy catch since it leaped up from the spring in my cave. Maybe
one of these days, the species will actually evolve and learn to stay in the
water. It would actually save one or two of them, but when they jump in the
air, it's too tempting to swipe it out of the air.

"Be smarter," I murmur
outloud to the dead creature.

I drop its limp body back into the
water, which pulls it back down into the depths. The spring is connected to the
massive river that flows under our cavernous tunnels, and I know its carcass
will disappear down there; its useless meat that I tossed back will feed
another beast.

Sinking back onto the mossy floor,
the plants pulse beneath me. Their magic sparks against my skin, and I absorb
it, though it does nothing for me. I've let myself grow weaker than I care for,
but I no longer find a thrill in the hunt, even with the enhanced creatures in
this place.

The spring bubbles at my feet, soft
colors glowing among its current, and the edges of it shrink and grow,
alternating between nearly closing up and opening up so far that it takes up
the entire main space.

I remember when we first found these
caverns—this wildspont, as we learned they are called. I was amazed with the
magic here. Protheka alone made me feel alive with the magic in my veins, but
here, in the center of intense magic, it felt like I was thrumming with so much
strength that my skin would split open.

That was when I was first Made,
though. Back when everything was new, and this world shocked me to my core in
comparison to Earth.

Even as a human, which I was when I
was brought to Protheka, I could feel how even the air on this planet was
different. It was more than the animals, more than the lack of buildings or
other species. The very earth and wind had something that my home planet
didn't.

 But the day that my master bit me, filling me
to the brim with her venom as I drank from her, my mind nearly shattered at the
pure power that flows through my veins. It was too much for a young boy to
comprehend.

I sigh. I am no longer a young boy,
no longer newly Made. In fact, I'm ancient at this point. known as an Elder
among the vrakken. Laughing beneath my breath, I shake my head. They look to me
for wisdom when I am just like them—trying to survive as our food dwindles in
this underground place where we fled.

Only, I barely care enough to.

If vrakken could die of natural
causes, I would have a long time ago. But no matter how many times I push
myself to the brink of thirst, I only lose weight and my mind. After my body
kicks in, draining all the animals I can get my hands on, I am brought back to
my normal self, only to find I'm still bored.

It's hard to live, even in a place
where the very air pulsates with magic, when there is no end to it.

The back of my throat still burns,
and I know that within a matter of days I will have to hunt down that likar or
I'm going to black out and cause too much destruction in an attempt to feed
myself. I doubt the Council has much patience with me anymore.

The moss feels nice under my legs as
it vibrates, and I lay all the way back, staring up at the quartz croppings
above me. They throb with the magic in the air, colors dancing through them,
and I often suspect my magic feeds them, too. Their colors shift with my mood,
alternating between two: black and blue. Hunger and boredom.

I miss the days when I would lie
here and stare up at them with wonderment. But now I just let my eyes fall
shut, finding the black of the back of my eyelids as fascinating as the cave
brimming with life around me. Not even my totems, my spoils, my enchanted
decorations that pointlessly sit on the shelves, entertain me.

I wish to fall asleep—or into the
restful state that passes time by for me—but the stiffness of my limbs won't
allow it. My wings ache terribly, and I need to spread them. With their massive
wingspan, though, I can't do so in my cave.

There are few spots in these
underground caverns where I can truly stretch out my wings. The tunnels aren't
constricting, but they curve and bend too much to allow me the freedom.

There are some places where I could.
We carved them out beneath the surface, big areas that drill into the center of
the mountains we hide below, making them hollow, though the dark elves would
never know that.

They think their precious gods are
down here. Idiots.

To reach the massive clearings where
those of us able to fly stretch our wings, I'd have to go to the center of the
cavernous compound. Going there would mean to be around other vrakken, and I
loathe that.

The other creatures down here are
varying shades of annoying and disgusting to me. Some are new, and while I miss
the days that I felt the excitement they do, I still find it annoying to be
subjected to them.

But others have been around for a
century or two. They know the magic of the wildspont, and yet, they are still
entertained by how they can manipulate the environment as if it is a unique
skill.

And the ones with wings. I groan out
loud. I'm tired of the cocky behavior of the rare ones with wings. When I was
first Made, we all had wings. The First had been blessed with wings when she
was transformed by our god, Akeldama, and all those she Made did, too.

But I've seen as the generations
have gone on, it is more and more rare. And those with wings tend to think they
are overly important. As if they aren't stuck underground like the rest of us.

I think I'd prefer their pompous
behavior to the way they fawn over me when I do make an appearance, though.
They all know that I'm one of the oldest, and it makes them freak out.

I hate the way they ask me
questions, peppering me with requests, and what's worse is the way the women
drape themselves across me. If I feel the need to take one to my bed, I'll ask,
but I don't need every unmated vrakken jumping into my cave.

Sex used to be the only thing I
could enjoy. That euphoric feeling would bring me back to life as I started to
go numb, but now even that has grown quite boring.

Feeding is the only thing that
brings me back to life, and that is only because I let myself fall into a state
of disrepair before eating. It's the literal feeling of coming back from the
brink of death.

