a menacing step forwards when a frayed edge of parchment caught her eye.
‘What’s this, then? Something worth reading amongst such drivel?’
No sooner had the page turned than her feet froze in the sand. Her eyes went wide at the sight before her: an image that looked almost wrong in the midst of Lenk’s writings. With an elegance she had not seen in his other drawings of demons, landscapes and other combinations of equally boring and horrifying subjects, the page seemed less a sketch and more a memory, revisited frequently in the strokes of charcoal and ink.
It was slender, a wispy figure traced in smooth lines upon the parchment, hair long and unbound, fluttering like wings behind a naked, rigid back. Everything about the figure was hard, fighting against the softness of the lines and winning effortlessly. Even its eyes, brighter than black ink should allow, were fierce and strong.
It wasn’t until she noted the pair of long, notched ears that she heard his feet thunder on the shore.
He lunged, wrapped arms about her middle and pulled her to the earth in a spray of sand. She was breathless as he straddled her waist; whether from the drawing, the blow or the physical contact, she did not know. He loomed over her in a burst of blue, two eyes bright and dominated by vast, dark pupils. She found no memories of what that stare had once lacked, only a desire not to look away, a desire to meet his gaze.
And to smile.
Such a feeling lasted for but a moment before she spied the journal held high above him like a weapon of leather and paper. With a snarl, he brought it down and smashed it against the side of her face.
‘OW!’ She shoved him off and scowled as he skulked away. ‘How is that, to any race, a reasonable reaction?’
‘Based on the fact that a man’s journal is his sole refuge from the vile and uncouth elements of the world he chooses to name as his companions,’ the young man replied snootily. ‘And, as a violator of that refuge, I invoked my Gods-given right to bash your narrow head with that refuge.’
‘Disregarding the obvious fact that your logic is completely deranged,’ she pulled herself to her feet, ‘why so secretive about it, anyway? It’s not like I haven’t seen anything you put in there.’
His stride slowed at that, suddenly afflicted by some degenerative disease that forced him to walk, then trudge, then stop with a painful finality, rigid as a corpse in an upright coffin.
‘These are my thoughts.’ His whisper cut through the air like a knife.
‘Well,’ she gritted her teeth, feeling his voice rake against her flesh, ‘I mean, they’re fine and all, but—’
‘But what? You’ve seen them before, have you?’
‘No, but—’
‘Heard them, then?’
‘Not exactly.’
‘Exactly.’ He whirled on her, hurling his scowl like a spear and skewering her upon the sands. ‘You don’t see my thoughts. You don’t hear my thoughts. You don’t know anything beyond what your self-important shicty self believes you do.’ His mouth went tight as he tucked the journal under his arm and stalked away. ‘Let’s not ruin that special relationship we share.’
He had barely taken two steps before he felt her reply impale him and hold him fast.
‘I know you don’t dream.’
Lenk forced himself not to turn around; he would not give her the satisfaction of seeing his eyes widen, would not let her hear his heart skip a beat. The sound of the waves was suddenly uncomfortably quiet, the creeping of the mist far too slow for his liking.
‘Not like other humans, at least,’ she continued softly. ‘Yours are fevered and wild. You snarl and whimper in your sleep.’
‘And what tells you this?’ he replied, just as soft. ‘Whatever mental illness passes for shictish intuition?’
‘You cry out in the night from time to time.’ Her voice was emotionless, denying him any anger and any opportunity to end this conversation. ‘Not loudly, not lately, but you do. I’ve seen it.’
His breath caught in his throat. Suddenly, her hand was on his arm, the naked flesh of her fingers pressing against this rapidly tensing bicep. Though desiring not to, though he shrieked at himself not to, he turned and stared into her twin emeralds.
In the year he had known her, he had become accustomed to so much of her: her savagery, her ears, her profoundly morbid laughter. Even her near-total disregard for human life was something he had learned to accept about her. Her stare, however,