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stanningjay · 2 months ago

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image of a dragon curled up on a book. Source: Canva stock photos

The Fiercest Challenge Calls for the Finest Knight.

There had never been any doubt that Sir Bayard was the kingdom’s finest knight—at least, of those still living, and still hale enough to swing a sword. Bayard had been knighted ten years ago, and he’d spent those ten years traveling the kingdom, his sword and his service available to any whose cause was just and true, and here he was once again, ready to set out on a new quest. He stood politely on the hastily erected stage in the town center of Northberry Bay and listened to Baron Hartwicke praise the valor of his past deeds.

And there were many; it took the Baron quite a while. Over the last decade Sir Bayard performed many heroic feats. He had saved the dozen daughters of Duke Delvaney, performed the five tasks of Churulruh, and unmasked an assassin mage who was trying to kill the queen, to name a few. Sir Bayard’s grandest adventure had involved three harpies and the king’s own jester, and it had ended with the Moon Maiden losing her heart to him for love. It was this tale Baron Hartwicke shared now, to the crowd of townspeople gathered in the square. The Moon Maiden had been so enamored of Sir Bayard’s valor that she’d descended from her palace in the sky and begged his hand in marriage.

He’d refused, and she had wept, and for some reason people always loved that part of the story. Bayard had notloved it, thank you. When he refused her hand, as a consolation, the Moon Maiden had given him a magic sword. It was called Spellsong, and the Moon Maiden had sung it to life from the fire of a thousand thousand stars. “If I cannot have you,” she proclaimed, with a tear in her eye, “take this, to keep you safe. I could not bear it if you were to leave this world, oh purest knight. My heart would fail and the moon would fall from the sky. Spellsong will always keep you safe and defend the innocent, as you do, my sweet beloved Bayard.”

Or something like that.

She’d given him the sword and the speech in the center of the capitol city, praising his heroics, the strength in his heart, and arms, and the cut of his jaw, and the gleam of his eye…and on, and on, and on. Bayard’s face burned scarlet by the time she was done, staring misty-eyed at him while what felt like half the kingdom looked on. The whole thing had been mortifying, and when he’d finally bent and kissed her knuckles in farewell, he’d thought, Thank the gods that’s done with. But he could hardly slip off unnoticed with a sword made from the hearts of a thousand thousand stars, could he? The damn thing shone like a bloody beacon, and, true to its name, it sang.

As far as hero-knights go, there were a few cornerstones of success that differentiated the cream of the crop. A magic sword was one, and Bayard felt great pride at earning one, like he’d finally become a true knight. An epithet for the stories was another, and unfortunately, after this business with the Moon Maiden, the people of the kingdom had passed right on by “Bold,” “Brave,” and “Brilliant,” to dub him Bayard the Beloved.

Still though, the sword was a mighty gift, the likes of which Bayard had never dreamt to possess. Only the finest knights received magic swords from magic maidens, or so the stories would have him believe. A lot of those stories ended with a wedding, but Bayard always left town before that part, thank the gods.

The sword’s singing was odd, but it had helped him on many occasions, telling false faces from true, and its blade could cut through any material used by one of dark intent. He’d been relieved the singing only rang inside his own head, because one misplaced sound could mean his death, when he sought to destroy the forces of evil and defend the innocent.

As now.

The town of Northberry Bay was being terrorized by a dragon. Northberry Bay abutted a harbor on one side, and was surrounded by cruel mountains on three others. Only one path offered passage through the mountains, and the dragon now sat athwart it. Sir Bayard had answered the summons, and when such a far-famed knight arrived to pick up the gauntlet, the Baron got a bit…carried away.

Every time, thought Bayard the Beloved as he stood beside Baron Hartwicke on the stage in the market square. Baron Hartwicke was outrageously wealthy, as Northberry Bay was one of the kingdom’s busiest ports, so Bayard had anticipated the Baron would offer him some sort of reward for his service. People never let him leave empty handed, and he accepted their gifts as graciously as he could, but that wasn’t why he’d become a knight. He’d taken an oath, a simple oath. Defend the innocent. Bayard was a simple man, too, with simple tastes. He liked a good fight, good ale, and good food. That was all he ever really needed.

