The boy screamed again as Lysse drew her knife from his stomach.
He couldn't have been more than eight ... far too young to understand what was happening to him, though the crimson on Lysse's blade might have told him. The knife slid out of him, slick and red, viscera clinging to its sides and shining in the orange torchlight. The surroundings were reflected in the red—cracked stone walls, wet with moss and carved with prayers older than kingdoms. Before them, the darkness of the Chi'orat's temple.
The boy's cry broke into a ragged gasp—and then … everything went quiet.
A single drop of moisture fell from the ceiling, striking the boy's bare leg where it was lashed to the grimy stone altar.
He whimpered again and began thrashing around, twisting his hips and shoulders in an attempt to wrench himself away from the ropes. The tendons in his neck strained like cords, and his heels scraped uselessly against the altar's bloody surface, leaving streaks of gore. He began screaming.
He was trapped. He was going to die. Nothing could save him.
And he should have known all that from the first cut—but in Lysse's experience, life always kicked and clawed before it spilled out onto the altar.
She watched the boy without speaking, her knife hanging comfortably loose in her grip. She tilted her head, listening to his screams. He was losing his breath. It wouldn't be much longer now until his heart stopped.
Her lips curled into a smile at the way his body writhed, and at the helpless whimper that suddenly stopped in his throat. She stifled a laugh, and then, with practiced grace, she slid her knife back inside him, into his chest.
The boy groaned in pain. His flesh gave way easily, parting cleanly around the blade, not a single rib so much as scraped. His blood flooded over her knuckles, hot and sticky, and his breath hitched into nothing more than a ragged gasp.
Overwhelming pleasure suddenly welled up inside Lysse, and she found herself lingering beside the boy in pure bliss. Her hands tingled where his blood clotted, she savored the fading heat of him. The young—innocent and unspoiled—really did pour their life out so sweetly.
Then, with her whole body vibrating and her legs all twitchy, she sprang onto the altar and straddled the boy. Her knees pinned his arms in place, her hands wrapped around his neck, and the weight of her body forced him deeper into the blood-slick stone.
She leaned down ever closer to his face, feeling his ragged breath hot on her cheek as her long, blood-matted braid of hair trailed over his forehead.
Finally, she was close enough to hear that faint, wet flutter of his failing lungs. To feel his stuttering pulse through the hilt of her knife. And close enough to watch the light weaken, and gradually fade from his eyes.
The pleasure rose in her again, making her shiver from head to toe.
Pressed against her chest, the boy's shallow breaths faltered. Each heartbeat came weaker than the last. Until ... there were none left.
Absolute silence filled the altar chamber. And that silence was hers.