Eryshae

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Unknown

Yellow Room

The Yellow Room had grown too still. It sat near the foot of the bed, arms folded as Mrs. Winthrop dozed unconscious lightly beneath a patchwork quilt, her cheeks pale and her breath shallow but steady. Rain whispered against the window, soft and constant, and somewhere in the hallway beyond, a floorboard creaked with no weight upon it.

Was it a he?

A she?

Perhaps something in between. Or nothing at all. A shadow in borrowed skin, an echo too deep to name. No. She was a she. That would do; for now.

She knelt in the quiet, staring at the man sprawled before her.

Samuel Faeloc. Breathing, barely. Her work had been clean. Efficient. He'd never even seen her coming. Just the flash of something solid, the sheath. The angle didn't matter. He crumpled like paper.

Just like Mister Greaves.

Ah, Greaves. She smiled faintly at the memory, though it didn't quite reach her lips. The crack of his neck still echoed behind her teeth. That brittle moment of resistance, and then the fold, the snap, the stillness. He'd gasped like a fish. She'd held him there, watching the life stutter out of his eyes, and only then had she drawn the dagger. Not out of necessity, but art. Precision. A red signature across each wrist, bleeding into the kitchen tile like ink through old paper.

She cocked her head.

Sam groaned softly in his stupor. Still alive. She had plans for that. She moved like smoke. No one had seen her, no one ever did. She glided through the halls as if part of the house itself, slipping past closed doors and creaking floorboards, all while the others lingered in their little dramas. They were so loud. So human. So unobservant.

Glided through the cold room like breath on glass.

Her steps left no mark. Her body cast no sound. Even Greaves hadn't known she was behind him until her hands were already at his jaw.

It had been so easy.

The angle of his spine had given little resistance; it folded like wet paper with the right pressure. The pop was soft. Almost... loving. She remembered how the warmth had drained from his eyes

Now, she crouched beside Sam Faeloc's unconscious form.

Her head tilted slowly, the way an owl studies prey. His amber heart still glowed faintly; annoying, persistent. She raised her hand, fingers hovering just above his chest. She leaned in even closer, close enough to feel the beat of the amber thrum beneath his ribs.

Still unconscious. Still warm.

Her arms slid beneath him with unnatural grace. Not a grunt. Not a breath. She lifted him as though he weighed nothing at all. A doll. A gift. A lamb. She carried him to the tall chair by the hearth, its upholstery dark and velvet-soft, still indented with the Steward's ghost. She placed him there carefully, reverently, as if arranging a centerpiece. His head lolled to the side. She fixed it. Tilted his chin. Adjusted his shoulders.

Better.

Her head twitched, once, then again. She crouched in front of him and brought her face level with his chest, just above the place where that glow pulsed, dim now, but unmistakable.

She sniffed.

A slow, rolling wave of revulsion stirred through her. "Ruined," she whispered, her voice flat with contempt. She leaned in again, nose nearly touching skin. "I thought you'd be... sweet. Like marrow in autumn."

She traced her finger down his arm, then halted. Drew back. Eyes narrowed. The amber had settled deep. It wasn't just inside him, it was him. Saturated. Spoiled.

Rotten.

She bared her teeth. "Your heart is loud," she hissed, "and it has soured the meat." Her lip curled as she stood abruptly. Her hunger curdled into rage.

"I hate when food goes bad."

She scowled as she gazed down at him, this sleeping, unworthy thing in the shape of a man. Ten years. Ten years she'd honored the deal: easy food in exchange for leaving the still-winged one untouched. And what had it earned her? A mouth full of rot. A house full of dull hearts. Another bitter expression curled her stolen lips.

She remembered the cook she ate earlier.

The marinated taste of her. Savory fat and spices in the meat, rosemary, peppercorn, the bright citrus of blood orange brine. Each bite a note in a symphony of indulgence. She had never been seasoned like that before.

The memory made her shiver with longing.

Possessing the cook had been… exquisite. She had slid in through the mouth, riding her breath like steam, swallowing her piece by piece before the cook could scream. And then she'd eaten. From within. Tongue, liver, kidneys, bursting with flavor. And wearing her body had been divine. Soft in the right places, pliant and warm. Full of laughter. Full of secrets. Full of salt and spice and stories. Much better than this body she wore now. Much tastier.

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This one was... work.

She glanced at the unconscious man, Samael Faeloc, his limp form now draped over the high-backed chair like some sagging offering. One of his arms dangled uselessly, brushing the dust-veined floorboards. She leaned closer, and again, disgust.

A fair price, and she was fair when the terms were kept.

But this? She curled her lip as she stared at Sam again. Putrid. Sour and thick and crawling with something unnatural. Not his fault, maybe. But not her problem. She turned back to Sam, curious despite herself, and leaned down again. What would you taste like? she wondered.

She inhaled, long, slow.

And nearly gagged. Amber, again. That cursed rot. That spoil that had seeped into every pore of his flesh. The taste would be like sucking on a dead lantern. No. Not him. But the woman.

Her eyes gleamed.

The one who came with him. The one with the voice that cut through silk. She would taste different. Sweet. Bright. And untouched by the Amber. She reached for the ornate mirror where she'd set it down after moving Samael Faeloc to the chair. Its frame gleamed faintly in the yellow light, a relic shaped like a locket and mirror in one. Her fingers curled around the handle, carved with twisted vines and curling roses. She pulled gently, just an inch, and the handle slid free with a soft click. A dagger revealed itself, narrow, elegant, cold with hunger. The mirror was not just a tool of vanity. It was a sheath.

