Distorted Affliction

Chapter Eighteen

There was no hesitation among the Mouri. This seemed to be what they had been waiting their entire existence for, and they sprang forward, too eager to get a taste. When the first set of fangs dug into my skin, it was just as Lazarus had said. There was no pleasure in the bite the way it had been with Sin, no feeling of euphoric bliss to get lost in.

No, there was only pain. Endless, excruciating pain that radiated through my entire body. The sound of a blood curdling scream filled the air, leaving my head ringing, and it took me a moment to realize that it was my own voice I was hearing. I wanted to fight, but their hands were grasping me from every angle, teeth digging in wherever they could find a space on my bare body. I could feel the warmth of my tears streaming down my face, and when I turned my head slightly, I caught sight of Seline beyond the swarm of Mouri.

The look on her face wasn't the pleased one I imagined she would hold watching the scene unfold before her. Her face was blank, controlled, yet I could see a pang of sadness in her eyes, though I wasn't able to hold her gaze for more than a moment before everything started fading.

When Sinclair and I had begun our journey, when I had allowed him to feed from me, it had been highly frowned upon. More so than that, it was one of the worst things a witch could do, to let Mouri feed from them. It was degrading, a stain on the very foundations we stood for. To allow a single Mouri to feed was a sin among our kind, but for this many?

This was the torture Seline had been warning me of, the very thing Lazarus would do that would leave me wishing I was dead. She had been right, beyond the sheer pain that I felt over the course of the days that followed, there was something deeper taking hold. Shame. More so, for another witch to witness the atrocity first hand, well...I could have been exiled permanently if Seline came forward to the coven, or even the council about what she was seeing. It wouldn't matter if it had been my decision or not, Seline was a respected witch in our community, and I had already tainted my name by allowing Sin to bite me.

The pain came and went as they fed and then allowed me time to recover before it all started again. I had no concept of how much time had passed, only the sense that my body hurt more than I could ever remember it capable of. Even through childbirth, something I had opted to do unassisted and unmedicated in the confines of our home on the lake, I could never recall feeling this kind of agony.

I was beginning to get familiar with the cycle, the rhythm of pain and then no pain. No one had bothered moving me from atop the desk, and even the discomfort of the hardwood against my bones seemed soothing in the moments when they would leave me alone. I was in and out of consciousness, but something inside of me felt weak, like I was nearing the end of my energy supply.

It was only when the smell of food suddenly wafted into the air around me that I realized I was starving. My mouth was dry, and when my lips parted, I registered that they were like sandpaper. A strong set of hands scooped me up, sending my vision spiraling as my eyes shot open in panic. I had grown accustomed to the routine, but this was unfamiliar to me.

A Mouri I didn't recognize shifted me onto a small sofa, it's soft, velvety touch welcome against my bare skin. There was a look in his gaze, something not quite sad, but certainly not the bloodlust I had been seeing on the pale Mouri faces lately. Pity, I realized. He felt sorry for me, and the thought sparked anger from deep within me.

I was a Bishop, and that meant something. I wasn't weak, though I certainly felt it in that moment, I knew that I couldn't allow myself to continue without a fight. My ancestors were strong, they sparked panic in their enemies in ways that rivaled whatever dread I felt inside of myself. Even my mother, a strong woman who had disappeared when I was young, had been feared among the world of the dead as well as the world of the witches. Carrying the name meant carrying the weight of power, power that I held regardless of the spirits, though it was magic I never touched.