this year I devour.
It has been quite a while since Elchanan has used his magic. This new world seems less opportune for it; more than a few of the strangers he would’ve used it on have magic of their own, far better suited for combat than his, if it came down to it.
But it does not feel rusty, or strange, or old. He does not think it ever will. Using it is as easy as breathing, as familiar as a heartbeat; as soon as Elchanan draws on it he is all himself again, nearly glittering with power, the sound of his voice smooth as a ribbon, and a cold, vicious, ophic kind of satisfaction rises in him as he watches Samaira react.
The slow, almost calflike blink.
The way her eyes catch on something that stands almost where he does, but not quite.
The faint curl of her lips, as if dazed.
Then she extends her wing, a mockery of a rainbow bridge made in sepia, and Elchanan pulls her gently (gently) toward him. Now they both stand ankle-deep in the water, which, disturbed, spreads in strange concentric circles like the inside of an agate. Behind them the trees let out faint, unnameable sounds, something between a whisper and a moan; there is no one around for miles, it feels like, not even a god or n animal. The stars blink lazily overhead.
This world is far too quiet, Elchanan thinks. And he is disgusted, but does not show it.
He bumps his chest against hers, a brief, gentle flirtation, and then they are off. Dancing. Little steps through the water, ripples and waves. There is no music but the rustle of the leaves and the dull, sweet thump of Elchanan’s heart in his chest, relaxed, insistent; from here it seems Samaira is nothing less than clay in his grip, pliable, easy, beeswax melting under the heat of a hand.
Elchanan lets out a soft, warm breath. It ghosts over the base of Samaira’s ear, down the curve of her neck, twists and turns inside the coils of her hair; now his mouth tastes like metal, suddenly, like a desire more than desire.
Like hunger.
“Tell me,” murmurs the priest,“what ails you so.”
In the darkness, Samaira cannot possibly see the glistening curve of sharp teeth under his lips; she cannot see the sudden blackness of his eyes, the pupil growing; he cannot see how, when he smiles, it looks almost like a predator baring its teeth.
She cannot see because they are already oh-so-close, because, his voice has sunk in like an intravenous drug.
She has already let him in.
