The taste of fresh blood brings memories flooding back, unbidden and unwelcome as always.
The crowd's laughter echoes off the canvas walls of the big tent, a sound like thunder that cuts through the sawdust-thick air. I pace in my cage, trying to look as fearsome as possible, while above the ringmaster's voice booms across to the assembled aristocrats in his very performative and weird manner of speech.
"Ladies and gentlemen, witness the savage beauty of the untamed demon child! See how she prowls like the beast she is, how her eyes burn with unholy fire!"
Burn. Yes, my eyes burn, but from tears I refuse to shed, from rage I am not permitted to express, from the desperate fury that comes from being displayed like this, forced to perform for people who fund my captivity.
I force the memory down, focusing instead on the warm sustenance flowing through my veins. It will keep the hunger at bay for now, keep me strong enough to survive another few days in this urban wilderness.
The nomad boy stirs as I finish feeding, a soft moan escaping his lips. His eyelids flutter but don't open. Still trapped in whatever dreams or nightmares unconsciousness has granted him. Probably better that way. The sight of me crouched over a corpse, blood staining my lips and claws, would likely send him into hysterics.
They always loved it when I looked my most monstrous. The circus crowds would gasp and whisper when I bared my fangs, would lean forward in their gilded seats when my claws caught the lamplight. They paid good money to be safely terrified by something they believed could never touch them.
"Observe how she feeds!" the ringmaster would cry, throwing the criminals who were already destined for death, most often nomads, into the cage. "See the monster beneath the child's facade!"
But I was never allowed to feed properly. Never given enough to satisfy the deep, gnawing hunger that lived in my bones. They wanted me desperate, wanted me wild with need, performing tricks, fighting for a single drop of blood, because desperation made for better entertainment. A well-fed demon might grow lazy, might lose that edge of barely-contained violence that made the audience's hearts race.
The boy's breathing has stabilized, deeper now and more regular. Whatever damage the other boys inflicted seems mostly superficial. Painful but likely recoverable. He's tougher than he looks, or perhaps just more accustomed to absorbing punishment than any child should be.
I wipe the blood from my mouth with the back of my hand and consider my options. The smart thing would be to leave him here and disappear into the maze of alleys before dawn brings new dangers. But something keeps me crouched beside his still form, watching the rise and fall of his narrow chest.
The morning they decided to sell me, I heard them talking through the thin canvas walls of the ringmaster's tent. Business was bad, crowds getting smaller as the novelty wore off. A demon child was fascinating for a season, but even aristocratic bloodlust has its limits.
"There's a collector in one of the port cities," the ringmaster was saying "Pays top coin for exotic specimens. Says he's building a private menagerie."
"She's getting harder to control," replied his partner, a weasel-faced man who'd taken special pleasure in my training. "Stronger. More violent. Yesterday she nearly took my hand off when I was cleaning her cage."
"All the more reason to sell now, while she's still manageable. Another year and she might be too dangerous to handle."
The boy's eyes slowly open, wide and dark and filled with the particular terror of someone waking to find their nightmares have followed them into consciousness. He sees the bodies.
His mouth opens in what might have been a scream, but only a strangled gasp emerges. His lungs are still recovering from their beating. His gaze darts from the corpses to me, taking in the blood on my lips, the inhuman cast of my features in the dim light. I watch understanding dawn in his dark eyes. What I am, what I've done.
And what I might do to him.
The night I escaped, it wasn't courage that drove me but pure, animal desperation. They'd drugged my food before giving it to me, to keep me docile during the sale, to make me easier to transport in my new cage. But demons metabolize drugs differently than humans, and their calculation was flawed.
I felt the substance burning through my system like acid, felt my consciousness fragmenting at the edges. Soon I would be nothing but a mindless shell, a living doll for some collector's amusement. The thought filled me with a rage so pure, so absolute, that it burned away every restraint they'd beaten into me.
The lock on my cage had always been more psychological than physical from being locked in there my whole life. I had already learned long ago, when I was much smaller, that trying to break free was futile. But that night, with chemicals flooding my system and the threat of even lesser freedom, I finally put my preconceived mental lock to the test.
It broke like kindling.
What followed was massacre. Every hand that had struck me, every voice that had mocked me, every face that had leered at my suffering. I painted the sawdust red with their terror. The other performers I left untouched, but the ringmaster and his cronies learned what a truly uncaged demon could accomplish when motivated by years of accumulated hatred.
I fled into the darkness beyond the big top, leaving behind the only world I'd ever known for the terrifying freedom of the unknown.
The boy's mouth works soundlessly, his body trembling with more than cold. I can smell his fear, mixing with the lingering scent of blood in the air. He wants to run. Every line of his body screams the desire to flee. But intelligence wars with instinct behind his dark eyes.
He's trapped in the alley with me, two bodies between him and freedom.
Slowly, carefully, I sit back on my heels and fold my wings against my back. The gesture is meant to appear less threatening, though I doubt it succeeds. There's no hiding what I am, no softening the predatory lines of my form. But perhaps I can at least avoid seeming immediately hostile.
"You're awake," I observe, my voice rough from disuse.
He flinches at the sound but doesn't flee. Can't flee, perhaps, with his injuries and the bodies blocking his path. Instead, he draws himself up against the alley wall, trying to make himself smaller while simultaneously preparing to fight or run depending on what happens next.
Smart boy.
"The others ran," I continue, gesturing toward the mouth of the alley with one clawed hand. "They'll spread stories about a monster. Make this place forbidden territory for a while."
His gaze follows my gesture, noting the escape route, calculating distances and angles. But when he looks back at me, there's something other than pure terror in his expression. Something that might, under different circumstances, be mistaken for curiosity.
"You..." His voice cracks on the word, little more than a whisper. He swallows hard and tries again. "You saved me."
The words aren't a question, but there's uncertainty in his tone. As if he can't quite believe it himself, can't reconcile the creature of nightmares crouched before him with the concept of salvation.
"I was hungry," I reply, because it's simpler than trying to explain the complex tangle of recognition and impulse that drove my intervention. "They were convenient."
He studies my face with an intensity that makes me uncomfortable. As if he's looking for something specific, some sign or confirmation of something I can't identify. The silence stretches between us, filled only with the distant sounds of the city and the soft drip of cooling blood.
"Thank you," he whispers finally, the words so quiet I almost miss them.
I blink, caught off-guard by the simple gratitude. When was the last time someone thanked me for anything? When was the last time my actions produced something other than fear or revulsion? Still, even though by killing his tormentors I saved him, and it might seem like I'm helping, thankfulness seems like such a strange reaction.