She stared into the glass, the reflection slow to form, as if reluctant to admit what lived inside.

A sallow face looked back at her. The skin was thin, stretched taut over sharp cheekbones, the veins below faintly darkened like wine beneath waxed paper. Her eyes were too wide. Too still. A puppet under glass. Her once-vibrant face now a borrowed mask.

But the hair.

Her fiery red hair was pulled back into a single braid, the color of burning coals in firelight, ember-dark and red as ruin. A marionette of hunger, wrapped in someone else's skin. She blinked once, slowly, the mirror trembling just slightly in her hand.

And smiled.

She turned from the mirror, dagger still sheathed within its elegant frame, and crossed the room with measured, unhurried steps. Samael remained slumped in the chair, breathing, still, but empty in a way that echoed.

Mrs. Winthrop lay still in the bed, the rise and fall of her breath shallow beneath the quilt.

With a touch as delicate as silk thread, the woman set the mirror on the old woman's chest. Its cold weight settled between her collarbones like an offering, or a seal. She stood there a moment longer. Then snapped Mrs. Winthrop's neck, just enough to ensure she was alive, but broken. Cracked, like a mirror. Poetic really.

Then everything shifted.

A deep pull stirred behind her eyes, and she tilted her head back, mouth opening wide, not from effort, but release. Something peeled away from within her, sliding out of her throat in a slow, glistening ribbon of silver. It coiled free, thin as a finger, narrow as a snake, glimmering faintly like starlight caught in oil. One inch wide, weightless and cold. It spilled from her lips and slithered forward, undulating across the quilt like a living strand of mercury.

She didn't stumble.

Her now-empty body simply stood, vacant, waiting. The silvery serpent glided up the bed. Toward Mrs. Winthrop. Toward the mirror. Toward a new home. The silvery tendril reached the hollow of Mrs. Winthrop's throat and paused, tasting the warm exhale of the sleeping woman's breath.

Then it struck.

In one smooth, serpentine movement, it slid between her lips and pressed past her tongue. There was a moment of twitching resistance, an unconscious shudder, a gurgle in her throat, but the mirror weighed heavy on her chest, anchoring her.

The silver slid deeper.

Down her throat. Past the dry warmth of her palate. Along the soft, pulsing silk of her esophagus.

It reveled.

She tasted of vinegar and withering roses. Of brittle memories. Of aged fear and something cloyingly sweet, like blood that had long since dried in the back of a forgotten drawer.

It pulsed with sensation.

This vessel was ancient. Brittle. But the soul beneath the bones was dense with regret, ripe with secrets stored in all the places she could never confess. It had texture. It had flavor.

It was delicious.

The silver coiled tighter inside, curling around her spine, pressing like breathless laughter against her ribs. Savoring every inch. And then, with a shiver of satisfaction, It entered. Fully. The mirror on her chest fogged once, then cleared. Mrs. Winthrop's eyes snapped open. Mrs. Winthrop sat up. Slowly. Stiffly. Her limbs moved like clockwork notched too tight, fingers trembling, shoulders jerking. A crack echoed from her spine as she stood, neck tilting once to the side in an unnatural arc before realigning with a sickening pop.

Under her skin, something shimmered.

Silver veins coursed in branching threads just beneath the surface, visible only in flashes beneath her papery flesh, glowing faintly like moonlight refracted through a corpse.

She turned.

Her bare feet padded across the floorboards in hollow rhythm, puppet-like, each movement deliberate but distant, as if her muscles remembered something her mind did not. She stopped beside the discarded body, the one she'd just shed. A husk now, slack-mouthed and soulless on the rug.

The red-haired woman she had worn so well.

Mrs. Winthrop crouched low, stiff knees creaking. Her hand extended. She picked up the skin's head gently, like a cherished doll, and ran her fingers through the thick braid of coal-dark red hair. Her expression twitched, nostalgic, almost wistful. Her thumb brushed along the temple, tracing the lifeless curve of the cheekbone.

She leaned closer.

"I wore you well," she whispered through Winthrop's lips, voice too smooth for the age of the mouth. "So lovely… so loud." Her fingers threaded deeper through the red hair, caressing the braid as if it might pulse back to life beneath her touch. But it did not. So she smiled, and stood.

Mrs. Winthrop cradled the skin against her chest as she walked.

Each step was silent but purposeful, bare feet gliding across the wooden floor with the precision of something that had learned long ago how to mimic humanity without fully belonging to it.

The Yellow Room faded behind her.

She descended again, past the veil of what the house pretended to be. The air thickened with damp and something older than rot hidden behind walls. Roots curled through the walls like veins, pulsing faintly as if they, too, remembered the taste of blood.

At last, she reached her nest.

A hollow behind the walls, warped and wrong. The walls were slick with condensation, curved like ribs, as though she stood within the belly of some sleeping beast. The air hung heavy with the scent of iron and damp wool.

Chains swayed softly from the ceiling, hooks glinting among them.

She moved to one of the cleaner ones, a curved iron hook protruding from a pipe overhead, and carefully, tenderly, lifted the skin she once wore. It sagged in her grip like satin, boneless and empty, but still beautiful in its own grotesque way. With practiced ease, she hooked it through the shoulders, draping it like a jacket over the iron. The braid swung slightly, brushing the backs of its heels. It turned slowly as the chain twisted, red hair catching the torchlight in glints of fire and shadow.

Mrs. Winthrop, no longer quite Mrs. Winthrop, stood back and admired it. "A good fit," she murmured. "But not the last." And then she turned, eyes glowing faintly silver, and disappeared into the dark.