The Memory Puller (The Memory Puller Series Book 1)
The Memory Puller: Chapter 8

As Tristan approached the crumbling square, the sickly-sweet and tangy scent of the man’s fear intensified.

A scent to which Tristan had grown all too accustomed.

Attacks on humans here in Thalenn and throughout the colonies had quadrupled in the two years since the Emperor had died and his son had succeeded him to the throne. Disgruntled Fae testing the waters, seeing if the current regime intended to uphold the Accords.

Tristan pressed against the brick building at the corner of the square, cocooning his wings around himself before activating their camouflage. He peeked through his feathers at the disheartening scene.

A young man, barely past his mortal adolescence based on the softness of his features, was sprawled across a bench, eyes squeezed shut in terror, hands clasped together at his chest. A Fae male kneeled over him.

Though Tristan couldn’t see the Fae’s face, the male’s white clothing and lack of wings screamed Deathstalker. The venomous sub-species, with their serpent’s eyes and deadly bites, were the descendants of Stygios the Reaper, High God of Death and Destruction.

Tristan whistled and the Fae turned in profile, revealing the three-inch fangs being used to provoke the young man’s fear.

While a scratch from a Deathstalker’s fang would render a mortal unconscious, a full bite promised immediate death. And though Deathstalker venom was not instantly fatal for other Fae, it did cause paralysis. Could even result in True death if the antivenom wasn’t administered within a few hours.

The Deathstalker, having heard the whistle but unable to locate the source due to Tristan’s camouflage, returned to his prey, sucking in lungful after lungful of the man’s fear.

Emotion feedings were not necessary to a Fae’s survival, and, for the vast majority, Delirium was an adequate substitute. But some Fae, especially those who’d been born before the Accords, believed the feedings to be the only authentic way to commune with the High Gods. Believed their natural superiority over the humans gave them the right to take whatever and whenever they wanted.

Once a Fae scented a mortal emotion, they used their magic to morph the human’s feelings into a transparent vapor which, when inhaled, imparted a blissed-out euphoria. The process itself wasn’t painful for the human, unless the Fae lost control and heightened the emotion too rapidly or too intensely. In such a case, a human could die from the overload to his or her senses. An all-too-frequent occurrence before the Accords were put into place.

Tristan crept across the uneven cobblestones, the flames of the square’s two functioning streetlamps casting patchy shadows along the parched vegetation and rickety benches. He had to hold his breath to keep from coughing, the cloying scent of the man’s fear nearly choking him as he drew closer.

Stepping behind the crouching, white-clad Deathstalker, Tristan revealed himself by opening his wings and flaring them wide. He grabbed the Fae’s scrawny neck in his enormous hand.

With a potent burst of that sickly-sweet scent, the young man on the bench promptly fainted at the sight of yet another towering Fae male.

Tristan spun the Deathstalker around, then gripped the Fae’s throat and tucked his stun pistol under the Fae’s jaw.

“Opheron,” Tristan grunted, recognizing the Deathstalker’s greasy yellow hair and viper’s eyes, his pupils dilated from the intoxicating effects of the man’s fear. “What the fuck? This is the third time this month I’ve caught you illegally feeding from a human.”

Opheron darted his forked tongue in and out of his chapped lips, catching the last of the vapor before it dissipated.

“And the third time you will be forced to let us go, Officer Saros.” The Deathstalker wrapped his pale, long-fingered hands around Tristan’s wrists and wrenched himself free.

Tristan stepped forward and snarled in the Deathstalker’s face, but Opheron didn’t flinch, confident that Tristan’s interruption of his fun was nothing more than a minor inconvenience.

If Tristan were to arrest Opheron tonight, the Deathstalker would be walking the streets of Thalenn again tomorrow morning. Opheron reported to an influential master, one much higher up in the food chain than Tristan. One who couldn’t give less of a shit about when, where, and from whom Opheron fed.

And despite his status as a Vestian, Tristan was an exile from the continent. Which meant his only influence these days came from his powerful body, the two weapons he wielded, and the elemental magic flowing through his Windrider veins.

Tristan whipped a blistering gust into Opheron’s face, causing the male to stagger backwards and fall on his ass.

“Run along, Fangface,” Tristan growled, holstering his pistol.

Opheron stood on gangly limbs, brushing the dirt from his white suit. “Always a pleasure, Ghostwalker.” He gestured to the unconscious man on the bench before strolling away, calling to Tristan over his shoulder. “You’re welcome to our leftovers.”

Tristan watched Opheron disappear into the shadowy street beyond the square, then crouched down in front of the bench to check on the Deathstalker’s victim.

The man’s chest was slowly rising and falling, his breath stirring his pale blond hair. Opheron’s last two victims had both been women, one a pretty young redhead, the other older and dark-skinned. The Deathstalker had a rather adventurous palate.

Tristan tucked his wings as tightly as possible, crouched lower so as not to appear intimidating, and jostled the man awake.

The man’s hazel eyes popped open, and he sat upright.

Tristan raised his palms, plastering on a broad, nonthreatening smile. “It’s okay,” he whispered. “He’s gone.”

The young man pressed himself further into the bench, clutching his knees to his chest, unwilling to trust a Fae male given what the other had just done to him.

Tristan extended a tentative hand and the man flinched. “Officer Tristan Saros, at your service. I’m not going to hurt you.”

The man blinked at Tristan’s title, raking a shaky gaze over Tristan’s uniform and wings. Despite Tristan’s attempts at geniality, the young man clambered over the side of the bench and took off into the darkened streets.

Tristan released a heavy sigh, aimed a blast of wind into the ground, and pushed up into the starlit sky. Though his shift was nearly over, he followed Opheron’s white suit through the twisty streets of Thalenn, determined to ensure the young man was the last of the Deathstalker’s victims tonight.