Between Shadows

Between Shadows: Chapter 05-C (The Shape of Hunger)

The sound of rain on tin and rumbling thunder was enough to wake him. A quiet groan escaped him as he turned away from the window and pulled the blanket over his head. The mattress dipped on one side, as if something were weighing it down.

Lorian shot up, pulse hammering in his throat.

The light from the window was just enough to outline a figure sitting on the edge of the bed. Silver eyes glinted, warmed by the amber glow from the streetlamps.

“Good. You’re awake,” Silas said, voice low and threaded with the rasp of exhaustion. He looked carved from the same shadows that pooled around him, coat draped over one shoulder.

“f*****g hell, Silas.” Lorian pushed himself upright, dragging a hand through his hair.

Silas turned toward him, resting a hand on Lorian’s thigh. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

He could see it now—the thinly veiled restraint. Whatever blood he’d taken had steadied him, but it hadn’t sated the hunger. It pulsed behind his eyes, sharp and restless. “You did,” Lorian muttered, voice rough. “I take it this means you didn’t kill anyone.”

That earned something—a tired laugh, as Silas squeezed his temples. “No. Not this time.”

Lorian took his hand and let his thumb brush over Silas’s fingers, too gently for the moment. He exhaled, softer now. “Why did you come back?” He looked at the clock. It was still dark, barely four in the morning.

“I said we’d talk,” Silas said quietly, returning Lorian’s grip. “It doesn’t serve either of us for me to keep this from you.”

Lorian opened his mouth as if to stop him. Part of him wanted to stay in the dark, let Silas keep his secrets. But he knew if he let it go now, he might not get this chance again. He could already feel yesterday’s events replaying, Silas drawing his memory to the surface, prodding, trying to see how much he already knew.

“Brave,” Silas muttered. “Or suicidal. What possessed you to get in with that thing?”

Lorian wasn’t sure how to answer. “He felt familiar, somehow,” he said, slowly. “Like he knew us. Wanted to show us whatever we’d been searching for. Evelyn—she felt it, too. I watched the way he drew her in.”

Silas raised an eyebrow. “You speak of it as if it’s sentient.”

“Isn’t it?”

“No. Not yet, at least. It’s a marionette with its strings cut, trying to rediscover what it's like to move on its own. Speech. Thought. Want.” Silas paused. “That thing is a century’s worth of my hunger, carved out and confined to a stage. Forced to perform on demand until it figures out a way to break the script.”

Lorian let go of Silas’s hand, shifting to the other side of the bed to make room. Silas hesitated, but sat next to him, lying back against the pillows. “So what exactly does this have to do with my article?”

Silas pressed a hand to his forehead. “Thoughts are currency, and media is a rich source of that. Right now, it’s a thoughtform. An egregore. It feeds on attention, speculation, intrigue. Until it remembers what it really needs is blood. It doesn’t know it needs to feed to take on a form of its own.”

Lorian gave him a look. “You actually ripped out your hunger and locked it in the basement.” He didn’t ask what that meant. Didn’t want to think about the implications.

Silas gave it to him anyway. “I could take it back, but I wouldn’t come back the same. Separation made me human enough to think beyond it. Most of my kind live with the thing in their heads, hoping it doesn’t seize control.”

“And you?”

“I live without the appetite and far more autonomy.” Silas turned to look at him, eyes shifting to the pulse at Lorian’s neck. “Not like that.”

“Then why—”

“Sustenance, mostly. With you, it’s something more like pleasure. I still feel the hunger. But if I take it back, everything else—any semblance of control, emotion, morals—takes a back seat. All that’s left is the part of me that dreams of tearing you apart.”

Lorian flinched. “You’re not seriously considering taking it back.”

“I have to, at some point. I can’t starve it forever. Even without your help, it’s only a matter of time before it figures out it doesn’t need strings to move. And it’ll devour more than the city when it learns to walk again.”

“What if it can learn from you?”

Silas grinned. “It’s not a child, Lorian. It’s as old as I am. Older, maybe.”

“You haven’t even tried.”

“That’s desperation talking, and we both know it.”

Lorian ran a hand through his hair, then pulled the blanket up to his chest. “I was your anchor for a decade before you cut me loose. What if—”

“That’s exactly why I shut you out,” Silas said, voice cold. “You’re not putting your life on the line for an experiment.”

“Silas—”

He shifted, as if to get up. But Lorian grabbed his wrist, as if he could keep him there.

“Stay,” Lorian said, voice faltering. “At least until morning.”

“It is morning,” Silas said. “And you’ll probably be back at the archive with Evelyn before long, digging up ghosts you should let lie.”

“Until then.” Lorian tugged at the sleeve of his shirt.

Silas watched him closely for a moment, expression unreadable. Then, he heaved a sigh. He let his coat fall to the floor, slid his shoes off, and stood. Lorian pulled the blanket back, enough to let him slide into bed next to him.

“You trust too easily,” Silas murmured, pulling one of the pillows under his head.

Lorian lay next to him and wrapped his arm around Silas’s waist, pressing his forehead against his chest. “Just let me have this.” He let Silas’s fingers thread through his hair, comforting him in a way that he hadn’t felt in months. His mind drifted back to the lift, to what he’d eventually have to explain to Evelyn—but it was only minutes before sleep took him.

Everything that lay beneath the Filigree could wait.