Father was strangling me. Excuse after excuse bubbled up, but no words could come out. Beyond his hands and his passionless face, drops of crimson rain streaked through the darkness, soaking both of us. Old air burned my lungs more and more until the whole scene faded.

  I woke up choking, gasping for air. Chill water pressed in on me, but hunger burned in my belly. One gulp of air, and I was under again, battered on all sides as I was thrown wall to wall. Over the din of rushing water, I could hear metal banging and groaning. Remnants of sickeningly familiar vitae lingering in the water were quickly exhausted as my ruined body struggled to hold itself together.

  No demonic sight, no amount of eyes could let me see through the swirling water and maelstrom of debris. I felt with my legs, wincing as I bounced. Two silk strands I threw out stabilized the worst movements, but I could conjure no more and hunger burned away my rational thought to raw instinct.

  A leg touched air; I moved and filled my lungs. Fatigue settled cold in my bones and I felt conscious thought pull back. Focus. Survive.

  Before long I was sitting in my Garden, cross-legged at the top of the hill. The pond was dry, the plants were dormant. Even the immense vine wrapping my silken “tree” looked wan and sickly. My hands on my knees wavered, translucent.

  A sudden jolt sent me tumbling down the hill. Right as I was about to crash into the thorns, I was yanked up and out of my dream. Like the night I’d been transformed, I watched through my own eyes as I pulled myself through the wreckage.

  The water rushed by, but it no longer roared, and inside the wreckage it was nearly still. Kicking and moving my spider legs in a way I never would have thought, I swam free and onto stream-worn rocks.

  Warm oranges and violets of sunset reflected off the cliff that hemmed the opposite bank, but I had little time to appreciate them as I jerked myself toward the steep forest ahead of me. Behind, the twisted metal wreckage I’d emerged from was barely visible, wedged between two boulders.

  One single thought dominated all else: Hunger.

  My steps stumbled, and I fell onto my arachnid legs. They scuttled forward, carrying me almost like a puppet, jerky and unnatural. This wasn’t a proper hunt; this was desperation.

  My first victim was a deer bedding down for the night. Like a creature from a horrible tale, I did not go after blood, but vitae. Drops in a barrel, I drained and watched myself leave a warm corpse.

  More deer, small game, even birds.

  I strained against the all-consuming hunger, unwilling to fall back into my garden and watch the blood-like rain fall. Soon, my worst fears were realized.

  Voices up ahead. Smoke from a fire on my tongue.

  When I tried to turn away, my body fought back. Burning hunger pulsed with each twitch of a limb, each drip from my blood-soaked jaws. The barest hints of noise; a predator fighting against instinct.

  Run! Get away from me!

  A rich smell of cooked meat—the prey’s guard is down.

  My main eyes blurred, top set first, the predator blinking and not understanding why even as she crept closer to an irrevocable mistake. Every limb that reached out to scratch a tree, every foot pulled to break a stick, none of it seemed to be enough.

  If I crossed this line…

  I can’t watch. Don’t make me watch. Like swimming down through tar, I plunged myself back into my Garden. Solid hands and legs greeted me: a good start. But there was not enough vitae to feed everything I’d built.

  It was withering, dying. Every drop I took now would save so much…

  I dropped to my hands and knees and took a frantic fistful of thorns. The pain, even metaphysical, brought me just a few moments of clarity.

  Reality asserted itself like the river’s icy water. In a way, I was still drowning. Orange light cast flickering shadows around the trees, stew and warm bodies smelling sweetly oh so very close. From my core, the hunger surged back.

  Before the fog took my mind, I pushed everything into my limbs and jumped away, back toward the river.

  ***

  At a sudden crashing sound, both men jumped.

  “Told you somethin’s out there,” the wiry one said, looking out into the dusk-lit forest.

  The other one set the spoon back in their stewpot. “I’ll go take a look.”

  “Don’t. Sit down, keep your ears sharp, and let’s eat. If we’re lucky, it was just something big that smelled what’s cooking.”

  Despite a set jaw, the bigger man nodded and sat back down as the wiry one loaded his crossbow. “Just sounded almost human, for a second,” he mumbled to himself.