Bayard the Beloved stood there on the stage, watching the Baron gesticulating beside him, whipping up the townsfolk as he listed Bayard’s past deeds, telling them that surely Bayard and his sword Spellsong would be their deliverance. Don’t do it, Sir Bayard prayed, his gracious smile firmly in place, a mask to hide his thoughts and the squirmy feeling in his gut. Please, don’t say it.

“…and furthermore,” The Baron continued.

No, don’t say it. Please don’t say it—

“If he can destroy this fell beast, I plan to offer the gallant Sir Bayard the hand of my daughter, Penelope, in marriage!”

Fuck, thought Sir Bayard. Every bloody time. Keep reading (free) over on Patreon!

(if you like, you can also download the story in ebook form here.)

#monster bf #queer fiction #dragon shifters #dragon boyfriend #fairytale vibes #original fiction #gay romance #knights and dragons #Dragonblind #Em Strange Writes #Dragon smut #dragon x human #cursed love interest #MM romance #gay romantasy #queer romantasy

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vthoang · 30 days ago

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On Silver Shores

4.5k male siren x male demon | cw: depression, chronic pain

Carver was one hundred sixty-four years old—much too young to die. But then again, that had never stopped him from trying to throw himself into death’s embrace. This time seemed promising enough, as he bled onto damp concrete. A dark sky hung overhead. Thunder rumbled distantly. Raindrops fell on him and diluted the crimson streams flowing from the hole in his chest.

One of his lungs had collapsed. The other was full of blood. He could normally hold his breath for forty-five minutes—maybe fifteen with blood loss—so breathing wasn’t as big an issue as the poison metal in his chest. It burned like someone had lit a fire between his ribs, and it prevented him from healing. Maybe he really would die here.

No, he’d never be that lucky.

He glanced to his side where his attacker lay unmoving. The giant wolf looked out of place, lying dead on a green lawn in the suburbs. Her gray fur was soaked. Blood still seeped from where Carver’s knife was lodged in her neck. Her gun lay in the grass by her hind legs. She’d shot him while still in humanoid form, and then transitioned into a wolf after he’d knocked the weapon from her hands. Her claws had taken a decent chunk out of his leg.

All the houses around them were dark and quiet. The low, distant rumble of thunder sounded overhead, followed by a flash of light and another boom.

“The storm should have concealed the gunshot.”

Thomas’ deep voice floated through the air before he crouched down. The rain didn’t touch him. His white button-down was dry, and the dark trousers held up by black suspenders didn’t have a drop of water on them. Silvery lines cut through his umber skin along his forearms. Soft streaks of gray twisted through his beard and in the short, black curls atop his head. Gentle, brown eyes peered down at Carver.

“I did tell you not to go alone, love,” Thomas said softly. “You get shot far too much.”

Carver pointedly stared up at the sky, away from his husband.

“Oh, are you going to pout now about this entirely predictable and preventable state of affairs?”

Carver’s indignant grunt made blood well from his mouth.

Thomas’ eyes flicked up before he disappeared from view at the next flash of lightning. As thunder boomed and then faded, the click of high heels over wet pavement joined the patter of the rain.

“Oh, dear. What have we here?”

The smoky voice wrapped in an Imperial accent reminded Carver of whiskey and fire and sin—all things the Professor often indulged in. He peered up at her. A black trench coat hung from her shoulders. Red stilettos covered her dainty feet. A matching red dress hugged every curve of her figure. She didn’t look older than twenty-five, like most preternaturals. In truth, she was forty-one times Carver’s age. The rain had soaked her short, black hair, so it fell over her right eye. Her irises were almost gold—a light amber that wasn’t natural. Carver could never stare at them too long. There was something incredibly ancient about her eyes, as if they had witnessed the rise and downfall of empires. They probably had.

