He
didn’t notice her presence right away.
He stared at the window by the bed, his chest hitching helpless
sobs. He really wasn’t much more than a
child, she thought. When she’d first
brought him here, he’d been fresh and vigorous, poised between slim boyishness
and virile manhood. Now his chest lay
sunken, his limbs as wasted as an old man’s.
His cheekbones stood out from his gaunt face.
She loved the young, strong ones the
best. Her mother might enjoy dispatching
men within hours, sometimes even minutes, but Naamah took pleasure in watching
their lives slowly ebb away.
The
young men in particular felt invincible.
Their helplessness against her first shocked then infuriated them. They denied such weakness and cursed her
while trying to fight. Their fear started
as a pinprick they would at first refuse to acknowledge even to themselves. From there the terror grew until it finally devoured
them whole. Then they screamed and
begged even as their bodies betrayed them over and over.
This sweet morsel breathed
shallowly, every intake of air an effort.
Naamah knew his heart occasionally fluttered in exhausted
arrhythmia. The next time she took him
would be the last. The thought aroused
her, and she stepped into the room.
He saw the movement and turned his
eyes from the window. He moaned as his
gaze fell on her but he didn’t scream.
The strength for that was long past.
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