The taste of blood was warm and sweet and thick. It stuck in his mouth, hot and sour, and it dribbled past his teeth and dripped from his jaws into his fur. He knew that it would mat, but he didn’t care. Later, he could lick it, remind himself of the hunt and the kill, remember the heat in his body.

He was cooling now. He could feel his skin quiver over twitching muscles, and he could feel the weight of the hot blood in his gut. Soon, though, it would become heavy and cold. It wouldn’t be the same pleasant buzz; it would be a guilty weight to remind him of the murder and terror he’d caused. It would remind him that he was beyond hope and light.

Armaros told himself he didn’t care. Snarling at his pack, he drove them away and sent them into the deep shadows lurking at the edges of the corpse on the ground. With a few last glances around, he moved closer to the shadows. He was reluctant to slip into them; he knew how much colder he would feel on the other side. There was nothing but unyielding ice there, waiting to encase him. He would try to fly to escape, but his own wings would stir a wind heavy and cold enough to freeze the ground at his paws. It was the same every time.

Sometimes, as he waited for the ice to thaw, he thought he could hear a voice–a once familiar voice, a voice that had once brought a spring into his paws, a voice that used to make him feel lighter than air and brighter than starlight. Like now, it seemed to be just on the edge of his hearing, closer to memory than perception. It was as if he could hear his brother calling his name.

But just the thought of Cassy seared his mind. Just the memory of light and peace and shining glory burned him, and Armaros cursed his brother, the half-eaten corpse, and the dark glade. Growling and snarling, he lashed toward a lighter shadow, his claws bared. It was only a shadow, and he could no more shred it than a sunbeam.

Finally, with the blood in his gut hardening, and the heat of the moment long cooled, Armaros looked toward the deepest shadows in the way a laborer sees a bed. He could think of nothing more comforting now than the frozen waste of Hell, where he could hide in the frigid air and the dark ice. No one could see him there, not the light, not Cassy. He could hide from his own memories and pretend the voice in his mind, begging him to come home, was a ghost of a memory. Armaros leapt toward the shadow, diving into it, feeling a dark and solid chill overcome him.

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Story by hyperion