His boss always knew how to make an entrance. They’d only been working together for six months now, but she had already made an impression so profound that just looking at her filled him with equal parts exasperation and relief. It was unexpected really. He hadn’t felt much of anything for the better part of a century, yet this enigmatic woman had inspired a sort of aggravated, begrudging fondness in him. Perhaps he should have been more respectful. She was one of the oldest creatures walking the earth. He must have seemed an infant to her, and yet she went through life with an almost childlike delight. She was probably amused by this whole situation.

“Would you like a hand, dear boy?” she asked with her usual cheer.

“Grgh,” Carver gurgled, which roughly meant ‘What the fuck do you think?’

“So sassy,” the Professor muttered and bent over him.

He mentally braced himself when she pressed her hand against the hole in his chest. Two fingers slid into the wound, and an involuntary convulsion compressed his throat. He wanted to scream, but the only thing that escaped him was blood. It dribbled out of his mouth as fresh pain spread through his chest.

“Easy,” the Professor said gently.

She dug deeper and deeper until she grasped the twisted metal lodged in his lung.

The burn of the bullet, paired with the pressure of her fingers, made Carver’s vision blacken. She was careful in easing the metal from him. The moment it left his body, iciness filled his chest, easing the pressure in it. Rain soaked into the wound. His collapsed lung healed in an instant. The shredded flesh of his chest mended together with the water’s aid. Carver found the strength to turn onto his side and cough out the blood from his lungs.

“Feel better?” the Professor asked, even though she knew the answer. “You’re lucky it’s raining. I hate having to break open fire hydrants for you.”

“I appreciate your help,” he grumbled unappreciatively.

“Yes, well, I was having a lovely evening with my partners at a soiree when you called.” She glanced at the dead lycanthrope. “It seems you didn’t really need me anyway.”

Carver arched a brow. “I was shot.”

“Oh, did you not want to die?”

He paused a moment, considering the question, and then shrugged. She had him there.

“Sometimes I don’t know when you’re joking,” she muttered with a sigh.

That made two of them.

She pulled him to his feet when he finished coughing up blood. He shuffled toward the wolf and crouched to inspect her body. In this form, she rivaled him in length at over six feet, and she was probably twice his weight in muscle alone. He pulled his knife from her neck and wiped the blade on his pants before sliding it into the holster at his hip. The blood that welled in the open wound dyed her fur bright red.

“This is the one that escaped the prison transport, isn’t it?” the Professor said as she stepped around the wolf.

Carver nodded. “She was incorrectly tagged as a vampire. Sonic restraints did nothing, and she got out.”

He coughed. Blood welled up his throat and burned through his nose. His hands shook as he wiped at his face and stood on unsteady feet.

“I need to get back to the Court,” he muttered, thinking of all the paperwork he’d have to fill out for this incident. “I didn’t get anything out of the wolf before we fought.”

The Professor looked him over. “My dear, please know I mean this with the utmost respect, but you look like a drowned rat. You’re going to go home and rest. I will go to the Court and complete your paperwork.”

He grimaced, annoyed at being dismissed so readily. “I’m fine now. The rain—”

“Is insufficient. I know how hungry you are, dear. You are not your best, and you will not be until you feed.” She waved a hand dismissively at him. “Go rest. That is an order.”

Once again, Carver coughed up blood, his traitorous body struggling to heal completely.

“Fine,” he bit out.

“And do clean yourself up,” the Professor said and peeled the bloody lapel of his duster from his shirt. “I think this outfit might be done for.”

He glanced down at himself. Dirt and blood covered his rain-soaked clothes. He lifted his hands. The blue and gold webbing between his fingers had extended up to the top knuckles from prolonged contact with water. A waxy sheen coated his umber skin. The lightened line around his ring finger made his stomach drop. His wedding band must have fallen off in the fight, but he couldn’t say when. If it was anywhere nearby, the cleaning crew would find it. And if they didn’t… Well, maybe that was for the best.

