To Bleed a Crystal Bloom by Sarah A. Parker

Fog curls around my ankles, collecting at the base of ancient trees, the fringing forest a clash of jeweled tones and deep pockets of shade. The clearing is large enough to offer a peek of plum-colored clouds slashed across the sky.

Krah glide through the bruised murk, squawking their wake-up call as I plunge my dagger deep into the boar’s stomach. The spill of thick blood coats my hands and steams the icy air, and I drag the blade down, carving a grisly seam, stabbing the weapon into the felled log I’m using as a table.

The atmosphere is smoky from the blazing campfire centered within a noose of charred rocks, bridled with a makeshift spit I built using a few thick branches.

A gentle breeze whistles through the trees, bringing forth more hints of that musky, feral odor that makes my hackles rise.

But there’s something else, too.

I pause, elbow deep in gore, smelling the air ... picking up on a fresh array of other scents; one masculine, one feminine, one new and sweet and—

“Fuck.”

I hadn’t counted on anyone being out this late. Not all the way up here.

This clearing is a thoroughfare—the moss, the grass, the trees all marked with a mottling of scents. It’s the main reason I chose this spot.

Forest dwellers come to clean their kill in the brook that cuts through the middle, or to cook their meat to avoid drawing unwanted attention to their homes or villages. But most know better than to be out this close to sundown, and whoever those people are—the owners of the three fresh scents being shoved toward me—they’ll want to be far away when I start cooking this beast.

I grip hold of warm, wet organs and rip them free, lumping them on the ground next to me with a heavy splat.

The flies descend like they’re starving.

I can’t begrudge them that, not when I know the pull of true, unrelenting hunger.

A few minutes later, a male threads through a veil of leafy vines. He’s tall, dark haired and broad shouldered—his hand darting out the moment his gaze lands on me, preventing a petite woman from fully emerging through the same fall of foliage.

I watch them from beneath the rim of my hood, hand wrapped around the boar’s still-warm heart.

The female is pretty with shoulder-length hair, a dusting of freckles on her cheeks, and slanted eyes that look familiar. A squirming bundle is strapped close to her chest, shielded by one of her soil-stained hands.

Neither of them moves as I rip the heart free and toss it to the ground, then push my hood back.

The man lets out a startled sound and falls to his knees, dropping his wooden bucket. The woman lowers much slower; a cautious curtsy, likely to avoid disrupting her young.

“Master,” the man blurts, voice strained. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t instantly recognize you.”

I study them, noting their lack of weapons other than a small blade hanging from the male’s belt.

A low rumble agitates the back of my throat, threatening to spill.

“Are ... are you just passing through?” he asks, pine-green eyes meeting mine. They widen, his gaze flying to the carnage littering the ground next to me.

“I was,” I respond, tone low and even. The last thing any of us need is for them to panic. “Do you have a bunker?”

He frowns, the woman raising her other hand to her squirming bundle.

“Ahh, we do ...” He gestures to the bucket tipped on its side, spilling white, tumor-like lumps over the ground. “We use it to store the truffles.” His eyes flick to my kill, back again. “Do you ... do you require use of it? To store your kill? That’s a lot of meat for one man.”

“No,” I mumble, yanking my bloody dagger from the log and tossing it through the air. It plunges hilt-deep into the ground at the man’s feet. “Take the blade. Go straight there and don’t come out until sunup.”

They both pale, and the wide-eyed woman falls back a step.

“Of course,” the man says with a brisk nod.

They collect the truffles with frantic, trembling hands, retrieve the dagger, and then the couple darts off, leaving nothing but the stark scent of fear.

I finally let my growl spill, giving it weight, making sure it ripples through the forest. It’s a possessive sound that finds berth in the trees and the shrubs and the very ground I’m standing on.

I toss some offal closer to the tree line and in the bubbling brook, then smear my face, chest, and neck with the blood of my kill. Impaling the carcass with a wet, sturdy branch, I suspend it over the flames, then sit on the red-slicked log, pull up my hood, and wait.

* * *

The sun dropped a while ago, leaving the forest cast in a darkness that seems heavier than usual. The only reprieve is the crackling fire throwing off a deluge of heat and smoke.

I reach forward and spin the stick, letting the flames lick at the boar from a different angle, making the skin bubble and boil, hissing in protest as juices dribble onto blazing logs and red-hot stones.

It was a well-fed beast, and it’s letting off the strong, heavenly musk of roasted game. A scent that makes my mouth water as I watch the fat drip, and drip, and drip ...

The breeze picks up, feeding the smell into the lungs of the forest while I rotate the boar to the rhythm of my slow, churning thoughts.

Perhaps because of the late hour and my body’s internal clock surging with anticipation, but I think of those lilac eyes glaring at me with unguarded rancor ...

I hate you.

Oh, precious. You don’t even know the meaning of the word.

Better her hate than those heated looks she’s been blindsiding me with recently.

Another turn of the bubbling, spitting, sacrificial animal.

The boar was foraging for truffles in a glen—at least until I put my blade through its heart—and truffle is a strong flavor; one which has infused the meat, adding a botanical depth to its roasting smell.

It’s staring through wide eyes as it spins its circles, tusks still jutting from a wide-open mouth. It squealed at me as it died, and I can see the echo of that sound on its half-charred face.

In hindsight, lobbing the head off might have been prudent.

I grab a pointy stick and give the pig a prod, freeing a squirt of fragrant juice the exact color of the liquid Orlaith offers me in her goblet every night.

I sigh, shoving the thought aside.

Fucking hate that color.

The krah stop squawking, the songs of the forest coming to a silent crescendo, and I twist the boar again, hearing a twig snap from just outside the tree line.

There’s some sniffing and an almost inaudible growl.

The hairs on my arms and legs lift, a violence threatening to arc up inside me.

Another twist of the meat, the thick branch groaning under the weight. Another mouth-watering drip splashes onto the blazing wood.

Another snap of a twig.

It goes against my nature to keep my back to a threat, especially one with such a potent musk. But I weather the pull of my instincts, waiting ...

Listening.

I sense a presence step into the clearing behind me. Can scent his desire to slay. I move off the log, kneel, and rip a chunk of meat free, layers of it shredding apart as ripe juice dribbles down my fingers.

The air shifts.

I snatch the pommel, whip my sword off the ground, and whirl on the Vruk galloping forward in long, powerful strides. In the same motion, I slash through the animal’s exposed chest and throat, spilling him before he even has a chance to roar or push talons from those huge, feline paws.

Leaping sideways, I watch him continue to amble forward, drop to his haunches, and collide with the spit.

Sparks and coals and rocks scatter.

He lets out a gurgling lament, then tips, and the ground absorbs his hefty weight with a shuddering protest.

He jerks once, then stills, black blood pumping from the gaping wound, muddying his thick, winter pelt and buttering the entire boar with oily muck.

I toss the piece of shredded meat, listen to it thwap against the dirt as I turn from the beast and scan the tree line.

Two ... four ... seven hulking, snarling Vruks prowl free from the bush, heads low and talons out, pelts thick like the one I just slew. Their lips are peeled, ears flattened against their bulky heads, drool dripping from sharp, exposed fangs.

I sigh, slide my foot back, and draw a steady breath.

All at once, they charge.