His boots clicked against the floor and with each step, the water pooled in the marble's cracks, spit onto the stone wall. He heard the screams, the panic, and it reminded him of Lorelei and his prison filled with the melody of the Muses’ surrender. A fine time for him, before he’d claimed her, before his powers were stolen.
He smelled blood and fear and enjoyed the bitter tang of it. Fae blood, once his blood, smells of jasmine and his stomach rippled at the quick memory. Lorelei was not Fae, not one of the Legion, but their perfected creation made real; favored above all other Muse, blessed with beauty, with tenderness and Ludas wanted her instantly.
He remembers the taste of her--fine like sugar, the gossamer drizzle of honey melting on his tongue. She spent her days in the sunlight of Changeling Fields, her skin shinning in the mild temperatures. He frowned at the memory, admonishing himself for his forgiveness, but it could not be helped. For all she'd been swayed to do-- the theft of his power, his heart-- the memory of her taste is like a sacrament, erasing her sin.