When he looked up at the Professor, Thomas stood a few paces behind her, staring at Carver’s hand.

“That’s going to sting,” Thomas commented with a tilt of his head. “Impressive line on that finger, too.”

The Professor followed Carver’s gaze to look back over her shoulder. Her eyes narrowed before she returned her attention to him.

“What are you looking at?” she asked.

Carver shook his head and ran a hand over his eyes. Thomas was gone when he could see again.

“Nothing, just tired,” he mumbled.

He turned without another word and headed down the sidewalk. His chest throbbed a bit, but his skin was still sucking in water. A bath would do some good.

His automobile was where he’d left it in front of a beige ranch-style house. The nondescript black hatchback had a blocky body with a spare tire on the back. It was just two years old and already had 50,000 miles on it from his biannual visits up north. His sister kept telling him to fly out, but she also hated air travel.

He climbed into his automobile and started it up. The headlights flicked on—though he didn’t need them. His eyes were designed to see into the dark depths of the ocean. Unfortunately, human cops would be wary of an auto driving through a rainy night without its headlights on, and looking as he did now, Carver would end the night with another bullet in him if he were pulled over.

“You ever going to tell her about me?” Thomas asked from the passenger seat.

Carver jumped at his husband’s sudden appearance and then let out a breath through his teeth.

“It’s none of her business,” he muttered. “Can I just drive in peace?”

Thomas waved a hand dismissively, but didn’t say anything else. He just stared out the rain-spattered window. Carver pulled away from the curb.

The streets of Vespera Bay were a maze of winding roads through uneven hills. Most of the houses were reminiscent of the colonial era, all smooth columns and boxy shapes. Honestly, they reminded him of his old home in Havitzford back in the 1700s. He’d built it with his own hands for his husband and sister. Maybe it was still standing.

His apartment complex was a rectangular mass of brick and bronze fixings. A rusted walkway led up to the second level apartments. Each door was maroon. An overhang shielded them from the rain, but puddles still amassed on uneven sections of the walkway. The first floor looked much the same. Venetian blinds hid everything beyond them in the little windows beside the doors. Across from the building was an autoport, with numbers over the spaces corresponding to the apartments.

Carver parked in space 103 and got out. His hands were shaking while he pulled his keys from his pants pocket. There was always a slight tremor in his limbs, but it got worse whenever he was starving. How long had it been since he’d last fed? Two months? The recommended frequency of feeding for sirens was at least once a week. But he didn’t feel the drive anymore. The primal lust, that delicious urge to gorge on pleasure, had been absent since 1811. The irony of it wasn’t lost on him. He was a siren, yet had spent more of his years than not disinterested in sex.

His apartment was on the first floor. He struggled to get his key into the lock from the shaking in his hands. The hunger was reaching a point where it wouldn’t be ignored. If he didn’t feed soon, his instincts would take over, and he’d ravage the nearest man in sight. That was unacceptable, even if the person likely wouldn’t have protested. A siren’s allure was near impossible to resist. Even so, rape wasn’t on Carver’s list of sins. He preferred to keep it that way.

Hardwood floors and sepia walls formed his apartment’s interior. It was wide and open, with a kitchen in one corner and a dining area beside it. A chocolate leather couch sat on the opposite side of the room. The door near the dining area led to the bedroom. It wasn’t much, but it was home.

“Mrao.”

He looked down at a black cat. She wound between his ankles while he stepped in and closed the door after himself.

“Hi, Mouna,” he murmured. “Sorry for being late. Are you hungry?”

Mouna was a tiny thing, barely eight pounds, with bright green eyes. She mewled at him and rubbed her head into his ankle. He smiled and headed to the fridge. A half-empty can of cat food sat on the top shelf. Mouna paced at his feet while he took out a plate and emptied the can onto it. She sniffed it for a while when he set it on the floor, but eventually took a bite.

