Page 24 of Sunsplitter

She tutted. “Surely, your mortals can take care of themselves for three days?”

They sat. The cushions formed a circle on the floor, a space of empty tile in the center. Antal settled cross-legged upon his pillow, his father across from him, his mother to his side. Like they always used to sit. Like nothing had changed. Avroz lifted a kettle and poured into stone cups.

Antal accepted the drink and breathed in the warm, bitter aroma. Coffee on the Season-Locked Planes came from a different plant, similar in taste but not as full on the tongue. Not the same as the brew he’d shared here on so many nights with his family. And with others. Subtly, he appraised only three cushions set out, no sign of additional guests. Probably for the best.

Footsteps approached, Geslam returning from the hall.

Fionamara followed him.

Antal caught one look of rainbow hair, that defiant chin, before he snapped his attention away like a burned hand. What was this reckless woman doing? She’d slipped past his family, could have stayed safe in a guest room for the rest of the night.

She sat on a pillow by the wall, out of the way. Still far too close. When Geslam disappeared through the door to the kitchen, dread burned Antal’s core. Surely, Fionamara must realize—

“Antal, dear.” Yme studied him with worried eyes, her tail a slow swish. “You look thin. Are you eating well?”

No. Not nearly enough. Antal had stretched himself since he’d moved to the Winter Plane, not wanting to take more living sacrifices than he needed for bare survival. He’d fared little better under their new system, donations slow to accumulate, time necessary to earn trust from the people he used todevour. He felt the hunger as hollows in his cheeks. A restless, needy energy carving under his skin.

“Why would I not be eating enough, azaevi?”

Yme’s brow creased, a delicate chime from the chains on her antlers. “I would hope your mortals do their diligence in taking care of you. After all you do for them?”

“I’ve been busy. There’s much to repair, after the damage Verne left.”

Avroz sat silent, sipping his coffee. Antal felt his father watching him. He’d been taught to do the same, to study adversaries and dissect their twitches, their intonations. He used to think it fascinating, a remarkable talent.

Until Antal had realized how often his father was dissecting him.

“Of course!” Yme said. “Please, you must tell us all about what you’ve been busy with.”

Antal forcibly unclenched his teeth. “Mostly drudgery, azaevi. I’m sure your flowers are far more interesting—”

The kitchen door opened, and Geslam returned.

He led a human with him.

The man—their dinner—was brought out mostly naked, a loincloth his only modesty, hair damp from a recent bath. Prepared like an animal to slaughter. His steps came slow, eyes glassy, already drugged to oblivion with twilight sorrel tea. Geslam offered an arm, steadying the man the last few steps.

Antal tried to keep his tail from lashing—failed. He tried to stop the energy swirling hot in his chest—failed. He hadn’t eaten a live human for a year, but that wasn’t the worst of it, the reason the world suddenly stilled with a low thrumming in his ears.

The man looked like Razik.

Uncannilylike Razik. That soft brown skin. The short curlsof dark hair. The full lips. Those chestnut eyes, so warm, then so empty when Avroz had held him down and…

Something was breaking inside Antal. It splintered, each time he took a breath. It stung in his palms, where he’d curled claws too tight against flesh. He looked to his father.

Avroz tilted his head, meeting Antal’s gaze with measured calm. It was the longest he’d kept eye contact since Antal had arrived. The challenge, conveyed in a subtle arch to Avroz’s brow.

A test. Antal knew it was a fucking test, and he still almost shattered.

Avroz set his cup down with cutting nonchalance. “Thank you, Geslam.”

The steward nodded and returned to a seat at the edge of the room. The human knelt upon the middle tile, encircled by predators. Bare knees fell heavy against the stone. An ornate drain waited beneath him, metal plates molded into vines.

Antal fought a wave of revulsion. He couldn’t bear to look at Fionamara. She’d seen him eat, but never like this. Never treating her kind like livestock.

Avroz rolled back his sleeves. His forearms were slim, but strong, black claws too delicate as he cupped the human’s chin. The man was too oblivious to react.

“Perhaps your humans are too lean on the Winter Plane,” Avroz said. “Cold has never done their species well.”