part one - cuppedia
The first time Noel meets Cyric Erebos, the latter man's knuckles are stained with blood.
He stands, grappling at the chest of another male, spit dark as pitch where it splatters against the forest foliage. He shudders, all but howls with a face splitting grin, dropping him to the ground at his feet. Noel can't help but cringe from beyond the tree line, can't help the sound he makes when he hears the twigs crunch, compact under the weight of a body —
Noel can't help that his body shudders too, and that, that must be when he catches the Scelerati's interest.
—
Cyric's eyes are black and unsteady as his attention shifts, a slow drag from Noel's double-knotted tennis shoes to the collar of his sweater. He's watching his pulse — can undoubtedly hear his heart thundering against his ribs like a trapped bee.
If someone asked Noel to pinpoint the sensation of fear, he'd tell them it felt like ice slipping down his back, the way someone hunches their shoulders to make them feel smaller — the way a fawn must feel in the wake of an approaching wolf.
It's the way you feel around a Scelerati.
"It's okay, babe," Cyric smirks, his teeth barely showing beneath the side of his lip, teeth too sharp for his mouth. His voice is low, reverberates like the growl of a predator — the hiss of a snake. Noel knows it's not.
It's not okay.
He messed up, strayed off course on the way home. It'll be quicker this way, he had told himself, but a small part of him screamed —
The moon will rise soon.
Noel tells himself that he should learn to trust his gut, his instinct, as they call it. Humans are the only species alive that inherently refuse to abide by their intuition. Maybe they think that they're too damned smart, and perhaps that's why —
Perhaps that's why so many of them die here on the borderlands.
Your wit will get you nowhere in Adeline, Noel's mother says, strength; it's all about survival —and no one is stronger than a Scelerati.
Noel knows strength when he sees it. He can see it in the hard angle of Cyric's jaw, illuminated by the presence of the blunt in his left hand. He can see it in his fingers, wound around the paper like a vice. It burns a strange purple, smoke rising from it like fog in the night sky.
"We're just getting rid of some energy," The Scelerati man explains, his eyebrows shifting upwards with nonchalance, snorting when his friend chuckles from the woodland floor, "friendly sport is all."
Secrevingenium root.
Something that would be poisonous to a human. They say it's a strain bred for the sole purpose of putting creatures... Specifically, the Scelerati that are located too close to the border at ease on full moons. Just for safety precautions, in case one of the humans get too close,
but Noel has heard too many times that it's just a lie to make the humans feel better, that secrevingenium root makes a Scelerati's inevitable shift less painful.
Noel blinks up at the man in front of him — the smoke drying his sinuses in a horrid sort of way. He coughs a bit over the anxiety that's curdled in his throat and shakes his head; willing away the onset of dread, the anxiety that has plagued him since he was a child and had his first panic attack.
Cyric's dark gaze slides back to his pack. He nods at them, a smirk growing — teeth showing and overtaking his once ethereal face,
"Looks like a human stumbled across us," he informs them, a low chortle accentuating his words, too quiet — too dark, "to keep us from getting bored."
"Great observation." Noel's voice is thin, shaking a bit under false confidence, and Cyric's overblown pupils snap to him, large and predatory like he's some sort of vulture gazing at a landfill of rot. Noel can't help but stare, watching the Scelerati's pupils nearly fill the whites of his eyes completely...
A trait the teen only comes across when watching the news outlets in his small hometown of Adeline, but never before this close.
You can see your soul here; Noel's mother would say as she'd brush her thumbs beneath his eyes; those monsters, the Scelerati, they have no soul. That's what happens when you make a deal with a demon.
"Cheeky," Cyric calls him flippantly, but there's a serrated edge to his tone like a warning — like a threat. Noel lets his glower drift behind the taller male, too afraid to hold his gaze and ignite some sort of pissing contest.
Demons, it's all they are, he thinks; they stand like humans but act like monsters. Eye contact is a show of dominance, and humans, with their tender skin and mortality, never dare to look a Scelerati in the eye.
"Not much meat on your bones, is there...? You must be cold. Why are you out in the woods so late?"
Noel is somewhat glad the sun has set early to cloak the thinner parts of his body, and the layers of his clothing are hiding him away from their predatory regard- but there's the word of a blood moon tonight, of danger, and he feels there's a good chance he's just set himself up for an early death.
Noel should've known better. He does know better.
The young Scelerati blocking his path passes the joint along to Aurelio Cabrera, a striking man who tends to fidget when Noel sits too close to him in biology. He hasn't come into his name yet, remains in the human's college curriculum as an overseer, keeping a dutiful eye on the humans of his age group for their heir.
