“More wine,” Therese replied, tossing back the glass of Faerie Wine.
“Of course.” The human bowed and hurried off to do her bidding.
Therese drank and drank and drank.
The party passed in a blur.
Humans were used, Sources gave their blood, and bodies piled up in the corners.
Still, the celebration raged.
Days became weeks.
Blood was spilled.
Wine was enjoyed.
Life was good.
One night, nearly two months after the Winter Solstice, a messenger strode through the doors. His beauty marked him as a child of the moon, and after studying the male for several minutes, Therese finally remembered his name.
Othello, the first son of Amalthea’s blood.
He strode up to his Maker, his black hair knotted at the base of his neck. Unlike the Firsts, who were all in varying stages of undress, Othello was fully clothed in a black tunic, trousers, and leather boots that reached his thighs.
Therese narrowed her eyes. Was it a trick of her wine-and-blood-addled mind, or was Othello disheveled? His tunic was ripped over his right shoulder, and she could’ve sworn crimson was spattered across his dark, almost black, skin.
Strange.
She’d never known the man to waste even a drop of blood.
Therese leaned closer, intrigued.
Amalthea pulled her fangs from the throat of the human woman draped across her lap. “Yes, my son?”
Othello bent one knee and whispered in his Maker’s ear. His words were hushed, too low even for Therese to hear, but that could have been because she was having trouble hearing much of anything.
It was like she was swimming underwater. Nothing seemed… right.
How much Faerie Wine had she imbibed?
She peered into her goblet with narrow eyes, wondering if perhaps she might have had a bit too much to drink.
Just as quickly as the thought appeared, she dismissed it. Too much? What was too much when one was an eternal being?
Faerie Wine was made to be enjoyed, and that’s what she was doing.
She threw her head back and drained the goblet in one swallow. The wine slid down her throat, and her head buzzed.
There.
That was better.
Too much.
She scoffed. There was no such thing.
Liquid tinkled as a servant refilled her wine, and Therese returned her attention to Amalthea and Othello.
