Not that she needs light.
Her inky, glitter-kissed eyes glint in the dark as she hunts, clutching the blade used to bleed the young one until she bled no more.
Breathed no more.
Was no more.
Bringing the hilt to her nose, she sniffs—long and deep—catching another hint of this murderous male’s smoky, leathery scent.
He would beg for mercy before the end—of that, she was certain. Not that it would earn him any.
Eyes wild like her bloody thoughts, The Other creeps down an uneven path, scouring the cavern’s vast expanse while numerous stares slice across her too-fragile skin. Those of Shade-born predators who’ve snuck in through collapsed mine shafts. Who also have exceptional vision, hibernating in dark corners, eating their prey in peace and languishing in nests of bones.
The Other does not pay them heed. She holds no ill blood over those who kill to survive, to feed, or to protect their young.
But those who kill to hurt the one she loves? The one she nests within?
They deserve to be torn apart piece by piece. Skin peeled free like strips of bark. Feasted on while their warm heart still pumps—
However.
The Other stills, gaze dropping to the scrap of material tangled around the thin, vulnerable neck of her precious, pliant host, wondering if she should use it to cover her face. Raeve is always so careful to camouflage when she’s spilling blood, strange as it is. Blood should be worn with honor. A boast of fresh meat and full bellies.
Of predators gone.
But The Other respects her host despite her small hands and tiny teeth that are near hopeless for chewing things with any true substance. She decides to adhere to the odd tradition, frowning as she gathers the material and tucks it around her mouth and nose.
There.
She charges down a jagged stairway, deeper into the dark. Pausing midway over a bridge, she peers at another stretch of stone that cuts across the eerie chasm directly beneath, head cocked to the side …
Perhaps the armored soldiers flattened against the walls of twin alcoves on either ends of the bridge below believe they are hidden.
Not from her.
She was born in the darkness. To her, their bodies are luminous—as if lit by the torches they must’ve extinguished when they laid their little trap.
The Other feeds on the squishy sounds their hearts make, digesting their near-silent whispers:
“Think I’ll get in trouble if I piss over the edge?”
“I wouldn’t do it. Not unless you wanna risk gettin’ your balls fried.”
The Other scowls at their crude language, wondering if possible mates of their own fae species find that sort of thing attractive. She most certainly does not.
“It’s been a while. I think nobody’s comin’。” A brief pause, then, “Perhaps the Ath bitch was the one he already stabbed? Was his informant certain she had black hair?”
“Long, black, and straight, skin like snow. Heard it with my own ears. She’ll come, I can feel it in my bones.”
The Other drops into a low crouch and leans forward, claiming a clearer view.
“What if she doesn’t bring reinforcements and this was all a waste of time for a single rebel? We shoulda just found a way to storm her dwelling, then I wouldn’t be standin’ here ready to piss myself.”
“Nobody in their right mind would come down here alone. But if she does, at least she’ll be easy to dispose of. I’d like to be home before the rise. I’m fuckin’ starved.”
The Other decides these fae deserve the grisly end that’s coming for them, though she regrets not having more time to draw it out.
Make them weep.
She scours every one of the soldiers while pulling deep whiffs of the hot, humid air, seeking the one who stamped his scent on the blade, frowning.
This Rekk is smarter than the ones waiting in such obvious places. No matter. He, too, will be lured out by blood.
She cracks a smile.
Lots of it.
Silently skulking farther along the bridge, The Other tucks the dagger away, pausing atop the group of heavily armored males at the northern end. She rips the iron ring off her finger, opening herself to the Creators. To songs she’s studied from below the crust of her icy lake whenever they howl, squeal, or shriek down from above.
She does not cower from the clamor against her eardrums. She wears pain like a safety net—one with the terrible tunes penetrating her small, too-delicate ears and violent mind.
She leaps.
Falls.
Lands in a crouch before a group of unassuming males—hands clawed, a savage sort of glee spread across her face.