Page 5 of Demon Food

Out of all the whores here, I had an unusually firm grip on him for reasons I didn’t quite understand. Something about the way I tasted or smelled. It’d been that way since the moment I showed up.

I’d been assigned this brothel at my orphanage, and I’d never forget the first day I met him. There I stood, clutching the hand of my younger brother who wasn’t my younger brother at the time. Or at least we hadn’t told that lie yet.

“This is my brother,” I’d said at the time with a confidence I didn’t feel. “If you want me, he stays. No, he will not be working. Not now. Not ever. But I will work hard for you.”

It was a long shot for him to agree, as concubines were not allowed to live with other humans under the law, but he did agree because he wanted me. Just like he wanted me now.

I strode forward into his office. The red of his eyes glowed a little brighter as he watched me walk.

If it weren’t for those small differences—the eyes; the unnatural inky black of their hair—they’d almost look like humans. Almost.

There was an obvious difference once you really observed them. Just like us, their features and skin tones varied, but they had an uncanny sexiness, a bestial allure, that nearly hurt to be around, like our senses weren’t meant to handle it.

And they didn’t age, necessarily. At least not with crow’s feet or asymmetry. Rather, it was a gradual whitening of their hair and nails that happened so slowly, like everything else about them. At seventy-two, he had the face of a forty-year-old (albeit mean-looking), but every hair on his body, down to his lashes, was silver.

They were slow to mature, slow to procreate, and unfortunately, slow to die. The only thing they did quickly was anger.

An uneasiness settled into my stomach as I blinked around my surroundings. Then it deepened when he slammed the door shut.

The chaos that was his study had gotten worse since his wife died. It wasn’t uncommon for a female vultus to take four or five husbands. It was because they birthed such a disproportionate rate—nine males to every one female, making procreation challenging. Being one of her many husbands, it wasn’t like she came around often to see him, but he kept the brothel clean for her.

Now, every surface in here was stacked high with papers or clutter and buried under a thick layer of dust. It also didn’t help that he rarely left anymore, feeding only on the young concubines who thought they’d get somewhere by letting him have it for free. They wouldn’t.

“Speak if you’re going to speak,” he said, arms folding over his strong chest. “Otherwise, I want the kiss.”

I swiveled around. “Your new guy has potential. He’s handsome and naturally submissive. He could make you a lot of money someday with a little nurturing.”

He shrugged. Like, And?

“And I would be willing to work closely with him. Teach him how to pose for the vultae gaze. How to talk dirty. How to do that thing I do with my mouth, and I know you know which one I’m talking about.”

He twitched. Once in his shoulder and again in his arm. Then all over.

Oh, to wear one’s arousal so outwardly the way they did. The thought of feeding on a human made them tremble. He wouldn’t be able to hide it, even if he wanted to. There was no denying how badly his body wanted mine, not when he was twitching like he was being struck by a hundred tiny lightning bolts.

“What is your point?” he asked. “Because you and I both know you’re not here to tell me of your plans to train one of my concubines how to pose.”

I took a breath. “He is so hungry that he is unable to work. He needs an advance.”

He blinked.

“Two silvers is all.”

He blurted out a dark chuckle that lasted a little too long. “Well, that’s easy. No.”

My nostrils flared.

“Fuck, no. And what a dumb whore you are coming here, asking for money like this is a damn charity.”

It was the callousness. He didn’t have to say that. He didn’t have to treat painful starvation like it was just another inconvenience. “He can’t work if he can’t eat, Terrek. You can spare two coins to keep him alive.”

“It is not my problem if he can’t cut it. If he wants to get paid, maybe he should stop looking so sad and learn how to suck a cock. I want my kiss now.”

I stepped backward when he started toward me, holding a hand out. “It’s not him who is the problem. It’s the quota.”

“Don’t fucking start with me.”

“But you know it’s true,” I nearly shouted. “We make crumbs for how much it costs to be with us. We should get paid per feeding, and you know it⁠—”