Vassal Sterling D'Este (top 10 books of all time .TXT) 📖

blood, for the open cut, the slice in her own flesh Alphonse had deliberately caused despite her best efforts… One moment watching as Etienne bartered for a ride on a wagon bound for a small town near the border to the Wildlands, the next pressing her thumb so hard against a rusted nail on the wagon side that she pierced her own flesh.

Now, in the back of the wagon, swaying gently with the movements of the oxen pulling them, Alphonse neither could heal her bleeding thumb nor allow herself to do more. To taste the blood. To rub it over her brow and across her throat as the impulse urged her to do.

Trapped in her own body,Alphonse only watched its course, mesmerized by the progress the red stuff made.

The sickness, the impulse, whatever it was housed within her body, had grown bored with the pastoral scenes and slumbered for a time, only to awaken suddenly and viciously. During those times, it was all Alphonse could do to not snap at Etienne’s rambling, if good-natured, observations.

Or worse.

At times she nearly felt herself attacking Etienne, slapping him or… biting. Other times she felt the creature fixate on Etienne with such acute attention, Alphonse wondered what precisely she—it— would do to her friend. Devour or bed him?

That thought deeply disturbed her, as Etienne was a brother to Alphonse.

She mostly felt in control, but those instances where it slipped or where she was gone entirely… Those were the most terrifying.

One moment walking down the road that eventually led to the Wildlands, the next bathing in a pool of spring water, clothes sodden and clinging to her form, bronze locks plastered to her veil…

One moment curling up to sleep in the bed of a small wayside inn, the next standing in the back garden, staring up at the moon, starlight kissing her face and hands, nothing on but her nightgown…

One moment eating an uninspiring but filling oat bran, the next snapping the neck of a live rabbit…

That last memory, in particular, made Alphonse shudder. From what she could tell, she had literally caught the poor creature with her bare hands. How she had managed to be swifter than a hare was beyond her.

She and Etienne had eaten well that night, at least.

But now, with a ride taking them closer to the Wildlands, Alphonse wondered how much of her would be left when they made it to the temple. Would her symptoms worsen or plateau? Would she continue to have these blackouts and strange urges?

The blood continued down her arm, starting to drip onto the wagon bed with a steady rhythm, and the sickness inside purred.

✶

The wagon had been a stroke of genius.

It wasn’t much faster than walking, of course, but after days of trekking through northwestern Ingola, Etienne was more than willing to rest his blistered feet. He let them swing from the back of the wagon and leaned back on his hands to enjoy the relative peace.

It was a warm, sunny spring day alive with the scents of tilled earth and blooming things. Birds called in the distance, and the low thrum of insects made for a lazy accompaniment to their slow progress. The land around them was still often populated by farmland, though the gentle plains of midwestern Ingola were gradually becoming rolling hills the closer they got to the Brig’ian Mountains.

For the first time in days, Etienne felt as though he could relax. Alphonse was tucked behind him in the wagon, not eating through their funds in the capital or wandering off in the woods. He could breathe easy and satisfy his curiosity for the lands away from central Ingola, where he had spent his entire life.

Here in the northern part of the country, they had even started to see small ruins. This area had been a part of Rhosan in ages past, a fact proclaimed in cairns, crumbled temples, and the wary looks on the faces of natives. They were just passing a simple cairn, constructed of rough stone blocks dusted in moss. It had likely stood as long as the road had been here, a marker for travelers between the nations for centuries.

Excitement brightening his face, Etienne turned to tell Alphonse about the cairn when he started in horror. She was sitting against one side of the carriage, curled between the sacks of flour their driver was hauling from his mill. One arm was raised to eye level so that she could watch a thick drop of crimson travel slowly past her wrist.

“Alphonse!” Etienne scrambled haphazardly to her, reaching out to take her wrist in his hand. He pulled a clean handkerchief from his pocket and began to mop up the blood. It was clear on further inspection that she had torn open the pad of her thumb.

“What d—” Etienne was interrupted by the miller calling out roughly from in front of them.

“Don’t move ‘round s’much. Bothers the oxen.”

Etienne crouched beside Alphonse and studied her hand. Thankfully, he didn’t think the honest old man had seen her. “What did you do to yourself?” he asked, worry contorting his features. “Why didn’t you heal it?”

It was difficult not to get frustrated with Alphonse. Every day was like this, constantly being on edge for the next strange impulse the creature would have, and yet, even as the feeling appeared in his chest, guilt smote Etienne for having it. She was going through this because of him. The least he could do was be patient with these strange symptoms.

“Do you remember it?” he asked, more gently this time.

❀

“I wanted to see the blood,” she murmured, trying to pry her hand back from him, tongue darting out to lick her lips in anticipation. Etienne’s meddling was distracting her from fighting the sickness’s demands.

Just a taste.

It crooned. It sounded so reasonable.

Alphonse winced, pushing back, and the voice growled but grew dimmer.

She took her injured thumb in her free hand and covered it. Green light radiated out from her healing touch, and the slice was