It reminds me a lot of when I was
Made.

And that was the most alive I have
ever felt, waking up no longer human. Too bad that I didn't recognize at the
time that I had signed myself up for a pointless, neverending existence.

Someone raps against the door at the
front of my cave, and I sigh again. I'm not going to answer it. I don't have it
in me today to deal with anyone. Maybe in a few weeks.

That's the only upside to living
with a bunch of immortal beings. Our concept of time is so skewed that no one
is overly persistent. There's no reason to be.

So, it surprises me when they knock
again. And again. And again. Until they are full on hammering on the door and I
realize that I have to answer it or we'll stay like this for days. Akeldama
help me, for these vrakken don't seem to run out of energy these days.

I peel myself up off the floor,
stalking across the room angrily. I don't even have a good reason to be annoyed
because what am I going to go back to? Lying on the floor and griping to
myself? But dammit, I want that option.

I swing the door open with a low
growl. "What?'

The vrakken on the other side is
young. The circles around his eyes are only gray, but they'll darken with age.
He doesn't have wings, and his skin is still pale, not an icy white. I'd say he
was one of the last we Made, a few hundred years ago.

"The Council has sent me to
summon you, sir. They are expecting your presence."

I snort. "Give them my deepest
apologies." It comes out like a sneer, but I can't be bothered to care as
I go to slam the door in his face.

But the pesky thing catches it. I
snarl, getting ready to lunge at him and maybe scare him a bit when he says
something that actually stops me. It catches my attention, an unusual feeling.

"Brinda asked for you
specifically." He licks his dry lips, and I notice what a pale shade of
pink they are. He must be dying of thirst, especially as he keeps gazing at my
mouth longingly. I know my lips are bright red with fresh blood. "She said
to promise you it's something interesting."

I grit my teeth, but I have to admit
I'm curious. Because it is Brinda, who knows me very well, and the idea of
anything remotely interesting happening around here, I agree to go.

"Fine." I tell him. And
maybe I am growing annoyingly soft in my old age, but I stalk to the spring and
swipe a caesin from the water. Thrusting it into his hands, I snarl, "But
feed yourself before we go. Your stare is irritating me."

Chapter 2

Selene

The circus tent looks even bigger
here on the edge of Liiandor, battling the trees for the greatest height. The
stars are the perfect backdrop, outlining the bright colors of the fabric, and
I know it will draw the eyes of anyone within a few miles.

A thrill of excitement shoots
through me. This is supposed to be our biggest show yet. We've been growing in
our fame, and after weeks of peppering the city with flyers and spreading the
world—with Nielmor's protection, of course; humans can't wander the streets of
Liiandor and not expect to be snatched by new masters—the night is finally
here.

Maybe I shouldn't love a life of
being allowed to eat because I'm interesting enough to sneer at, but there are
worse things a woman could do on this planet.

Much worse.

So, I hum under my breath as I sit
before my mirror, brushing out my hair and pinning it back so that the long
strands don't fall in my face but cascade down my back. I've become quite adept
at using the makeup Nielmor procured for me, and I twist under the soft lights
of my tent, looking at my face from every angle.

I've never considered myself pretty.
Maybe that's the way of growing up around dark elves, but I know that the point
is not to make others fawn over my beauty.

No, I enjoy being striking. All the
makeup and costuming highlights my 'alien-like' features as Nielmor calls them,
especially under the harsh lights of the big tent. I use the rogue and shimmer
powder to draw out my high cheekbones, slender nose, and brighten my eyes.

By the time I'm done, I look just as
intended: like a literal fallen star.

That's what Nielmor calls me. I am
his fallen star, bright and white and shimmering. I don't mind it. It keeps me
in his good graces, and we all know what happens when we fall out of those.

While I'm not free under the circus,
I do have more freedom than most humans do. The threat is still there, working
beneath a dark elf, but he seems to be taken with me. And he probably doesn't
want to do anything that would threaten to damage my voice. That would really
put a damper on his show.

But I do everything to keep him
happy, and he rewards me for that. I even get my own tent—and the privacy of
getting dressed alone! That's practically unheard of, at least here on
Liiandor, for humans.

In fact, I have a lot of luxuries in
my life that others don't. I own clothes, different outfits for the show and
even in my daily life. There's jewelry, though it's reserved for my act, and
I've even collected small trinkets that Nielmor bought out of my show
allowance—another perk that I exclusively have—as we've traveled around
Liiandor.

I've even visited the big continent
of Oshta one or two times on business trips with Nielmor.

My favorite pieces of my collection
are my books, though. I can't read them; most humans never learn to. It's being
able to have them, being able to purchase items that aren't bare necessities
that make me feel special, almost like I am not a slave struggling to survive
under the constant scrutiny of the dark elves.

But I never truly forget that I am
just that.

It's all worth it, though, because I
get to live out my dreams. I've heard humans talk about how they are from a
long line of bakers or cooks or sculptors or painters, but none of that is
really possible for them to achieve here on Protheka.

I always thought that my hope to
sing, to perform for large crowds—and not like they do at the underground
clubs—was foolish. But my act is one of the biggest, and Nielmor constantly
tells me that my reputation pulls in over half the crowd.

