The blade gleamed in the moonlight, cold and cruel and deadly. The pad of my thumb rasped horizontally across the sharpened edge, feeling its razor-fine brutality. As my too-dry skin scraped against the metal, I wondered again what the Hunter had made me. In his world, only predator and prey existed. I still didn't know where I fit.
Owls hooted from the dead forest around me. Further away, I heard the burbling waters of a nearby creek swirling between exposed roots and jagged rocks. Ahead lay the fountain I'd been seeking. Gargantuan, it sputtered brackish filth through its corroded pipes, spraying drops of rot in fits and starts as I drew near.
It was the perfect place to be in pain.
I didn't think the Dark One denned here, but it was the only place I'd seen him. The call came once a moon, and each time, I'd trek up the mountain and find him.
He was always still when I arrived, coiled violence held in wait, but nothing else was the same. The first time I'd come here, he'd watched me from a tree limb, head cocked to see what I'd do. When I set the knife down and knelt, waiting, he jumped down, walked up behind me, pulled my head back by my hair, and crooned, "This will hurt." I shivered.
Then he laughed mockingly, knicked my thumb with the knife, and sealed the wound with a lick. I felt his nails press against my neck and leaned into him before he suddenly disappeared. That day cost me only a few drops of blood, but it taught me much more. My shiver was as much desire as fear.
I told myself this would be the last time. Next time, I'd let the call take me. I didn't need a human form this badly, and at least as a hound, I'd bed down with a full belly. But even I could taste the lie heavy in those words.
