Redemption

CHAPTER TEN

The sky is pitch black, the sun having long since kissed the world goodbye. And yet Freya is still awake. The voices in her head have become far more persistent lately, and the visions from lives that are not hers all the more compelling. It's been a while since she fed, and even longer since she actually wanted to.

But she knows that if she doesn't devour an immortal soul soon, the very glue that holds her being together might just snap.

To that end, she'd invited the handsome seer home. She'd known that he wanted her, could see it in his eyes when first they'd met. And she'd be lying if she claims that she didn't want him too. It isn't the first time she's picked a meal this way. After all, post-coital devouring always left fewer questions behind, not that most immortals had anyone who might ask such questions.

And yet, she's always been a very cautious creature.

But as she lays beside his slumbering form, she finds herself facing a massive dilemma. She can't devour this man, can't bring herself to use his existence to fuel her own. The broken fractions of the spirits inside her rage and seethe, and her very blood demands that she do so.

But she simply can't.

It isn't like it's the first time she's ever experienced guilt, isn't as if she'd never experienced great sex before either. But what had transpired between them ran far deeper, and despite her initial intentions, she finds that she is somehow attached to the enigmatic seer.

He'd fucked her, driven her to the edge of insanity and back. But then, for hours, he'd make such sweet love to her that she'd nearly died on the inside. And yet, it was more than even that.

They'd connected somehow, on a deeper level that she had never experienced before. This man wanted to keep her, wanted to woo and claim her. And to her utter surprise, she'd quickly discovered that she wanted that too.

But the spirits within have other ideas.

Careful not to wake him, she slides off of the couch. Their clothes lay scattered about, and in a display that is entirely unlike her, she nearly trips over his shoes. The pain in her skull has intensified, grows harsher with every step she takes away from him.

She grasps at her head, tugging at her raven locks in anguish as she tries to stifle her cries. Through bleary, unfocused eyes, she recognizes the signs of her deterioration in her hands as they come away with clumps of now silver hair. Her hands themselves, normally slender and smooth, are quickly withering away. It reminds her of her birth, of the first time she'd been conscientious enough of her own existence to be appalled by her own appearance.

She needs to feed.

And now.

"Look at him, " the voices compel insidiously, "sleeping so peacefully. How yummy would his soul taste, we wonder?"

"No!" She shouts, overcome by terror at the very suggestion.

Hoseok stirs slightly, reaching out for her across the empty expanse of the leather couch. Freya stills, head in hands, and prays that goes back to sleep. He can't see her like this, can't know what she is.

"Because you know he'll never love us, " the voices croon smugly, "he'll despise us, be repulsed by our very existence. We should eat him now, and save ourselves the trouble."

"No, " Freya gasps. "Not him, anyone but him."

The noise in her head has become such a discordant cacophony, that she can barely think straight. It takes all of her willpower to concentrate long enough to throw on a set of clothes. And the face that she spots in the mirror as she passes is not her own, but that of a young girl.