Chapter-40 The Taste Of Blood

The shadows swallowed her whole.

Frederique moved through the abandoned theater, each step pressing through dust and damp, her breath shallow in the stale air. Frideria pulsed quietly beneath her skin... present, but restrained, as if waiting for permission.

The low murmurs echoed louder now, voices chanting, the words fractured and wrong, more like a poor imitation of ritual than true magic. The stench of iron clung to the air, too sharp. Blood.

She pressed against the wall as the firelight came into view.

The stage had been transformed into a grotesque altar. Candles burned low, their wax pooling in thick rivulets down mismatched metal holders. A circle was drawn across the wooden floor... crude, hand-painted, the edges uneven with dried blood. A body hung limply within it.

Frederique's heart jolted.

It was a Changeling. Young. Fragile. Their skin had gone pale, lips cracked, barely conscious as blood dripped from shallow cuts along their arms. The ritual wasn't working... but that hadn't stopped the cult from trying.

Five figures stood in a loose circle around the victim, robed but clumsy, the smell of sweat mingling with blood. One read from a book with cracked leather binding, voice loud but wavering. None of them seemed prepared.

They're just people, Frederique thought. Not trained. Not magical. People.

Her stomach twisted.

Could she really...

The floor creaked beneath her foot.

Every head snapped toward the sound.

"Who's there?!"

The man holding the book turned, squinting toward the shadows.

"Hey! Show yourself!"

Frederique stepped forward.

She saw it then... the flash of knives at their belts, the gleam of steel in their hands. Not just lost souls playing pretend. They were armed.

And they smelled like prey.

Her hesitation wavered, hunger curling hot beneath her ribs.

"Let the Changeling go," she said, voice echoing sharper than she'd meant.

The leader, a pale man with thinning hair, laughed.

"Oh? And who might you be, girl?"

His eyes drifted over her frame. Too young. Too alone. His grip on the knife loosened, as if she were no threat at all.

"Leave." His voice dripped condescension.

"This doesn't concern you."

Frederique's jaw tightened.

' You should run. '

The thought echoed from some last piece of humanity within her.

But Frideria's voice was louder.

' No. We're stronger than them.'

She stepped forward.

"I won't ask again."

The bald cultist sneered.

"Or what? You'll..."

He lunged.

Everything blurred.

The knife flashed toward her stomach, but Friderique moved faster, instinct driving her body before her mind caught up. Her hand lashed out, gripping his wrist in an iron vice. Bone ground beneath her fingers.

The knife clattered to the floor.

His face twisted in pain.

"You... what...?"

Friderique bit him.

Her teeth sank deep into the flesh of his forearm, tearing through muscle and tendon like paper. The taste of blood filled her mouth... coppery, hot, alive. Frideria's hunger surged, a wild pulse spreading through her veins, burning away her hesitation.

The man screamed, but the sound barely registered.

The others were moving now. Shouting.

She dropped the bleeding cultist, his arm torn open, and spun just as another charged from the side.

Pain sparked... his blade nicked her shoulder, sharp and hot.

And something inside her snapped.

No more pain.

The hunger roared.

Frederique twisted, grabbing his wrist and biting down on his hand. Teeth crushed bone. She didn't stop. Didn't let go. The blade clanged to the floor as his fingers were torn from his palm.

He howled, staggering back, clutching the mangled ruin of his hand. Blood sprayed, hot against her face.

Another cultist raised a knife... too slow.

Frederique was on him before he could react, grabbing the back of his head and slamming his face into the cracked stage floor. Once. Twice. Bone crunched. Blood pooled beneath him.

The fourth ran.

Frederique leapt.

Her body felt too fast, too strong, limbs moving with unnatural grace as she tackled him to the ground. His back hit hard, knocking the wind from his lungs. The knife spun from his grip.

He tried to scream.

She bit into his throat.

Hot blood flooded her mouth.

Frideria's hunger bloomed brighter than ever, the taste intoxicating... pure, primal, perfect. She drank deeply, his heartbeat echoing louder in her ears with every pulse... until it stopped.

* Silence.*

Only one left.

The leader.

He was backing away, the ritual book forgotten on the floor, hands trembling as he fumbled for a hidden dagger.

"You... monster..."

Frederique swallow the blood in her mouth, standing slowly, shoulders rising and falling with each ragged breath. Her eyes... once warm brown... gleamed red now, bright and feral.

She moved before he could finish the swing.

The dagger sliced across her ribs but barely registered. Frideria's presence burned so brightly now that pain felt like an afterthought. She grabbed his wrist and twisted hard.

The blade clattered to the floor.

He stared at her in disbelief.

"No... no, please... "

She hesitated, blood still dripping from her lips.

The fear in his eyes... it was stronger than the pain. Stronger than the fight.

And she liked it.

Frideria whispered.

" Yes. Fear feeds us too."

Frederique's teeth clenched. She wanted to finish it. To feed.

She shoved the cultist back, watching him stumble and fall hard onto his knees.

The leader knelt before her now, his bloodied hands raised in trembling surrender. He was gasping, his lips moving soundlessly, trying to find words. Prayers, maybe. Or empty pleas.

Frederique could hear nothing over the roar of her heartbeat.

The stench of blood. The copper tang still coating her tongue. Frideria's hunger whispered in her mind, not demanding but expectant, a cold echo urging her forward.

No mercy.

"Please," he rasped. "I... I'll tell you everything. We... we didn't know it was real. We thought..."

She stepped closer.

The scent of his fear bloomed sharp and bitter, almost sweet in its intensity.

And still... he lied.

Behind him, the altar was silent.

Frederique could see the Changeling's pale face now, the life drained from their fragile form. Their lips parted just enough to reveal bloodstained teeth, as if they had been calling for help... too late.

A small sound escaped her throat. It was anger. Grief.

And hunger.

"You think I'll let you walk away from this?"

Her voice was low, guttural.

The man shook his head violently, hands raised higher in desperation.

"I... No, please! I was following orders! It... it wasn't supposed to be like... "

"Shut up."

She lunged.

Her hand caught his face, fingers digging into his jaw as she forced his head back. The scream barely left his lips before her teeth sank deep into his throat.

Hot blood. Thick. Pulsing.

The fight drained from his body instantly. His pulse faltered, then slowed... each weakening beat flooding her senses with a strange, primal satisfaction.

It was over in seconds.

The body slumped. Lifeless.

Frederique let it fall, the corpse hitting the stage with a hollow thud. Blood soaked her hands, her chin, staining her shirt. The taste lingered, still too fresh.

Her breathing slowed.

Frideria's voice whispered faintly. They deserved it.

Frederique looked toward the altar again, heart heavy despite the hunger fading.

The Changeling was still. Completely still.

She approached slowly, half hoping... half praying... for some flicker of life. A breath. A heartbeat.

Nothing.

They were gone.

The body was so fragile. So small.

A bitter, empty ache settled in her chest.

This wasn't justice. This wasn't enough.

She turned from the altar, silent now, blood still dripping from her fingertips.

She had failed.

And she hated how good it had felt.