The Starving Saints

by Caitlin Starling

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.