  ***

  Blood rain fell again in my Garden. Outside, my body was massacring the local wildlife. Tears streaked my many-eyed face reflected in the pond, and my arms hung limp at my sides, mud-stained fists matching two divots punched into the ground.

  Family and obligations kept pinching together the fraying ends of mind, until I heard the echo of a chilling voice.

  You will become all that you hate.

  How much longer until that was true? If it wasn’t already.

  Each drop was so miniscule, but they muddied the pond all the same, fed the roots, nourished that little bit of me that wanted to be able to surface again to the waking world.

  Hands smearing mud on my naked knees, I pulled myself into a cross-legged position, my spider legs forming a now-familiar shield as they curled around me. I closed my eyes—two, four, six, eight—and I breathed.

  Strands pulled together as the Garden around me struggled to life. Meditation always came with memories for me: regrets, promises, the few brilliant flashes where I’d succeeded. Organizing a budget, training with Mother, learning to schedule my time around Azalea’s nonsense.

  The minutia piled onto itself until I seemed to find myself again. Silk, who was once Slate.

  Her Garden—my Garden was spread out, impressive. Inefficient. The vitae that fed it, despite my efforts, was so often wasted.

  Mother had been the gardener in the family, but I’d learned at least a few things. Already, I’d applied them, but I hadn’t pushed toward any limits. Now, though, now I required perfection.

  Layers and runnels and drainage. The “sun” here wasn’t real, but it mattered all the same—shade and light. Damp and dry. Time lost its meaning as I worked, and at some distant point I realized my body had stopped. Vitae pulled up toward the sky, dripping up from leaves and streaming out of flowers. As soon as it had started, it stopped, and silk garbed me from head to toe, my limbs hidden and vision narrowed even in the Garden.

  Vitae could not replace raw exhaustion, it seemed. All the same, either my instincts were more complex than I knew, or my thoughts in the Garden could influence my body in the waking world. Regardless, I continued my work.

  When it reached its zenith, an unexpected touch pulled me jerkily back into the waking world.

  ***

  Fletcher found the girl by the river. Despite Nook’s insistence, he couldn’t shake how human that brief yelp he’d heard had been. She was barefoot, mud soaking into the hem of an outfit he could tell was made of a fine material.

  He thought of his daughter back home, and before he could think better of it, he was shaking her shoulder. She roused with a start and jumped back with startling quickness, splashing both of them with mud.

  This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

  Wide, dark eyes met his, and he said the first thing that came to mind. “You’ll be alright.”

  ***

  I’ll be alright. That’s what he’d said. I stared at the man, my heart thudding in my chest. The hunger wasn’t gone, and my hidden fangs twitched. He wore a genial expression of concern underneath a slightly wild mustache and beard. He was large, taller than me by a half a head and twice as wide, but he moved slowly, like I might run away. Roughspun peasants’ clothing hung off his frame—reasonalby well-fitted, and complementing a sturdy pair of boots.

  “You can get dry by our fire, if you want.” He looked almost bashful.

  Should a human feel the cold? Probably. I looked down and saw myself much the same as in my Garden: barefoot and covered in mud. It didn’t take my instincts to nod at him. Purely because it would be suspicious not to, of course.

  After washing off the worst of the mud, I followed the man back to his fire. He seemed genuinely nice, though my silence seemed to keep him quiet. In reality, I had many questions to ask the man, but I couldn’t figure out the right way to broach them. Not yet, not until I was certain I should.

  Soon, I could smell smoke, and see faint flickering through the trees. Ahead of us, through leaves and branches, was another man in peasants’ garb, tending a small stewpot over a fire. There were two packs nearby, and a small stack of fresh pelts to one side.

  The man in their camp looked up when we walked out of the darkness, surprise lighting in his eyes. Cocking his head to one side, he raised a loaded crossbow. I leaned on my instincts and found myself hunching my shoulders, looking smaller and weaker. Those same instincts struggled with the idea of these two men as anything but prey. Fighting for control and consciousness both, my mouth opened and closed noiselessly.

