Reaping The Red Heir

Trudging through the snow-laden woods, I followed closely behind Pierce. The silence between us was punctuated only by the crunch of our boots sinking into the frosty blanket beneath our feet. His stride was casual, almost leisurely, but mine was labored, a struggle against the biting cold and the weight of exhaustion that clung to my limbs.

"You know," he began, a teasing lilt in his voice, "we could have been there by now if you would just let me carry you."

I scoffed at the suggestion, imagining the dizzying rush of trees and the nauseating blur of the world zipping past. My stomach churned at the thought. It was bad enough enduring the relentless pace of a vampire on foot; to be carried at his supernatural speed was an entirely different level of torment.

In my mind, I conjured up the image of myself, pale and disoriented, after such a harrowing experience. My face twisted into a grimace, the kind one might wear after swallowing a mouthful of spoiled milk. I'd be clinging to the nearest tree, gasping for air, my insides staging a violent rebellion against me. Pierce would probably stand there, his laughter echoing through the woods, taking delight in my misery.

No, I resolved. There was no way I would give him the satisfaction.

"I mean this with everything in me," I momentarily paused—purely for the sake of theatrics—"I would rather run on severed Achilles heels."

"Such a way with words." Pierce chuckled, the sound rich and infuriatingly amused. "Alternatively, I could just hoist you over my shoulder and be done with it."

My eyes narrowed, picturing the undignified position and the utter absurdity of it. I rolled my shoulders back, my grip tightening on my bag.

"Banish the thought," I retorted, a noticeable edge in my tone.

Pierce raised an eyebrow, the corners of his mouth twitching. "Or perhaps," he continued as if savoring each word, "we could extend this ludicrous display of stubbornness and waste another thirty minutes. The decision lies with you."

"I'm not the one being stubborn," I retorted.

"That's debatable." A hint of a smile tugged at his lips as he watched me. "Come now. I can hear your bones aching, feel the weariness seeping off you in waves. But still, you persist."

I bit my tongue to keep from admitting he was right. Every inch of me was screaming for rest, yet I would not grant him the satisfaction of knowing it.

"I'll admit," he continued, his voice smooth and taunting, "I rather enjoy this feisty display. By this point, most mortals would be pleading for a reprieve."

"I'm not exactly keen on giving you more reasons to gloat." I replied, my breath fogging in the frigid air.

Pierce's eyes sparkled with mischief. "Oh, little Reaper, you wound me. I'm merely trying to be helpful."

"Helpful?" I scoffed. "More like looking for another opportunity to remind me how superior you are."

He didn't deny it, and I didn't expect him to. Instead, he just smiled that confident smile of his and kept walking. As much as I hated to admit it, there was something almost comforting about his presence by my side, even if he was an arrogant bloodsucker.

As we trudged forward, a stench hit me like a wave, sour and cloying, an unmistakable scent that clawed at the back of my throat. I stopped in my tracks.

Death. It was the smell of death.

"Seems we've got a carcass nearby," I commented, my gaze sweeping over the forest. Given his "superior" senses, Pierce must have detected the odor long before it reached my nostrils.