dark sky toward the rising oasis crowning the horizon. Normally Haven wouldn’t have thought twice about slipping into Stolas’s embrace and taking to the air.
But as soon as they entered the Demon Realms, Haven turned to Stolas to complain about the location—and froze.
His eyes were glassy, the color of old bone. His breathing was shallow and labored. And his skin had taken on a waxy pallor that she’d only seen on corpses.
Jaw clenched and brow sheened with sweat, Stolas had reached for her. She hid her alarm with a soft laugh, making some excuse about needing to walk under the stars to clear her head.
He didn’t even argue, which was so unlike him that her alarm turned to full-blown terror.
It wasn’t continued blood loss. His new shirt was still pristine, and the few cuts she could see were fading pink lines.
He needed to feed. She had no idea how long he could last before he succumbed. But this, whatever this was, felt like more than just a sustenance issue.
And why hadn’t he given in to his baser nature and tried to feed on her yet? Especially after his cruel warning the night before?
She glanced sideways at him, and her heart raced into a hammering rhythm as she took in his half-closed eyes.
“Can I ask you a question?” she blurted, hoping conversation would keep him awake.
She took his grunt as a yes.
Where to even start? “How often do you need to feed?”
“Every . . . few days.”
That often? “So in Shadoria?”
He released a haggard breath. “There are a few lightcasters more than willing to help.”
“Because of the feelings of euphoria you give them in return?”
He gave a near-imperceptible nod, eyes cloudy and unfocused as they stared ahead. “Their light magick, like yours, comes from being able to access the energy of the Nihl, so when I magick-let a lightcaster, I’m not actually taking anything from them.”
“Because you’re using their doorway to take directly from the Nihl.”
Another faint jerk of his head.
She caught her bottom lip between her teeth. “What does blood-letting feel like? Is it similar to magick-letting?”
The line of his shoulders stiffened, his wings twitching. “Blood-letting is an archaic custom. It’s . . . messier. More primal. Not as pure as magick-letting.”
“Then why do some, like your sister, prefer it?”
“Because it satisfies a primal urge that lurks deep within all Seraphians. It isn’t the blood itself that gives us pleasure, it’s . . . it’s all of it.”
An icy wind blew back her cloak, and her breath caught as she took in her faded runemarks. They had gone from luminescent swirls of light to a faint flicker against her skin.
Worse, the place where she felt her magick reside was now a barren hole. Whenever she tried to reach for it, a cold, unpleasant sensation, like nerves grinding together deep within, made her stop.
A shiver swept through her. Wrapping the cloak tighter around her chest, she surveyed the landscape. Two enormous golden moons illuminated the night air to a pre-dawn glow, giving the false hope the sun would rise any moment. All around them stretched a sea of sand. Rising like a sea serpent against those choppy waves was the city of Cimmeria, a metropolis of colorful buildings, tents, and a dark palace. Engraved against the first swollen moon, the domed behemoth seemed straight out of a twisted fairy tale.
Above it all, winged shapes churned and dove. Demons? Something else? Did it really matter if they never made it past this endless wasteland of sand and wind?
Stolas’s breathing was ragged now, and she pressed a hand to her mouth. He looked a few steps from falling flat on his face. If that happened she wouldn’t be able to move him.
Not on her own.
And even if she somehow found a way to drag him, there was no way she could make it to the palace.
“Stop looking at me like that,” he rasped.
“Like what?”
“Like I’m . . . dying.”
“Are you?” Panic edged her voice.
He arched an eyebrow, the act taking more effort than it should have, and cast a sidelong glance her way. “Your faith in me is . . . overwhelming.”
His sarcasm wasn’t enough to comfort her. Not nearly. Knowing Stolas, his last dying breath would be reserved for some wry comment.
Desperation kicked in, and she slipped her arm around Stolas’s waist. His body jerked at the touch. Thinking he was about to make another sarcastic comment while refusing her help, she prepared to argue . . .