Ciro’s hooves hit the cobbled walkways with sharp clicks.. The streets are completely deserted, curtains pulled tightly shut. Every once in a while, I see the shifting of a fabric as a villager peeks out at me. Because of this, I chose my wardrobe carefully. I wear a red dress, the deep color of blood. Black lace lines the edges. The dress offers full coverage of my skin, but is shaped in a way that doesn’t leave much to the imagination. It causes my ivory skin to stand out harshly. My dark brunette hair is looped intricately on top of my head. I look tempting. Tempting and deadly.
We pass the last house and stop at the edge of the town square. In the center sits a dark stone altar. A young girl sits in the center, arms wrapped around her knees. She’s young, perhaps fifteen years old. Her legs are dirty under her simple white shift, the black swirls of paint signifying her status as a blood slave stand out starkly against her skin. She begins to shake when she sees me, her eyes filling with tears.
I smile, my blood singing at the sight of such a pretty little thing. I am surprised at her bravery, despite the tears. Most sacrifices have to be tied down, but she sits there of her own will. A rare offering.
Ciro blows out a breath and walks towards her, stopping at the base of the altar so I can dismount. He is familiar with our monthly ritual, and needs no guidance.
I place one arm under her knees and the other under her back, lifting her up easily and placing her behind the saddle. I settle in front of her and nudge Ciro forward, back the way we came.
Wailing starts when we exit the village. Likely the cries of her family. The sound is soothing to me.
“You are a brave one. A worthy offering.” I reach back and pat the cold trembling hand of the girl reassuringly. She jerks her hand away from my skin and inhales sharply, repulsed by the unnatural feel of my skin. A small smile flits across my lips, pleased.
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