CHAPTER SIXTEEN
EMANATION: THE OFFERING
The Bleeder comesfor me after dinner. Maybe it makes me smell better—a full belly and an entire bottle of water gulped down to plump my veins.
Cole stands, and Manni touches his shoulder, keeping him from following me. An ache constricts my throat at the tears welling in his eyes. I look away, nodding to Manni, who smiles back. Emily can’t look me in the eye, and Jax just watches the Bleeder, eyes stormy and his jaw locked.
I’m led down a warmly lit hallway that sharply contrasts with the whitewashed corridors and fluorescent lighting I’m used to. At the end, drenched in what appears to be paint or the bloody remnants left by those who passed through, is a red door.
No one mentioned a red door.
Although I suppose no one has returned to speak of it.
Is this my end?
The Bleeder opens the door and says, “Make your offering.”
I look into the red-lit room, my hands balling into fists at my side. With a deep breath, I enter.
The door clicks shut behind me, and a ringing in my ear sharpens in the silent darkness. The room is completely cloaked in red, with a bed positioned like an altar.
Nothing else in the room matters now. I don’t bother to look around, my surroundings dissolving into shadows and jagged edges while I fix my gaze on the king-sized bed draped in silken red sheets.
I creep closer, trembling at the sight of the green dress splayed out on the bed. Picking it up, I find it’s made of silk and is luxuriously smooth to the touch. My frown deepens as I suspect this is what the Bleeder meant by my offering.
My hands shake as I strip off my gown and slip into the green dress. I wonder if this is part of their twisted ritual, and if I do it wrong, the nightwalker will simply kill me.
The green dress is puffed at the shoulders before tightening down my arms to my hands. A suffocating sensation constricts my bust in the black buckled corset, then the dress flares down like the gown I wore the day I met my Blessed.
I don’t have time for nightmares. Remember Jax’s instructions.
I rest on the silken bed that’s far too lavish—even for the Praised—and I stare up at the vent above me. There are rumours about this room. Some say the vent entry point is so the nightwalker can instil fear in the Feeder. Others say this vent is connected to an intricate tunnelsystem below, allowing nightwalkers to travel here from the Undercity.
I suppose tonight is the night I find out.
With my neck exposed, I wait, resting my hands flat on my stomach. The hard shell of the buttons on the gown feels so different. I explore the smoothness, running my fingertips over the tiny threads woven through the holes in the centre, looping from one to another to secure it in place.
I take a deep breath, tasting the sharpness of the bleach used to mask the scent of stale blood. As I breathe out, the air catches in my throat like sludge.
The vent swings open.
The nightwalker is agile, bleeding like a droplet from a loose faucet in the darkness. They land on the bed.
I close my eyes and bite my bottom lip as their silhouette sharpens. I don’t want to see them. I don’t want to give this nightwalker even the faintest reason to do more than bite my neck.
With a rip, the buttons on my dress pop open. I wince at the clinking noise as they hit the tiled floor. Fabric remnants and a frigid chill sink into my flesh like the fangs of a venomous snake. My chest lies exposed. Panic courses through me as the nightwalker’s finger brushes against the softness of my breast and teases my nipple, pinching at the piercing and?—
My body moves before my mind knows what’s happening. I snap my arm out, knocking the nightwalker’s hand away from my breast, but the nightwalker grabs my wrist, then the other, and they are suddenly pinned above me.
I suck in a breath, and my eyes fly open to stare into deathly dark red eyes.
Emily told me nightwalkers were beautiful. Enchanting creatures of the night that humans couldn’t help but fall in love with. That their mere presence was enough to compel any human to do whatever the nightwalker desired.
But this nightwalker is not beautiful. His flaccid skin makes the predator appear decayed. Loose and sagging, his skin hangs from his face like draped leather over hollow, weakened bones.
Starved. The nightwalker looks starved.
Desperate eyes stare intently at my neck. Saliva, thick and stringy, drips from pointed fangs as the nightwalker becomes fixated on my thumping artery while I thrash beneath him.
