“It says here you also wear a dampener? Is that true?”
Iris’s fingers twitch against my palm.
“Yes.”
Malictus looks at me in silence for a moment, an unspoken question hanging dead in the air. But there is another lesson Cross children are quick to learn—never answer a question before it’s asked.
When I offer no further explanation, he makes a note in my file, then shuts it to open another. This one is even thicker than my own, with pieces of parchment sticking out of the seams every which way, and a blood-red stamp on the first page that reads “NIGHT STUDENT.”
My surprise is smothered by the drooling look in Mr. Malictus’s eyes as he fixes his gaze on her again.
“Ms. Ashbourne, you are a succubus?”
She nods, smiling sweetly.
“Yes.”
Malictus scratches the skin beneath his collar, but somehow finds the strength to maintain eye contact.
“I’m told you have a rather large appetite for a creature of your age.”
We’re both watching her now. The inquisitor, seemingly incapable of doing anything else, and myself, searching for any indication that she is uncomfortable with this line of questioning.
But as her back straightens, and her chin lifts, I realize she has come prepared with a script of her own.
“Yes,” she says. “It is rather difficult to find someone both willing and capable of satisfying my needs. I used to feed quite frequently from a selection of ten or so men. But that is no longer necessary.”
Now, Mr. Malictus is sweating.
“And why is that?” he asks.
“Elliot gives me all that I need.” Iris runs her hand up my arm and leaves it to rest on my shoulder. “I feed only from him. Three times a day, or more if needed. He is very generous.”
The inquisitor begins to squirm in his chair as Iris strokes the back of my neck with her nails, and I only just manage to keep my laugh from breaking free.
Whereas my answers are scripted to give comfort, lull the subject into a sense of security, Iris’s answers are intended to drive the accuser to shame. A tactic I may need to consider, given Malictus is now a concerning shade of pink.
“I see,” he mutters, shuffling his papers and dropping his gaze. “And you and Mr. Cross are not mated?”
“No,” she says.
“Your family’s curse prevents such bonds, correct?”
“Yes,” I answer.
“Yet, you have claimed her anyway.”
Once again, he does not ask a question, so I do not answer. But eventually, he grows tired of the silence.
“Why is that?” he asks.
I cannot tell him the truth, but I don’t need to lie either.
There is no one in this world I would’ve done this for aside from Iris, and there are a million reasons why I even considered it to begin with.
I could sit here and list them all. I could tell him how much I admire her bravery. How much I enjoy her company, or how funny she is. I could tell him how sweet she is when no one’s looking. Or how she’s shy when only I am. But none of that would matter. Not to him anyway.
People like Mr. Malictus have already made up their minds about us. And rather than spend another hour trying to convince him otherwise. I take a page out of Iris’s book.
