Page 11 of Marked By His Hunger
Skin paling.
Then darkening.
Then turning the color of a starless sky.
Runes burned into my flesh without blade or chisel, appearing beneath the skin like veins of molten iron.
Horns split through my scalp.
Wings tore from my back in violent arcs of bone and sinew before learning to fold obediently against me.
But none of that was the true horror.
Hunger was.
It was not a craving.
It was an abyss.
A yawning, endless chasm inside my ribs that demanded blood with a voice louder than reason.
Every heartbeat within a hundred yards rang in my ears.
Every pulse of life scraped across my nerves like sand against bone.
“Fuck,” I muttered one night, gripping the edge of a stone basin until it cracked beneath my hands. “I am starving.”
No.
You must not.
The Bloodlust was the curse.
The Draugr bore it so the Clan would not.
One Monster to carry the weight.
One son to suffer.
My uncle entered my chamber without knocking—the years etched into every line of his face.
“You nearly drained your last donor,” he said.
“Nearly,” I repeated, tasting the word like ash.
“You must regain control.”
“Control?” I turned on him, fury rising hot and fast. “Do you know what it is like to hear every living thing as prey?”
He did not flinch.
“You are Draugr.”
“I am cursed.”
“You are chosen.”
The word struck harder than any blade.
