Page 42 of Laced in Longing

Ash remains a statue as he watches me. His gaze burns.

“I would wait forever,” he answers. “Because you are mine, Maven. As I am yours. It is the nature of our sou⁠—”

“You keep saying that, but it doesn’t make any sense!” My voice rises, echoing. A group of kids glance my way, their expressions a mixture of concern and discomfort at the woman shouting at nothing. I lower my voice, not needing to add traumatized children to my long list of fuck-ups, as I shift closer to Ash. “How can any of this be true when I don’t believe in ghosts or gods? None of it is possible.”

“Your belief or disbelief changes nothing,” he replies, his tone maddeningly calm. “The truth exists regardless of your acceptance of it.”

My shoulders fall. “I just don’t understand what you want from me.”

He steps closer, the air around him crackling with energy that raises the hair on my arms. “What I want from you, Maven Talmay, is what I have always wanted: for you to remember what you are.” My chin rises as the distance between our bodies closes. I search the fabric over his face, wishing so badly that I could touch it in this moment.

“And what is that?” My question is a mere whisper, barely audible, asked regardless that I know what he’s going to say. Because him this close is scrambling my brain, and I need to hear him say it once more.

“Mine,” he says, the word vibrating through every cell in my body.

We’re both breathing hard, neither willing to break contact. He’s right here, and yet I cannot touch him.

When you tell it to leave, you must mean it completely. Every part of you must reject its presence.

I know what I should do. The rational, sensible course of action. Command Ash to go and never come back so that I may reclaim my life and my understanding of reality.

But as I stand here, surrounded by everything that is him, I’m forced to confront an uncomfortable truth: I’m not sure I want him gone.

Not yet.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

MAVEN

Sleet squelches under my feet as I walk alone back to my barren apartment. For once, I’m without company—Ash disappeared to wherever he goes when he’s not consuming my existence.

The cold air burns my lungs with each inhale, but I welcome the pain. It grounds me in this reality, this moment, this body that feels less and less like my own with each passing day. I don’t know what to do with myself anymore. Nothing has ever seemed certain, but the chaos tormenting my mind is unprecedented. Many questions plague me. Endless thoughts and contradictions weaken my understanding. Nothing is as it should be, and for once, I don’t think running away will help in the slightest.

A presence materializes beside me, so sudden I nearly stumble. My heart slams against my ribs, though the initial shock fades a moment later. It hasn’t even been two hours.

“How often do you need to feed?” The question tumbles from my lips before I can stop it, one of the many things I’ve wondered these last weeks.

Ash turns his covered face toward me, and though I still cannot see his expression, I sense his surprise at my unprompted question.

“Less often than mortals,” he replies. The street is mostly empty, saving me from the embarrassment of others staring at me talking to thin air. “Once every few days is sufficient, though I can go weeks if necessary.”

Clouds of breath swirl in front of my face as I process this. “And what happens if you don’t? Feed, I mean.”

“I weaken.” I wonder how often he feeds to keep himself visible to me for hours at a time. “My connection to this realm grows tenuous. My ability to manifest diminishes until I become little more than a whisper in your dreams.”

Something in his tone suggests he’s experienced that before—fading from this world as his hunger goes unsatisfied. The thought sends an uncomfortable twist through my gut. I shouldn’t care about his suffering, or wonder what it feels like to starve for something so abstract as longing.

And yet.

“What does it taste like?” I ask, curiosity pushing past my better judgment. “When you feed on someone’s longing?”

He’s quiet for several steps, as if weighing his answer. “It varies,” he replies after another moment. “The longing of a mother for her lost child tastes of salt and copper, like you would describe tears mixed with blood. The ache of unrequited love carries notes of honey turned bitter on the tongue, while yearning for a home that no longer exists feels gritty like ash—warm at first, then cooling to something that coats the mouth.” Well, none of that sounds pleasant; I’m not sure I would eat if I were forced to swallow tears and blood every day.

My apartment building appears ahead, its weathered stone façade catching the last rays of sunlight. I slow my pace, reluctant to end this strange conversation despite myself.

“And mine? What does my longing taste like?”

Ash stops walking entirely, his stillness so complete he might be carved from the same stone as the surrounding buildings. The air between us thickens.