He headed for the bathroom next to the living area. It was impeccably clean, as he liked to keep it. There wasn’t even a toothpaste glob in the sink. The floor tiles were a pristine white. Unblemished, olive green paint colored the walls. A phone hung above the toilet.

The mirror hanging over the sink showed the mess of tight curls atop his head. Just a century ago, he’d had to hide his natural blue hair, highlighted with bright splashes of blond. The world had changed significantly in that time, for the better in some ways. It wasn’t so long ago that his dark skin would have been regarded with outright hostility, rather than the insidious hostility of the modern age. The Republic’s racial notions were so odd—had been for several centuries. At least no one called him a mulatto anymore.

Pain abruptly shot from his ring finger to his shoulder. He rubbed the pale line around the digit with a curse. The pulses would be worse tomorrow. With any luck, they wouldn’t distract him from work, but eventually, in a few weeks maybe, he’d have to cut off the finger. If he didn’t, his nervous system would keep increasing the pain until he wouldn’t be able to function.

Thomas appeared in the bathroom entryway. He leaned on the doorframe with his arms crossed.

“The ring got pulled off in the fight with the wolf,” he said. “You could go back to look for it, unless you’re set on cutting off that finger.”

Carver ignored the comment and peeled his clothes off, leaving them in a heap on the floor. The waxy film on his skin shimmered. It was an automatic reaction to water, meant to decrease drag in the ocean. The film withered in the air, but never fully went away.

He stepped into the tub before turning on the showerhead. The spray was cold, as he preferred. Hot water for his kind was usually dangerous. Sirens preferred temperatures sub 70 degrees, which was why Vespera Bay was a convenient place to live. It rarely got above 80.

His shower was brief, intended only to scrub the dirt and blood off him, and then he switched over to the bath faucet and clicked the drain stopper in. A mason jar with sea salt sat on a corner of the tub. He poured a fair amount in the water before sitting down. Saltwater baths never felt like enough compared to the ocean’s embrace, but they were better than nothing.

Thunder shook through the floor and walls. The rainy season was starting up again. There were always a handful of thunderstorms every year, none quite so powerful or long as the ones on the southern coast, but the west in general had fairer weather. Earthquakes were far more dangerous here.

Carver ran his webbed hands through the water. The edges of his long fingers had taken a soft blue color that matched the thin membranes between them. Gold flecks spotted the webbing. His toes, long by human standards, also had webbing between them. Submerged long enough, they’d elongate into proper fins.

His banding pattern was the same blue and gold as his mother. The colors streaked across his limbs and the sides of his torso where scales lay just beneath the skin. Spines a deep blue, almost black, decorated the backs of his arms and lined the center of his back. They had barbs at the ends of them with paralytic venom, meant to stall prey long enough to consume it. The fangs retracted into his gums were designed for tearing flesh from bone. He kept his nails trimmed, but left alone, they grew into claws.

A siren’s strength didn’t lie solely in their predatorial attributes, however. No, they were feared for their allure. Everything about them, from their lean physiques to their perfectly symmetrical faces to the music of their voices, was designed to attract. Pleasure of the flesh was their real sustenance, not the meat itself.

Thomas sat beside the tub with a heavy sigh. The gold band around his left ring finger shimmered in the dim overhead lights. The muscle of many years of labor corded along his forearms and strained against the fabric of his shirt. Calluses from swinging hammers to hot metal covered his palms.

“You need to feed soon,” he remarked. “I’m sorry it can’t be me.”

Carver took a deep breath. The Court provided consorts for their siren employees. He had been resisting going, but with the gunshot wound, he would probably have to soon, lest he risk losing his control. The first couple times he’d fed after his mate died had felt like a betrayal. He’d vomited afterward. Time had lessened the revulsion, but had done little in returning Carver’s appetite. It would have been easier if he’d died with his mate like most sirens.

