Princess of Nothing- Chapter 7
A fantasy tale of magic, struggle and survival — Draft 1
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CHAPTER 7
The mimic is not as fast of a healer as I am.
Days pass, but his injuries remain. I fought in the pit for three nights in a row, and despite my recent matches, the mimic looks worse than I do — the parts of him I can see, anyway. He’s been hiding. Oversized bat wings, bruised in garish brown, purple and green hues, obscure my view of most of his body.
“Please look at me,” I rasp. I say it to him once a day in hopes that maybe his resolve will break, but the mimic doesn’t acknowledge my presence whatsoever. He hasn’t even turned this way since…Rec did what he did. I sigh as I sit on my cot, rubbing the area on my wrists where the Djinn bracelets used to be. Their magic indeed had a time limit.
Every night, I’ve dreamt about the vampire Rec killed. I’m trying to assemble a puzzle with only half of the pieces. Some nights, I also dream about that powerful fae crown. Whenever I think about it in Rec’s hands a feeling of dread skitters down my spine. My subconscious is tormenting me.
A guard approaches my cell with a tray of food: A lead-laced cup of human blood and a large, untainted apple.
True to his word, I have received one every day since I accompanied Rec to the underground auction.
I feel guilty for enjoying it as much as I do. Sometimes I feel as though I traded that vampire’s life for these apples. But if I don’t eat it Rec will make sure it goes to waste and the idea of letting perfectly good food rot is abhorrent.
If I’m honest with myself, I am so hungry it would be nearly impossible to deny the bit of fresh, normal-tasting fruit for long even if I tried.
I drink the blood first, plugging my nose because today it is stale, cold and congealing around the edges. I watch as the guard opens the mimic’s cell and places an identical cup filled with identical contents on the ground.
When he hears the metal clinking against the stone, his back stiffens, and his injured wings tuck in tight.
The mimic must change forms if he wants to consume that blood. So far, that form has always been a vampire. Moments later, the mimic becomes just that — the same vampire as usual with the long, brunette hair and familiar russet eyes — only this time he looks awful. So awful, I flinch at the sight. It’s hard to look, but I refuse to turn away.
That is when his many wounds start to heal.
The purple-black bruises encircling both his eyes recede. His ragged, split lip knits together. Ruined fingers Rec had taken his sweet time breaking one by one snap back into their proper positions — all while the mimic remains silent, his face blank. Now that he’s a full-blood vampire, he regenerates even faster than I can.
It never occurred to me that the mimic was choosing forms that heal slower intentionally.
“Why did you interfere when you knew what Rec would do to you? He never touches me like he does the others. He — he would have stopped. And he wouldn’t have killed me. I make him too much money.” My voice sounds fragile as I question the truth of my statement.
The mimic grabs the metal cup and tips it back, throat working. He grimaces afterwards. Already he’s completely healed.
His eyes flicker to the cell beside me, to the thing now blocked from our view by the ward — then he goes to sit on his cot, staring at the floor with so much concentration I wonder if the stone might crack. Of course, he will not speak to me.
I grab the apple from my tray, turning it over in my hands. The skin is mostly red with a hint of gold. It smells like growing things, and open-air and life and freedom. My mouth is already watering in anticipation, but —
I hold the apple up to the bars, gauge its size, and toss it from my cell into the mimics’. Why hadn’t I thought of giving it to him sooner? How many apples have I eaten in front of him without even thinking to share?
The mimic lifts an arm on instinct and catches the apple without even looking. He sniffs the fruit. A moment later, the mimic has longer, more agile limbs, sharper features and an unfamiliar scent. When I spot the pointed ears, similar to mine, I realize he’s no longer a full-blooded vampire. Of course, he needs to change forms to eat the apple. The only reason I can is because I’m only half-vampire.
Now, the mimic is like me. Half-vampire and half-fae. It’s hard not to stare. I’ve never seen another like me — even his hair is plum-black, like mine. I wonder if the rest of him bears any sort of resemblance. His face is nicer than it was as a vampire, and it was already rather nice.
It’s not real, I remind myself.
I don’t think I have ever seen his true form. He’s the only mimic I’ve ever encountered. “Are those my eyes too?” I ask, looking at the pale, opalescent stare, wondering how much inspiration he took from me. He doesn’t reply.
The mimic bites into the apple with a loud crunch, and a primal, animalistic part of me is instantly jealous. Those captivating eyes slip closed, and I know he’s savors the bright flavor as much as I do — but to my shock, after one bite, the mimic tosses the apple back.
Next, I bite into the flesh and chew — as slow as possible in order to appreciate the grainy texture, tasting the fresh tartness that chases away any remnants of the disgustingly stale blood. Once I swallow, I stare at the fruit in my hands. We can make this work. After carefully lining up my aim, I throw the apple again.
Back and forth we go. He takes a bite and throws it. I take a bite and throw it back. We keep it up until not even the apple’s core remains. The mimic rests, reclined on his cot, one hand tucked behind his head, still in hybrid form.
I try again. “Why didn’t you heal sooner?”
Silence.
Minutes pass. The mimic turns his head toward me. A low, male voice — hoarse from disuse, breaks the silence. “So I never forget.”
I am so shocked and delighted he’s speaking to me that at first, I miss the look in his eyes. A chill sweeps over me when I notice — those pale eyes gleam with a burning desire for vengeance.
“Even though you — you shouldn’t have — thank you, for what you did.” The words tumble out of my mouth, stilted. Breathy. Even though this is the first time he’s talking to me, I feel like it’s the first time he hears me.
“Now we’re even,” he says, jerking his chin towards the cell next to mine, referring to that night Rec nearly made him fight the…whatever it is.
“Do you have a name?” I ask.
The mimic studies me yet again, but this time the look in his eyes carries a degree of wariness. “Yes.” But he doesn’t tell me what it is.
“I think my name is Nyxalia,” I nearly whisper. I draw out the syllables as the vampire did that night: Nyx-ahl-ee-ah. “There was this vampire at the auction, the place Rec dragged me — ”
“We’re not friends.” The mimic says, rolling over on his cot. He doesn’t say another word.
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