Ira peered down at March. “I don’t know—”
“What do we need to do?” With the screams going on, March was getting desperate, and Ira needed to answer faster.
“Drink each other’s blood.”
“Fucked up enough, but let’s do it.” March wasn’t scared about swapping a little blood—he was more worried about getting his head ripped off.
A hint of amusement spread across Ira’s face. He grabbed March’s wrist and his gaze softened as it locked onto the scars. “What happened here?”
“Self-inflicted.” March’s eyes didn’t shy away from Ira’s. When people asked about his scars, March always told them the truth, whether he felt ashamed or not.
Ira pulled one of the arrowhead necklaces from around his neck. “Do you want it here”—he ran a fingertip gently at the scars on March’s wrists and then ever so slowly at March’s neck—“or do you want it here?”
“A scar is a scar.” Another one to add to his old collection. But he couldn’t help but like the way Ira’s fingertip felt against his skin.
Ira’s eyes lingered a beat too long on March’s neck and swiftly drew a line across March’s scars at his left wrist. Closing his eyes, March bit his lip at the stinging sensation.
Compared to the calluses of March’s fingertips from his years with the violin, Ira’s hands were soft. When Ira’s warm lips wrapped around his scarred wrist, he opened his eyes. March felt no pleasure from the suction as he’d seen in movies with vampires. But when Ira lifted his head and ran the tip of his tongue across the wound where blood was dripping, something about that movement made his heart pound a little harder and his pants grow a little tighter. His other hand brushed Ira’s chest and he felt him shiver.
Ira handed the arrowhead to March with a small smile.
“Where do you want it?” March asked.
“Neck is fine.” Ira cocked his head and faced away from him. However, March could feel Ira’s eyes trying to study him.
March’s hand didn’t shake because he’d cut flesh before. It wasn’t as if it was hard and he knew how deep to go. He bent his knees a fraction so he could meet the spot where the blood bloomed. With a deep breath, he leaned forward and sucked in the liquid’s warmth, not the least turned on by that either. But parts of him hardened at the softness of Ira’s skin and how one of the half demon’s hands lingered at March’s waist, stroking his thumb back and forth.
It was the wrong time for March to lust for a stranger, but he felt it nonetheless. He pulled away and backed up a few steps. “Is that it?”
“Yes,” Ira said, breathing deeply, “but we need to hurry. The blood should also help so you won’t fall under his spell.”
March squeezed the arrowhead in his hand and noticed that the screaming had stopped. No one was making a single sound out in the corridor. They quietly slipped out of the room and March looked to his right, seeing people still lined up against the wall. Before his head could fully shift to his left, something hard slammed into his shoulder, pushing him up against the wall. He couldn’t see who it was, but he knew it was the underground demon. The flap of the demon’s wings echoed around the corridor.
From up ahead, Ira whirled around, with his eyebrows raised all the way up, and mouthed, Don’t move. March didn’t think he could move if he tried.
“What is this?” a deep voice slurred at his ear. March could smell the scent of blood wafting off the demon.
“One of your feasts, my lord,” Ira said, sauntering closer.
“Why is he following you?” the demon’s voice boomed, deep with rage.
Before Ira could speak, the demon flipped March around to face him. March stood as still as he could, trying to appear glazed and unfocused like the others decorating the corridor. He silently prayed the blood worked and he wouldn’t become the demon’s bloody plaything.
The demon’s eyes were large like Ira’s, except their color was a bright, glowing red. His nose curved and came to a long point.
“I want this one next,” the demon cooed, inching closer so that their noses almost touched. March had heard of people pissing their pants when frightened. He never thought it was true until that very moment when he thought he might not be able to control himself.
“You have a line waiting.” Ira motioned up ahead at the others.
“No,” the demon said. “I think this one will be sufficient.”
The arrowhead was still clenched in March’s hand and with all the courage he had, he shoved it into the side of the demon’s neck and took off on the quickest sprint of his life. Ira caught up and grabbed March’s hand and pulled him even faster.
Behind them, the pounding and beating of the demon’s wings echoed, nearer than March would have liked.
Up ahead a lake sparkled and Ira shouted, “Hold your breath.”
They barreled into the lake, Ira wrapping his arms around March’s waist. Automatically, March kicked his legs as Ira propelled them forward. The dark water made it so he couldn’t see anything, least of all where they were headed.
Eventually, above them, a small amount of light filtered through what might have been a door of sorts. Ira pushed it open, breaking them through. March’s lungs started to burn and he needed air, but he held on as much as he could.
The water became no longer dark, but clear—familiar. The lake. His lake.
In his head, March counted as the surface came closer and closer. Four. Three. Two. One. His face hit air and he took in a deep inhale—the oxygen feeling like a true feast. Ira flung March onto the shore and right as he stuck his hand out to Ira, the half-demon was sucked back into the depths.
Frantically, March searched around, knowing he could take off running—but he didn’t. He clumsily jumped back into the lake and swam until he could see the demon clasped onto Ira’s leg, trying to yank him back under. The demon’s wings beat against the water, creating thick waves.
March sliced through the water, getting as close as he could. With a tight fist, he punched the underground demon in the face. It barely moved. The demon turned his head to look at March as in, What the fuck did you just do? March wanted to ask himself the same question.
The demon’s clawed hand came around March’s throat, crushing like a vise, choking him. Ira rushed between them, ripping the second arrowhead from around his own neck before plunging it into the translucent skin just below the creature’s ear. Blood mixed with the water as March found the opportunity to slam his foot into the demon’s stomach.
Angry bubbles escaped the demon's hideous mouth as he screamed. March felt the creature's grip loosen from his neck as the demon sank, falling, flailing furiously at his wound. Ira kicked the demon viciously in the head—once, twice—driving the struggling creature deeper into the darkness.
Ira grasped March’s hand in his, both kicking their legs without turning back. March wanted to lean into Ira’s strength as he carried him forward, pulling him upward, toward the surface.
Hands shaking, March fell to the ground, breathing heavily as he scooted back away from the lake. “Is the demon dead?”
“No.” Ira shook his head. “He can’t die.”