Pain shot up his arm from his ring finger again, and he held his breath until the ache subsided. He hadn’t taken off his ring for longer than a few seconds in the hundred twenty-five years he’d had it. But maybe this was for the best. He couldn’t carry Thomas with him forever, as much as his body wanted it.

“Don’t apologize,” he whispered against his better judgement.

Engaging with the hallucination of his dead mate was cautioned against by every psychiatrist he’d had. If he were honest with himself, he felt lonelier when Thomas wasn’t here—well, as here as here could be for a figment of his decaying imagination.

Thomas glanced askance at him. “I never wanted you to suffer for me like this. If I’d known it would have ended this way—”

“I would have married you anyway,” Carver whispered. “I would have married you a million times over and died as many deaths.”

Thomas didn’t respond.

A moment later, a tinny chime rang through the apartment. He leaned over the edge of the tub and reached up to the phone above the toilet. The cord was exceptionally long, so he didn’t need to leave the tub to hold the receiver to his ear.

“Carver,” he answered with a sigh.

“Good evening.” The deep, Imperial-accented voice of the Professor’s husband sounded no less smooth through the phone as it did in person.

“Hello, Damian,” Carver greeted with forced politeness. He was tired and feeling antisocial, but his manners wouldn’t let him show it.

“My wife informed me that you were shot earlier,” Damian explained, even though Carver knew exactly why he’d gotten a call.

Damian was the best doctor in the Republic—maybe in the world. At several thousand years old, he’d certainly had time to perfect his craft.

Carver glanced down at the pale, starburst scar over his pectoral where the bullet had torn through him. It had healed over already. The bath was only for comfort at this point. As a siren, Carver’s vitality was tied intimately with water—perhaps even more than sex.

“I think I’m all right,” he said. “I’m soaking in water right now.”

“Good. Did you add salt to your bath?” Damian’s clinical tone was oddly soothing.

“Yes.” Carver ran his hand over the water absently. It rose to meet him gently like an old friend.

“Do you have any shortness of breath or dizziness?”

“No.”

“Chest pain?”

“No.”

“Irregular heartbeats?”

“No.”

Carver kept answering all of Damian’s questions until the Professor said something indistinct through the phone.

“I’d feel more comfortable if I could examine him in person,” Damian muttered, and then after a pause: “What do you mean he’s fine? He was shot.”

“I am fine, Damian,” Carver said, trying to sound reassuring and not irritated. “I’ll let you know if anything is wrong.”

Damian sighed. “Call me if you experience any unusual symptoms.”

“Wilco.” Carver hung up and set the phone back in its cradle on the wall.

A minute had barely passed before it rang again. He sighed and pulled the phone to his ear.

“Is Damian coming over anyway?” he asked, confused as to why he was being pestered.

The Professor’s chuckle crackled through the receiver.

“No, much to his dismay,” she said, which prompted grumbling from Damian in the background. “I’m actually calling for business reasons.”

Carver ran a hand over his face, wanting nothing more than to fall asleep in his tub and forget about the world for a while.

“Yeah, sure,” he mumbled. “What’s up?”

“The Superiors were impressed that you found the wolf tonight.” The Professor drew out some of her words, as if she were contemplating something. “They’re less thrilled that she’s dead, and you got nothing out of her about the Garsuk.”

Carver sighed, anticipating this. The Garsuk were a group of extremist lycanthropes who believed in the eradication of all interracial unions. Being half-human himself, Carver was on their kill list, but it wasn’t just human unions they hated. They opposed any mixing of the races—vampires, sirens, fae, wolves, demons, shifters, or otherwise. A faction in the West had been hunting interracial preterns for a couple years, but they were too splintered to be much of a threat. Recent evidence suggested an organized unit had sprung up in a nearby city. The wolf Carver had killed was allegedly part of that unit, and now he’d never be able to confirm it one way or the other.

“I’m calling in an analyst,” the Professor continued. “Hopefully, he can help us get another lead with what we have.”

Carver frowned, disliking the idea of working with someone new. He got along with the Professor well enough, but he still preferred solitude.