  “What in the world…” the crossbow-wielding man mumbled.

  Before anyone could say anything more, my stomach spoke up, letting out an audible growl. Suddenly, the smell of their stew made my mouth water—vitae or no, I needed real food.

  “Apologies…” I mumbled. “I shouldn’t impose.”

  The man who’d found me looked down with a soft smile, then gestured for the other to put the crossbow down.

  “She’s a runaway, Fletcher,” the other man said as he set the crossbow aside, still strung.

  “And a hungry one,” Fletcher replied. He gestured for me to come with him into the clearing. “The grumpy one is Nook.”

  Nook eyed me. “She’s soaking wet, but her clothes are too nice for someone running around out here.”

  Wide-eyed, I tried to think quickly, but the words wouldn’t come. “I… got lost.”

  The grunt Nook gave me didn’t inspire confidence, but I unsteadily walked into the clearing all the same. By the firelight, and with more of a chance to focus, I could see him better.

  Nook almost seemed to be Fletcher’s foil: thin, wiry, and wearing a clean-shaven look of naked suspicion, he was definitely the younger one. There was an almost familiar resemblance to the two: the same jaw, same dark brown hair, though Fletcher’s was receding.

  I sat down on the ground as close to the fire as I dared and crossed my legs before Fletcher could offer me a spot on their log. After a moment, I pressed my hem down and pulled my ankles tighter.

  “Don’t suppose you want to tell us where you’ve run away from?” Nook asked.

  “Run… away?” My feigned ignorance wasn’t going to fool anyone.

  “Yeah, you’re clearly a runaway. Only question is how you ended up here. With your clothes intact and unhurt.”

  “I…”

  “Let her be for now, Nook,” Fletcher chided, surprising me. “She’s hungry, and we’ve got food and time enough not to interrogate a cold, exhausted girl.”

  Nook just rolled his eyes. “Fine, but I’m watching her.”

  While Nook watched me, I watched Fletcher check the stew. When the smell hit me, my stomach growled again, louder this time.

  He put the lid back on and sat down, but the smell of cooked meat and spices lingered. “Let’s get some food in her first, and then we can ask her what happened.”

  The next few minutes were spent in silence. Vitae here in this valley was certainly denser than it had been in the city, but without slipping into my Garden, I could only collect the barest trickle. Half my concentration was spent trying to rein my instincts in: I would not hunt these two innocent men. Thankfully, my control didn’t waver.

  Fletcher was watching me as well, but a lot more subtly than Nook. No look seemed like a leer, just concern: for me and them. Young women didn’t tend to just be alone in the woods, and I didn’t know fully how remote this area was. Though from Fletcher’s comment, it had to be out there. Somewhere along the line between Grayriver and Hearthome meant it couldn’t be too remote, though. They shouldn’t be concerned about demons, right?

  “Are you cold?” Nook asked suddenly.

  I furrowed my brow. Should I be? “Not really,” I answered.

  He grunted, while Fletcher rummaged through his pack. “Here.” He handed me a cloak. “Take this and sit closer to the fire. If you’re not feeling the cold, that’s a bad sign.

  I tugged at the hem. “Really, I’m alright, I—”

  “You’re shivering, lass.”

  My hand on the hem was shaking, moreso because of how close he was. Not much of a meal, but it would be so easy…

  Just to get him to leave, I nodded and half stood, scooting closer. The warmth and the cloak really did take the edge off a chill I hadn’t felt. If an errant ember… Up close like this, my instincts were even harder to control, and my stomach made its displeasure known again.

  Fletcher walked back over to the pot. “I’d say the stew’s about done. We don’t have a third bowl, but I can just use the pot when you two are done.”

  Wary, but still kind. Though Azalea had repeatedly described my upbringing as cold, it didn’t mean I couldn’t understand kindness. “Thank you,” I said softly. And I meant it. Earlier, he told me I would be alright, and I couldn’t get those meaningless words out of my head.

  Here I was, a predator in disguise, something suspicious enough to warrant wary gazes, and they were sharing their stew with me first. I stared into the steaming bowl and stuck the big, ill-made spoon into it.

