Now leeches… vampires… the undead...
That's the dark side of the dark side.
You don't talk about it in daylight. Not if you're smart. That's the kind of thing harlots whisper to each other when the fire's low and the last client's gone and the only sound is rats chewing the rafters. Ghost stories, they say. But some of us know better.
I saw it once.
Toemacha. Back when I was still young and mostly flexible.
This girl, Adira—pretty thing. Sharp cheekbones. Laughed too loud. She got picked by this "duke." Rich. Pale. Smelled like lilac and cold stone. Didn't blink once during the whole negotiation. Said he wanted her for the whole night. Paid double. Left no address.
She went.
And in the morning?
Gods.
She came back through the rear door. No shoes. Eyes bloodshot like she'd been weeping and clawing her own face. Her hair—half of it still jet-black, like before. The other half, just… white. Snow white. No dye, no powder. Just… changed. Split down the middle like something bit her soul and forgot to swallow.
She didn't talk. Didn't scream. Didn't cry.
Just sat. In the corner. Rocking. Humming to herself. Same damn tune for three days.
Whoremaster tried everything. Potions. Slaps. Priests. Nothing worked. No clients would go near her. The girls avoided her shadow. One said she woke up with nosebleeds just from sleeping too close.
In the end, he had to get rid of her.
And I don't mean fired.
No chance of even selling her off. No one wanted that kind of curse in their house. Not even the rat-pit in Lerida that'll rent out girls with one leg and a demon in their throat.
So yeah.
Laugh all you want.
Say Saya's spinning tales again.
But I swear to every filthy god listening—he was undead. Cold hands, no pulse, eyes like ink in a well. Something not right. Something ancient.
And I don't mess with that crowd. Not for coin, not for gems, not even for a dragon's ransom in gold.
Because you can fake an orgasm.
But you can't fake coming back wrong.