My mouth is in the cup of her palm, my teeth in the wound, and I pull blood out of it in long, greedy sucks. She sways and grabs onto my hair for balance, pulling on it. I think I groan in pleasure.
Harder.
She must understand what I want, because more of my hair is now in her fist, and she pulls so hard, it hurts. Her blood fills my mouth, and nothing can top this, maybe only drinking it straight from her cunt. She pants in effort, little shaky moans escaping between her teeth, and I drink my fill, her palm torn open for my pleasure.
She told me to use her body, after all. So I dig in with my teeth until they scrape bones.
Harder.
Her hips sway in rhythmic, needy motions, and I’m hard, my need matching hers. I fill up on her, every sip bringing me closer to coming in my pants. She is delightful. Delicious. My home.
When her fingers slip listlessly through my hair, I realize she’s weakened. I’ve aided myself unconsciously with magic, pulling more blood than her body allowed. I took too much, but it’s allright. Before I pull away, I pierce my tongue with a crafty spell and let my healing blood fall into the mess I made of her palm.
The wound heals, but Jaga is still faint, her knees shaking. I kiss her hand, licking it clean, and tug her into my lap.
“Come here.”
She does, wretched and boneless, and I cradle her in my arms.
“Remember how I taught you to take my name? Let me return the favor.”
That night, I kissed her blood out of her mouth. Every time she said my name, it made her tongue bleed, and I made her repeat it, over and over, between hungry kisses.
She makes no sound of protest. I split my tongue open and forbid it to heal.
We kiss.
It’s gentle and messy, her lips shivery and weak against mine, her tongue inert when she busies herself swallowing the thick trickle flooding her mouth. I caress her face and her neck, and when she tangles her fingers in my hair, I cover her palm with mine to keep her there.
It’s bliss. She lets me do anything, and she’s willing, her hips still warmed with that arousal, her lips and tongue growing animated when she regains her strength. When I forget to stop myself from healing, too swept up in the pleasure, she grunts with annoyance when the flow of blood stops.
“Take it,” I murmur against her lips, refusing to stop the kiss.
She bites my lip hard until it splits. My cock swells, and I tug her closer, until her leather-clad ass sits right on top of it. She squirms, kissing me harder, and I cover her breast with my palm. My gorgeous poppy girl arches into my touch.
“I need you,” I grunt, fumbling in search of a way to unfasten her corset.
There’s a flutter of wings, brown feathers raining down on us. I pull away just in time to see the swarm of wrens transform into Nyja.
In all the centuries I knew her, she’s never had worse timing than this.
“Weles! Come right now!”
I jump to my feet, still holding Jaga. Nyja’s voice is frantic. Something terrible has happened.
“To the Well of Souls!” she screams before turning into birds again, and I follow, shadows twisting around me and Jaga as we shoot through the dark belly of the mountain, right to the bottom of the shaft running from the mountaintop to the heart of Nawie.
When we land in the enormous cavern glittering with lights, it’s chaos and noise around us. Tiny birds flutter around, their wings beating unevenly, terrified and lost. Larger birds swoop over and under the chaos, cawing and chirping, fear in their eyes. Some fly straight into walls, and fall unconscious to the ground.
It’s a swarm the likes of which I only saw when mortals had a bloodthirsty battle before. There are over a thousand souls here, souls of people that just died, and half of them are nawkas.
Nyja is up on top of a black pillar twice as tall and thrice as wide as her, a shot of golden light igniting her white dress and hair. Her arms are raised, beckoning to the birds that fly in spirals around her, a whirlwind of wings and feathers. The noise is ungodly, chirping and squawking voices rising together in a cacophony of fear.
“Someone’s killing pregnant women!” Nyja shouts, her palms open wide, her form shining brighter.
Birds flock to her, sitting on her head, in her palms, on her shoulders. As soon as one sits, it’s sent away, Nyja pulling theminto the right part of Nawie, nawkas to their realm, the mothers to go with adults.
They will reunite later, but the initial sorting is necessary. Souls must have a place to call their own. It’s the only way to help them feel safe after the trauma of death.
