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Back The Starving Saints Save as PDF
Chapters (57)
  1. Cover
  2. 1
  3. 2
  4. 3
  5. 4
  6. 5
  7. 6
  8. 7
  9. 8
  10. 9
  11. 10
  12. 11
  13. 12
  14. 13
  15. 14
  16. 15
  17. 16
  18. 17
  19. 18
  20. 19
  21. 20
  22. 21
  23. 22
  24. 23
  25. 24
  26. 25
  27. 26
  28. 27
  29. 28
  30. 29
  31. 30
  32. 31
  33. 32
  34. 33
  35. 34
  36. 35
  37. 36
  38. 37
  39. 38
  40. 39
  41. 40
  42. 41
  43. 42
  44. 43
  45. 44
  46. 45
  47. 46
  48. 47
  49. 48
  50. 49
  51. 50
  52. 51
  53. Acknowledgments
  54. About the Author
  55. Also by Caitlin Starling
  56. Copyright
  57. About the Publisher

In the center of it, a bee’s stinger. A gift from the true Constant Lady? A fragment of her suffering? Something vicious and pure, either way.

Treila blinks, and the vision is gone. The Loving Saint stands before her, no longer changing, no longer moving. Panting, he stares at her, brows drawing down in belated wariness.

“You—” he whispers.

And Treila lunges.

Her teeth pierce the pale, lovely column of his throat. They crack through his windpipe even as blood surges into her mouth, coats her tongue, drowns her in sticky sweetness. Sweet. Like honey. There’s no trace of iron, and she laughs, fierce and jagged, because of course there is no iron in his veins.

He is screaming. The noise gurgles, shrill against her tongue. She bites again, and again, chews and swallows, even as he thrashes beneath her. Her nails pierce his clothing, his skin. She claws him until his flesh is ribbons, until she is painting them both with his blood. They are on the floor; she doesn’t remember their collapse. All she knows is the feel of him, the fight of him. She is the dark thing in the forest, feral and fierce, feeding herself in his misery.

Ser Voyne and Cardimir and her father and the whole world sharpened her teeth, taught her to use them.

And it is glorious.

When at last the Loving Saint lies still beneath her hands, when she has drunk her fill of his hot and heady blood, when the buzzing in her missing ear has quieted to a light and diffuse din, she lifts her head and regards their audience. A hundred hungry faces look back at her. She can see them all, the margins where one differentiates from another. They cannot hide from her anymore, just as he could not hide from her.

She isn’t here to play their games. She is here to win them.

Treila rises to her feet, licking her lips. Her stomach feels full for the first time in many months. She scrubs one fist against her mouth, smearing the honey-thick blood across her flesh like war paint.

She takes a step back, holds out a hand.

“It’s eat or be eaten,” she tells her audience. “And I have made it good. Eat up, pets.”

They fall upon the Loving Saint, ravenous, and let her walk free.

She makes her way back to the keep.

47

47

The king’s body is apportioned among his people. To his household staff go the muscles of his back. To the garrison, his thighs and calves. To the refugees, the tender meat of his arms, soft and succulent from the years of idleness after he last lifted a sword.