Another dawn. Grey, cold, biting right down to the bone. Worse than yesterday. Felt like the mountains themselves were sucking the life outta everything, breath by breath. My skin? Like old paper left out in the sun too long. Cracked at the elbows, knuckles bleeding tiny spots where the frost got in. Breathing hurt. Every damn gulp of that thin air scraped my insides raw. That deep-down thirst? A monster gnawing at my belly, worse than any hunger.
But underneath all that? A low hum. A nasty kind of good feeling. Like knowing you've just planted poison in someone's stew and they're about to take a big bite.
Got him hooked.
That tiny touch days ago, when he grabbed my arm? It did the trick. Felt it deep in my gut, a weird knowing. Tiny things, too small to see, were swimming in his hot blood now. Finding the good spots inside him – thick muscles, fatty bits, places near the big pipes where the blood runs warm. Perfect nurseries. They were setting up shop.
He watched me, same as always. Leaning in his doorway like a big, ugly statue, clutching his mug of that cheap, nasty beer. Smoke coughed outta his chimney. He watched me barely scratching at the frozen dirt, pretending every swing took all I had. His face? Blank as a rock. But I saw a tiny twitch near his eye when I stumbled. Not worried. More like… pissed his cheap toy might be breaking already. Good. Let him think that. He couldn't feel the real work happening inside him. The quiet takeover.
"Move it, freak!" His voice, rough as gravel, cut the air. He took a swig. Smelled like piss and bad choices. Liquid. Wasted.
"Y-yes, Master Granite," I choked out, making my voice sound weak and pathetic. Swung the heavy pick again. Hit a rock buried under the dirt. The shock rattled my teeth, sent fire shooting up my arm. I yelled, small and sharp, dropped the pick, and crumpled to my knees, grabbing my shoulder. Hurt like hell, for real this time.
He let out this pissed-off grumble. Slammed his mug down and stomped over. His shadow ate me up. "Worthless," he spat. Didn't offer a hand. Just grabbed my upper arm, hard. Fingers digging in like meat hooks. Yanked me up. Skin on skin, through the thin rags.
His heat hit me like a wall. A furnace. Against the cold and my own chill, it felt… alive. Strong. And something deep inside me woke up. The tiny hooks already in him pulsed. New ones, hungry little things, crawled outta my skin where he touched, worming through the cloth, finding tiny cracks in his skin. Digging in deeper. Marking more territory. Shushing any alarms his dumb body might try to raise. Mapping him out like scouts.
He held me there. Five long seconds. His grip was iron. His eyes, empty holes, stared right through me. Nothing but disgust. "Break, and you're pig feed. Dig. Or back in the bucket you go."
Shoved me away. I stumbled, caught myself on the pick handle, gasping. Didn't need to fake that. The rush inside me, from his touch, from the work happening… it was dizzying. Satisfying. Cold and hard.
"Y-yes, Master," I wheezed, head down, hiding the stillness that replaced the shaking for a second. My arm tingled where he grabbed. Deeper. Stronger.
He grabbed his beer, stomped back inside, door slamming shut. The warmth where his hand had been faded fast against the biting cold. I liked it. Not 'cause it felt nice. 'Cause it meant it was working.
Picked up the pick. Shoulder throbbed. Throat like sandpaper. But the frozen field? Looked smaller. Every painful swing got me closer. His strength, his heat, his whole stupid life… it was fuel. Food for what was growing inside him.
Days bled together. Freezing mornings. Back breaking under his stare. Dark shed stinking of pig. Water? A joke. One grimy ladleful each night from the tank by his hut. He watched me gulp it, face blank. Barely enough to keep my gills wet, keep my skin from turning to dust. The thirst? A hole inside me, echoing the hole in his head.
I learned. Moved slow. Made weakness look real while doing as little as possible. Learned Silt End's rhythm: women hauling water from the far-off spring (guarded, like gold); men trudging up the slopes; kids yelling; the smell of smoke, shit, and sour bodies.
Learned about the others too.
The Quiet Woman. Two huts down. Belonged to a sour man who smelled like wet dog and rage. Moved like a ghost, head down, eyes on the dirt. Hands always red and raw, scrubbing clothes in freezing water. Saw her once, early. Hauling water. Slipped on ice. Buckets crashed. Water gone. Her man exploded. No words. Just fists. Short, hard hits to her back, her shoulders. She curled up, silent. Took it. Not a sound. Worse than screaming. Like she was already dead inside.
Our eyes met. Just for a flash. Hers weren't empty like Granite's. Dark pools full of swallowed screams. No hello. No 'we're in this together.' Just the look of two broken things owned by monsters. Then she looked down, scrambling for the broken buckets. A warning. Don't end up like that. My breaking would break him.
Then there was Little Stone. Xiao Shi. The nosey kid. A shadow. Peeking from behind fence posts while I shuffled to the field. Staring from his doorway while I hauled my pitiful potato sack. His ma, thin woman with a face like a slammed door, always yanking him back: "Away from the snail-thing! Bad luck!"
