Warm Blood

Chapter 12: Taste of Revenge

The moon rose swollen and sickly white, its necrotic light glazing the jagged roof of the abandoned manor like frozen milk. The world was still—not the peace of sleep, but the suffocating stillness of a held breath. Then, from the balcony rail, two dark shapes unfurled—leathery wings whispering open with the sound of dry parchment, catching the frigid air in one powerful, bone-cracking surge.

A shimmer, a blur, a tremor of wind—Lord Raiden and Valeria ascended as one, slicing through the grasping mist as though the night itself recognized its masters. Their laughter—low, delighted, and utterly inhuman—roared through the clouds before fading into a predatory silence. Beneath them, the forest rolled in silver waves, a sea of needles. The scent of pine and damp earth rose to meet them, clashing with the metallic tang of hunger; the taste of life, fleeting, distant, and soon to be extinguished.

They flew until the ancient trees began to thin, revealing the skeletal outline of a stone cottage huddled by the curve of a black, sluggish river. Smoke drifted from its crooked chimney, curling weakly into the cold air like a dying man's prayer. It was a place of memories Valeria had outgrown in a single night of blood.

Valeria slowed first, her wings folding inward with feline grace as she glided to the ground, the transition from monster to girl almost seamless. Her feet touched the damp, yielding soil soundlessly. Raiden landed beside her, the heavy silk of his coat whispering around his polished boots, his presence a dark blot against the pastoral scene.

"Here?" he asked, his voice a velvet blade, each word carrying a measured edge that demanded blood. He watched her closely, searching for a flicker of the girl she used to be.

Valeria's lips curved, revealing a hint of white. "Home," she murmured, the word tasting of both clover honey and bitter hemlock. "They spent years tethering me to this dirt with their love. Let's make it peaceful at last, my lord. Let's cut the strings."

They walked through the yard where weeds grew tall and choking, brushing her knees like desperate hands. The garden gate hung crooked on one rusted hinge, creaking a rhythmic, mournful warning. Inside the window, bathed in the amber glow of a single lamp, two figures sat at the dining table—a man and a woman—bowls of thin soup steaming between their trembling, age-spotted hands.

Even through the glass, Valeria could feel the thrum of their pulse, the heavy vibration of their perpetual fear. It tasted like salt and stale sorrow, sharp and addictive on her tongue. They were waiting for a ghost to walk through the door.

Her expression hardened, the last vestiges of warmth draining from her features. "Still worrying," she said under her breath, her voice tight. "Still praying for a daughter who died the moment you let Rocco take me to the woods. Even when I'm not theirs to worry about, they try to own my grief."

Lord Raiden's crimson gaze remained fixed on her profile. "Love is a lingering sickness, Valeria. A slow rot of the spirit. If you wish to truly fly, you must free them of it. And free yourself."

She smiled faintly. "Gladly."

She stepped up onto the porch. The old, silvered wood moaned beneath her unnatural weight as she lifted her hand and knocked. Once. A heavy, final sound that echoed in the small valley.

The scraping of a chair followed, frantic and hopeful. Her mother's voice trembled, brittle as dried leaves. "Who could that be at this hour? Oh, Elias, what if it's news?"

The door opened with a weary, welcoming creak, and the warm, suffocating scent of broth and dried lavender spilled out into the night, clashing with the cold scent of the grave that Valeria brought with her.

Her mother froze. Her eyes went wide, reflecting the pale, beautiful monster standing on her mat. Her hands flew to her mouth to stifle a sob, and for a heartbeat, the world ceased to turn. She saw the face she loved, but not the soul behind the eyes.