I don't remember my name.

There are things I know about myself and my human life—that I have a deep love for purple, even though it's a color far above my station; how the drag of a whip across my back blisters and which masters were most merciful in sparing it—but I have little clue in the way of my own identity.

Amun merely calls me "Kebi." His honey. I ask what my true name is, and he tells me that he's just given me one.

At first I find myself spitting furious at his response, and it's terrifying. I blink, and he's pinned against a wall. I inhale a short breath and my hands are around his neck.

I just need to squeeze.

Oh, how I want to, want to feel the grind of his spinal cord. It's a craving—to bathe in his bone-dust, revel in my superior strength.

"Tell me. Tell me my name," I say, and flex my fingers.

"So you're thirsty, I take it," is his only reply, and I could kill him for denying me an answer again.

But . . . thirsty?

There is something wrong with my throat; it's raw, raging. I wonder if the past three days of searing pain have burned away a layer of skin.

"Let's go hunting, yes? We'll find you something to sooth the itch."

He can make it stop?

"Hunting?" I echo, always echoing, and I'm careful not to inhale even one more breath of the thorned air that will tear my throat to shreds.

"You need blood, sweet Kebi."

Blood?

Blood.

Blood blood bloodbloodblood.

Even the word holds me in a vice grip, and then I'm truly awake in this life.

It's like going through the motions of waking up in a dream only to actually regain consciousness moments later, and how sharp and prickly reality is. The sands of the desert grit across one another with a high-pitched hum that gnaws into my eardrums; the air is bitter, arid—I can taste the lack of moisture, feel the atmosphere pinch my skin in a bid to steal what liquid is retained by my own body.

And then.

Then.

Then I can almost feel the creature's hair ripping under my hands, smell fear, hear its pitiful whine, envision the second when it loses all hope. I see that moment of true death.

I already taste the blood.

And I'm running, flying. I'm not even sure my feet are touching the ground, as I don't hear the shriek of sand shifting underfoot, and when I dare a glance back, there's not a grain displaced.

There is Amun, though.

He makes no move to conceal himself, so brazen is he in coming to steal my kill. He follows me with a confident stride that speaks of arrogance, of pride, and I wonder at the fact that he thinks me so pitiful a threat.

My kill, I say to him with my bared teeth, and he challenges me with his laughter. I answer with a lunge.

He's not laughing when I bite into his shoulder, and then I really am flying, hurtling through the air and falling with such speed. Hitting the earth with such force. I didn't expect this strength from another.

I hadn't thought he would backhand me like that.

I hadn't thought he could hurt me.

I don't know why not.

He should finish me now, leave me incapacitated and take the human for himself, but he's beside me in an instant. He's cradling me when he could be drinking the nectar I know to be a mere moment's sprint from where we sit in the sand.

"Oh, Kebi, I didn't mean to. I— I'm new to this. Forgive me," he says, and I wonder if he likes to play with his victims. I think if given the chance, I would. So I won't blame him.

Then he's gone from my side, and I should flee. I can find another human; it's illogical of me to consider following a being who's proven to be a competitor and an experienced one at that. So why is my first inclination to chase him?

Before I can make a decision either way, he returns, and he throws the girl down before me—an offering, a sacrifice, an apology?

"Drink," he orders, and I don't know what to think of this man, this man who seems to curl in on himself with every second I debate rejecting his gift.

My senses have catalogued everything else into predator and prey for me. There's no longer any need to make judgements. I can smell menace and hatred. I taste submission and terror.

All I taste of him is the heavy air of the desert after rainfall; all that fills my nostrils is the grassy scent of paper reed that means I'm home.

I sense nothing but completion.

Author's Notes: I should be able to post again tomorrow. Thanks for reading!