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Arsene’s orgasm is pulled out of him in hot, steady pulses. He’s melting—everything is melting. His wings drip out of the aether. His mind sloshes. Suddenly weak, he can’t even roll off Nur.
“You liked that,” he mumbles.
Nur twitches. “Arrogantidiot.”
The next morning,Arsene retches up black bile.
Chapter 36
ARSENE
At first itseems like his gambit worked. That day, when Nur feeds, a strange feeling washes over the bond. A wave of soft, warm calm. Nur gives him an odd look afterward; Arsene has to suppress his triumph. He did it—he took a piece of Nur’s corruption away. The only effect on him was a few hours of discomfort.
But as the days go on, he falters. His temples throb from the brilliance of the sun. His throat dries up. Strength leeches from his limbs and his mind begins to drift. The desert is so monotonous he falls into a half-waking state, the landscape blurring around him into an endless sea of white.
He pulls the cloth away from his nose and mouth one afternoon and there’s a black smear inside.
Is his body having a delayed reaction to Nur’s corruption? Or did he take too much at once? Nur seems in a much better state than him—tired, but fine.
They travel for five days and nights, never coming across the remnants of a single camp, and on the sixth day he begins to wonder if they’ve made a mistake—if they’ll wander the Deadlands forever.
Would that be so bad? He would depend on you forever. Need you.
But the thought only leaves him cold. He wants Nur to be free. Free to stay at Arsene’s side of his own volition—or leave, if that’s what he wants.
At midday on the sixth day the heat is so brutal Arsene’s vision swims. He uncaps the water flask and puts it to his lips immediately, loathe to lose any of its precious contents to evaporation. The water is so hot it nearly burns. He takes one swallow and his body immediately cries out for more, but he puts it away.
Normally he can go a long time without food or water. Craving it is a bad sign.
“No feeding tonight,” Nur says, watching him.
“Don’t be silly.”
“I mean it.” Nur frowns. “You’re not well. Your soul thins.”
Arsene can’t help the weary laugh that escapes him. “Just mysoul?”
“I taste it in your blood. The Deadlands are like a fog, hiding you from New Yden’s healing gaze.” A shadow passes over his face. “Vasia got sick like this in Hell. I had to stop feeding from him.”
“You fed from him?”
“Not out of necessity.” Nur rubs his brow. “It’s difficult to explain. He wanted to give me something in return for my help. I only took what he could spare. When his soul began to fade, I stopped.”
“I can sustain you,” Arsene says stubbornly.
“I know that,” Nur snaps, but his sharp tone is tinged with fear. “I don’t want you to. We should suffer the same.”
“I’m not suffering—” Arsene protests, but the look Nur sends him kills the words in his throat.
“Is your tongue still bitter with my ichor?” Nur holds out his hand. “Spit.”
“What for,” he manages, lips twisting in an attempted smile that probably looks more like a grimace.
“Show me your body fluids are clean.”
“Do you want me to come in your hand, too?”
“Your mouth is dry from the desert. Corruption will gather in your saliva,” Nur explains slowly.