But kids are stubborn. One afternoon, tossing slop to the grunting pigs (worst job, smell stuck to me), a dirty hand popped up on the low wall. Xiao Shi's head followed.
"Why you cold?" he asked, loud and clear over the pig noise.
I froze. Play dumb. Play weak. "Always cold," I mumbled, not looking right at him. "Mountains cold."
"Ma says you're not people," he stated, like it was obvious. "Says you're a snail thing. From the Wet."
Smart ma. I kept staring at the slop bucket. "Wet's far. Dry here."
"You got a shell?" He leaned further, eyes wide and creepy. "Under your clothes? Like a turtle?"
Dangerous. "No shell," I lied, voice flat. "Just skin. Cold skin." Let a real shiver run through me. Easy.
He chewed his lip, studying me. "Old Stone bought you. Like Da bought Quiet Woman." Just stating facts. "He's mean. Old Stone."
Kid, you got no clue. "He gives water," I said, putting that fake gratefulness in. "Sometimes."
Xiao Shi frowned. "Water's hard. Ma says it's life." He looked at my greasy basin water by the shed. "That's bad water. Pig water. Makes you sick."
Kid's smarter than the grown-ups. "No choice," I whispered, letting the tiredness sound real. Tired of the act, not the water.
He ducked down. Scuffling sound. Then a little clay cup, kinda lumpy, appeared on the wall. Had a tiny bit of water in it. Maybe two sips. Clear. Looked clean.
"Spring water," he whispered, eyes darting to his hut. "Don't tell."
My gills spasmed. Clean water. The smell hit me, cutting through the pig stink. Wanted it bad. Needed it. Stared at it, then at him. Scared, but trying to be kind. Stupid kid.
Complication. Kindness meant noticing. Noticing meant trouble. But that water… life. My plan needed it. The baby-things inside him later? They'd drain him dry. Drain me too. Needed this.
Moved slow, playing weak, towards the wall. Didn't grab the cup. Looked at him, at his hut, back at the water. "Thank you, Little Stone," I breathed, relief real this time. "Kind."
Took the cup. Hands shook, half-real. Brought it to my lips. Water was cold, clean, tasted like deep rock. Hit my system like a jolt. Gills opened wide, sucking it in. Gone in seconds. Handed the empty cup back. Looked him in the eye. "Secret," I whispered.
He nodded, serious, grabbed the cup, and vanished.
The water helped, just for a bit. But it showed the danger. Xiao Shi seeing things. His ma's fear. One wrong word, one shout about me being evil, and Granite might chuck me in a ravine before I finished my work. Needed Granite deep in this, too far gone to stop, before anyone got too suspicious.
Then things started changing. Granite started sweating.
Not work sweat. He barely lifted a finger. This was different. A shine on his forehead in the cold mornings watching me. Dark patches on his back in the chilly evenings by his fire. He'd wipe it off, confused, a little frown on his ugly face.
Heating up.
Felt it in my bones. The hooks were in deep. Tiny clusters of them were forming inside him. Starting to cook. Making heat. His body didn't know why, just tried to cool down. A fever with no sniffles. Not yet.
Started drinking more. Not just beer. Water. Saw him gulp down ladles from the tank, throat working. Belched loud. Thirsty. His own insides were getting sucked dry by the things growing. Needed water. Food. Taking his stuff.
Got… jumpy. Less patient. That stone face cracked with flashes of anger. Snarled at a goat. Kicked a bucket across the yard. Once, when I was slow bringing in the crappy firewood, he grabbed my arm again – another jolt of connection for the hooks inside him – and shook me hard. "Move your slow ass, freak!"
His hand was hot. Too hot. Heat poured off him. His face was flushed. Not just windburn. The fever was climbing.
I cowered. Played scared. "Sorry, Master Granite! Sorry!" Inside? Cold satisfaction. Burn. Burn good.
Shoved me away, muttering. Caught words: "…always thirsty… damn cold… feel hot…" Rubbed his thick neck, fingers pressing where the blood pulsed. Feeling it? His heart beating harder, blood maybe getting thicker from the tiny things leaking inside? Probably didn't know. Just felt… wrong. His body yelling warnings he was too thick to hear.
That night, locked in the shed, sitting in the greasy water, trying to keep my slime in. Cold bit deep. But inside, I was listening. Could feel them now. Not clear. Like a low buzz in the back of my head. A buzz of eating. Granite's heat, his juice, his whole stupid life… getting eaten up. Turned into life. My life's work.
Put a hand on my belly. Still flat. But soon. Real soon. Things would start showing. On me too. Signs of the bond. My body getting ready to take the eggs his little parasites inside him would help make. Messed up teamwork. He was the dirt. I was the gardener. And the basket for the crop.
Outside, wind howled. Granite coughed in his hut – a nasty, wet sound. Pigs huddled together. And deep inside the man who thought he owned me? Thousands of tiny sparks started glowing, feeding on his warmth, his strength, his dumb, clueless life.
He sweats for us, I thought, a cold little smile twisting my lips in the dark. Soon, the pearls show. Soon, the crop comes in. The dry mountain air tasted like dust and big trouble coming. The stone was sweating. Cracking. From the inside out.