“What analyst?” he asked.

“Jian used to be a senior member of the Court,” the Professor explained, “but don’t be fooled by the ‘senior’ part. He’s a decade or so younger than you.”

Carver probably should have held his tongue, but the Professor had always encouraged him to speak his mind. So he said, “I don’t know if it’s a good idea to bring an analyst in. We already have a lot to work with, and he may just slow us down by trying to find out things we already know.”

“Not this analyst.” The Professor sounded confident, which was more reassuring than Carver cared to admit. “He was a commander in the Red Army. He understands practicality.”

The Red Army was known for being as skillful as they were ruthless on the battlefield. Analysts worked at a desk. What a dramatic change in career.

“Why did he go from commander to analyst?” Carver asked, expecting anything from crippling injuries to PTSD.

“It’s not my story to tell.” The Professor paused a long moment, as if in thought. “Jian acts open and friendly, but he’s harder to read than an oral language. So, naturally, I’m sure you two will get along swimmingly.”

Carver elected to ignore that comment. “How can he help us?”

“His specialty is hunting people. If anyone can locate the Garsuk, it’s him.”

Thunder rumbled over the receiver.

“He hates this time of year,” the Professor added softly.

Carver glanced at the rain-spattered window beside the showerhead. “Is he averse to water?”

“Well, he is a demon. Prolonged inundation in water would kill him, but that’s not the only reason he hates the rainy season.” The Professor sighed. “Never mind. You’ll meet him yourself tomorrow.”

“All right, then. I’ll—” The pulse that seized Carver’s arm was the strongest yet. He clutched his ring finger, tempted to rip the offending appendage off right then.

“Fuck!” he hissed.

“Well, that’s not a nice word.” The Professor spoke lightly, but there was a note of real concern in her tone. “What’s wrong?”

He breathed through the pain until it ebbed. “I lost my wedding band in the fight earlier. My nervous system is upset by the absence.”

“Will you have to lose your finger?”

The softness of her voice irked him. People always looked on him with pity when they discovered his condition, like he really was as fractured as he felt—one splintered half of a whole, doomed to incompletion.

“Probably,” he muttered and glared down at his finger.

“I’ll ask the clean-up crew to look for the ring at the scene, but if they don’t find it—”

“I’ll be fine with one less finger.”

His work was necessary as the only thing keeping him sane. If the Professor refused him now, he’d just move on to the next job, but he would have preferred not to. This one was the best he’d had in years.

The Professor let out a long breath, sending a puff of static through the receiver. “We will discuss continuing your work with me tomorrow.”

That sounded like a threat, but before Carver could say as much, she added, “It’s not a punishment, Carver, and when I say ‘discussion,’ I mean just that. I am honestly wondering if you are fit to continue working with the Court. You are always starving. You are always in pain. You are never going to recover.”

Carver stared at the pale line on his finger, a deep ache as familiar as his shadow settling in his chest. Most sirens who survived their mate’s death killed themselves within a couple days if they weren’t cognitively crippled by the experience. He was arguably one of the lucky ones. His nervous system had endured the violent ripping of its other half to death’s hand, and he’d come out the other side with only a tremor, chronic nerve pain, and an appetite that was somehow both insatiable and absent. That was the price of survival—to be a ‘lucky one.’

He wasn’t lucky at all.

“Do what’s right for yourself, Carver,” the Professor murmured.

He didn’t respond—didn’t know how when an old grief constricted around his neck and stole his breath.

The line clicked out of connection.

He leaned back, compressing his spines against the tub. He was supposed to be dead now. From the moment he’d said his vows to a human with a tenth of his lifespan, he’d been prepared to die an early death. But then it hadn’t happened. And a century later, his choice had cursed him as an incurable illness.

The Professor was right. There was no recovery for him, just coping.

“Don’t lose this job, love,” Thomas said, but when Carver turned to look at him, there was only the empty bathroom.

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