Even a race as cruel as dark elves
can appreciate the beauty of song.

While I thank him for all that he
has made me, I hope deep down that he will let me continue to grow. I sing the
songs he tells me to, fan favorites of the audience, but I want to sing my own.
I have written several, melodies that need no accompaniment, and I think they'd
be a big hit.

I even hope to have my own show one
day—one without the gut-wrenching acts that Nielmor's does. I hear that things
are changing in Oshta, at least enough so that I could run my own show. There
are rumors that some of the royalty there have taken human lovers, and I am
certain that I could garner the right audience.

But I can't just walk away from
Nielmor. He'd flay me open, flip me inside out so that he'd have better access
to my nerve endings just to make my punishment more painful—and that is not an
exaggeration.

So, I have to wait until I can be
bought off or at least spoken for by another dark elf, one who sees my
potential and would want to help me out of this circus.

Laughing to myself, I shake my head.
Those are in short supply on Protheka, and I should let that kind of dream go.

Still, I can't help but hope that my
knight in shining armor will be at the show tonight, ready to whisk me off my
feet. It's the same useless dream I have every night I perform, and yet, it
won't die.

"Selene!" Nielmor waltzes
right into my tent, reminding me of how fragile my sense of privacy truly is.
He's grinning from ear to ear, bouncing on his toes. He looks giddy. "It's
the biggest crowd yet." He cackles wildly. "You have drawn elves from
deep in the city!"

Again, another fit of laughter takes
him as he rushes up behind me, gripping the back of my chair to observe me in
the mirror. "My, my, look at my fallen star." His smile stretches
impossibly wider, to the point it looks painful. "She looks good enough to
eat." His jaw snaps uncomfortably close to my ear.

But I don't let that show on my
face. I smile back at his reflection, and his fingers tug through my hair,
careful not to disturb the pins. "You better behave tonight," he coos
as if I've ever caused any problems. "I need good reviews after the
show."

His hands caress down my shoulders,
and I don't even stiffen. I know that Nielmor doesn't see as sex objects like
the rest of the world. No, his ideas are much worse.

"If you so much as hit the
wrong note," he whispers in my ear, grinning still as he makes eye contact
with me in the mirror. "I will turn you into a harp."

I pat his hand, offering him a
bright smile. "I know. And you know that I won't mess tonight up."

The others tend to fear Nielmor, but
I don't need to. I'm one of his favorites, and I know that if I did mess up, he
would actually turn me into a harp, but I'm not going to. I have nothing to
worry about.

He could hurt me. I mean, the guy is
totally unhinged. We've spread rumors about all that happened to Nielmor to
make him this way, even more twisted than the average dark elf, but at the end
of the day, we don't know what really happened to him.

All I know is he gets off on public
humiliation and mutilation, and I do everything I can to stay on his good side.

I can't say the same for everyone at
the circus, though. We all learned firsthand how easily Nielmor loses his
temper. And when he flies off the handle, there is no stopping him.

Like with the poor guy that I met my
second week here. He was part of the beginner acts, nothing major. Honestly, I
can't even remember what he used to do, but I do know that we all saw him trip
as he was coming out of the spotlight.

And that night, Nielmor gathered us
all around to berate him. I cringed when he hit and yelled and threatened him.
But when he said that he would turn the man into a footstool since he clearly
couldn't stay steady on his own two feet and would be a better use as a prop
for Nielmor, I didn't truly believe him.

I don't think anyone did, really.
But then, with the flick of his fingers, Nielmor snapped the man in half. We
all watched as his body cracked and bent, crumpling down until it was
impossibly small.

Those sounds have never left me. Not
the screams or the sounds of ripping skin and snapping bones. It still makes me
nauseous to this day no matter how many times I witness it.

He did make that guy into a
footstool. He twisted him down into a small one with four legs, no eyes or
mouth or anything. Though, anyone can tell it isn't an ordinary footstool.

For one, it is still made of skin.
His flesh is stretched over his newly configured bones.

And I'm pretty sure that poor guy is
still sentient in there. The footstool moves and wobbles on its own, like
Nielmor has somehow managed to keep him alive without food and water.

Thirteen help us when the other dark
elves learn that secret. There will be no escape through death then.

So, when Nielmor says he will turn
me into a harp, I have no doubt of his capabilities. I don't question if he has
the motives or the sick imagination for it. I just have to lean into the hope
that my act and all that it provides is enough to keep me safe.

So far, it has been.

HIs hands fall off of me as he
starts to mutter to himself, and I turn to watch him pace the tent, muttering
beneath his breath.

"...oddities…the numbers…no,
no…but star…" And he keeps on like that for a few minutes, withdrawn into
his mind.

Like I said, something's not right
about that guy.

But then he stops, turning to look
at me as his grin stretches across his face. "Don't forget. Big night.
Harp."

And then he turns on his heel and
leaves, and I laugh under my breath, even though my heart is pounding. As safe
as I think I am, I can never be sure around him.

On Protheka, we never know what
someone is going to do.