He's a threat on his own but coupled with the other shadowed figures, they're an even more imposing group, something that screams power even in the dark: tall, sharp edges, and lean muscle. There's something that underlies their appearance — something that has Noel's hair standing on end.
"What's that smell? Why does he always fucking smell like that?" Aurelio asks and eyes the human teen in a jittery way, his pupil's afflicted with the same large irises as Cyric, a display that has him uneasy. He's the smallest of the bunch, but at his height, Noel still falls at his shoulders, and Noel wishes that was uncommon.
"Smell...?" Noel watches his fidget, that same damn fidget from the start of September, "I smell... Smell like what?" He's so nauseous that he could vomit and feels as if his arms are paralyzed at his sides. He breathes in shakily.
A few of the previous snickers die off as they scent the air, as Cyric's fingertips dig into Noel's thin shoulders.
"Oh," Cyric circles him, hunches his shoulders, so his black eyes hide behind the side of the teen's cheek. "You smell like prey," He hisses, and it reverberates through the air like a snake before it strikes. The place where his skin meets Noel's own feels over-heated, like his blood is too warm for him, like it wants to pull straight from his skin. "You smell like... Fear and anger — and something sweet."
The brunette's body jolts at the word sweet, hands clenching his messenger bag strap that links around his chest like a bind. He'd only ever been called prey in jest, amongst other humans, where the Scelerati and their animalistic ways were the butt of their hushed humor, but there's a heavy weight in the air that tells Noel that they're not joking.
Noel takes a timid step back; knees bent with the intention to run. Cyric startles into a quick intake of air as the human teen's nerves spike — then takes one look at him and bellows a laugh.
Don't run; it triggers their instincts.
"So sweet... What're you doing out in the woods?" Cyric's seemingly serious, if not for the grin that arises. He doesn't deem Noel a threat. "Our woods, on a blood moon... So brave." The raven-haired man inspects the ridges of his nails, scrutinizing Noel over their tips like he can't tell if he's a simple idiot or something he should analyze further. "Is there a reason you're so brave?"
"I had online classes at the community college. They ran late..." Noel shifts his messenger bag upon his shoulder as if to prove that his story isn't fabricated. "...My house is on the other side, and ah, my mother, she's alone."
Appeal to their pack mentality.
When they stare, all silent, a pool of anxiety settles in Noel's gut.
He knows better; that's what he keeps telling himself, he knew better.
He'd heard the rumors. Learned not to cross the borderlands between the human's intercity and the Scelerati's domain past the eight-hour hour in case of an early moon.
"We're not fucking animals," A Scelerati woman behind Cyric chuckles, "...We don't give a shit if your mother is alone. My goodness, what are they teaching you nowadays?"
"A dip between borders, huh? How ballsy," Cyric's tone has lost its humored edge, bordering on disdain. Noel is afraid, thin, and bird-like. Knowledge had always been his strong suit, never brawn. "Seems like your college education is failing you in all sorts of ways tonight."
Aurelio licks his lips when Noel's chest heaves with fright, and suddenly...
So suddenly that the wind moves with his approach — Aurelio's body is forming a solid barrier between Cyric and Noel as he approaches him.
Noel is almost thankful — but more-so confused, and he almost misses the way that Cyric's eyes narrow darkly from the Scelerati pillar in front of him.
"We should let him go home," Aurelio grunts. He scratches the side of his face with a small clicking of nails. "The moon hasn't risen yet, and — ugh, we should let him go."
"Why're you blocking me...?"
Cyric clucks his tongue, pulling the wrapped substance to his lips. He takes another slow drag, still smiling in an unsettling, humorless way. The joint in his hand is encompassed by spidery fingers, his ring finger longer than the rest.
He's not just a Scelerati...
He's an heir in succession.
"Move, Aurelio."
"Why?"
Noel's eyes shift uneasily between the two, the tension thick between them.
"Because. Something smells fucking good." Cyric almost hisses, and the dark undertone lifts Noel's chin from the ground without aid. He can barely see anything through the stark contrast of his skin and obsidian irises.
"We can't —"
"So good," Cyric's nails brush under his eyebrow as he raises his hand, the Erebos clan ring gleaming. Noel untangles his hands and knots them together again in fright. Noel can feel his own jaw clench around a bubble of fear. "That I feel it's best you leave before I eat you up. Moon or no fucking moon."
"Cyric!"
Cyric moves towards Noel so abruptly that the latter man's eyes struggle to regain focus, heartbeat flooding his ears as he sucks in the breath that shudders from him,
"Run."
—
(A/N: This is a chapter of another one of my Patreon stories. This story is several chapters ahead on my Patreon.
You can find my patron here: www.patreon.com/mythmouth. Or on my page under my links. @mythmouth.)