  “Careful, it’s hot.”

  “Your trust is gonna get you robbed or killed some day, old man.”

  I blew on the first spoonful until the steam slowed. It tasted of overcooked, gamey meat, mushy potatoes, and way too much of a single spice. And I finished the whole bowl in what seemed like seconds.

  “So, are you okay to tell us what happened?” Fletcher asked, and I frowned into my empty bowl as he took the stewpot, swirling the spoon around the bottom. “Or do you want seconds?”

  I held the bowl out. The gesture seemed meek, weak. Perfect to fool prey. But… how much was instinct? How much was shame? How much of what I was, was something else entirely? Slate was dead; and who was Silk? What did Silk dream of, what could Silk accomplish, and what was her place in the world?

  “You don’t have to tell us if it’s tough.”

  “Don’t coddle her, Fletcher. These woods are dangerous, and I don’t want whatever trouble she’ll be.”

  I listened to them argue for a while, trying to piece together everything. Azalea was still on that train—she had no way of knowing what happened to me. Was she alright? Had the cultivators fought her too? Was the peasant family we’d chatted with alright?

  I wanted those answers first. Telling these two the truth was out of the question—they wouldn’t believe it anyway.

  “Father wanted me to get married,” I said quietly, hating every word even as my voice trembled and tears misted the corners of my eyes. Lying had never been easier, and my stomach twisted even as my face betrayed nothing. “But he was a horrible man.”

  “Are you a noble?” Nook asked plainly.

  I shook my head vigorously. “No, but he was a baron. Father is a merchant in the Free City of Arches.” Biggest city in the world, far away, but not too far, and more importantly… “I took the train, but I got robbed at the station.” Real tears formed now; I felt sick to my stomach.

  “How’d you get this far out into the woods, then?” the same man pressed.

  Now or never, I took a deep breath, and a risk. “I’m Sprout-rank. But I couldn’t get into the Sect.”

  That got their attention. Nook nodded with stern eyes, but Fletcher went stiff, frowning before he hid his expression behind his beard.

  “Are they after you?” Fletcher asked.

  “The Sect? No, I can’t imagine they are; I’ve got no potential and they didn’t show any interest. The baron maybe, but he’s probably found someone else. My father, yes, but he won’t know where I went.”

  On the one hand, I just made myself comically vulnerable: a young runaway who could easily disappear. On the other hand, I was a cultivator. I watched carefully, but neither man seemed to size me up.

  Nook nodded. “Well, I suppose that makes sense.”

  “Which Sect?”

  The question from Fletcher surprised me, but I answered easily. “Celestial Order.” The sect in the Free City of Arches.

  He relaxed, but not fully. “What will you do now?”

  “I…” I almost made something else up, something to go with the lie. But what I actually needed was to find the train and get to Hearthome. Azalea would probably find me if I tried to be found, and I could certainly find out what happened to the train.

  “I think I want to get to Hearthome. It’s a nice city, from what little I saw, and I can find work there.”

  Fletcher straightened his mustache. “That makes sense. But Hearthome’s quite the walk from here. I don’t imagine you have the money to try that train thing again, and that’s probably a long walk too.”

  I shook my head. “I… should probably be going.” The warm food in my belly brought back a measure of clarity, but the fire was still making me anxious and I needed to hunt more.

  “Fletcher, don’t,” Nook warned. “She’s a cultivator, she can take care of herself. We’ve fed her, and if anyone comes looking for her, we’re not going to be put to the sword by saying we told her to go back to a city.”

  Despite the warning, Fletcher shook his head. “Nonsense, there’s no sense in her spending another night out in the wilds. We’ve caught enough—we can head back and she can stay in our spare room.”

  Nook heaved a sigh. “You old sap. Fine, but since she’s one of them, she’s going to help us hunt in the morning, isn’t that right little miss? Or not-so-little, I suppose.”

  I nodded.

  “Which reminds me, we can’t just keep calling you ‘her.’”

  “You can call me… Sapphire,” I said softly, watching Fletcher looking at the pair’s bedrolls. “And I’ll be fine on a tree branch tonight.”