Seventy-Two: A Strange Woman?

“Litt! Did you miss me?” The Little White Dragon padded out in cotton slippers, her sleepwear thin as mist, and Nidhogg snagged a thick coat, shadowing the White Dragon like a dark stream.

At Litt’s door, she draped the coat over her shoulders, then nudged Nidhogg toward the Black Dragon’s room to rest, and her knuckles tapped Abaddon’s door twice like light rain.

When Abaddon answered, Lilith eased the door open like lifting a curtain and stepped into the room, her gaze sweeping for Litt like a lantern’s beam across quiet water.

“Where’s Litt?” Lilith only saw the little Demon on the bed, head tilted up toward her, while the shard she called her own had vanished like a hiding firefly. “Isn’t she playing with you?”

“I, Abaddon, cannot say.” The little Demon zipped her lips with a tiny hand. “I keep my word; I won’t sell out a friend.”

“Fine, I’ll find her myself.” A ripple of amusement rose before Lilith moved; Litt was a dandelion puff in a small room, and Lilith meant to see where that little shard could burrow.

She slipped in, closed the door like a stage’s velvet fall, and paced a circle; on the bed beside Abaddon, a quilt bulged like a quiet hill.

The White Dragon chuckled, pinched the edge of the quilt, and flipped it in a wave, the cloth breaking like dawn.

“Found you!” The Little White Dragon fished Litt from beneath the blanket, scooped her up from her crouch, held her close like cupping a warm sparrow, and asked, “Why hide?”

“Because Mommy’s mean!” Litt glared, cheeks puffed like a pufferfish, and slapped Lilith’s face with short, plump hands. “You never play with me! Abaddon-sis does. She likes to play.”

“You like Abaddon that much?” Lilith smiled, warmth flickering like lamplight; she’d thought she’d be minding both Abaddon and Litt, yet the little Demon she’d picked up was surprisingly dependable at childcare.

“Of course. Sis plays with me. Sis is good. Mom ignores me. Mom’s bad!” Litt huffed, cheeks swelling like storm clouds, and the Little White Dragon finally saw why Nidhogg loved teasing her—Litt did look like Lilith.

The Nameless One was technically Lilith’s grandmother; as Her shard, Litt and Lilith shared a sliver of blood, a mirror glint between them, and Lilith pictured Nidhogg teasing her exactly like this.

She really does look like a pufferfish, Lilith thought, pinching Litt’s soft cheeks like dough clouds.

But she wouldn’t forgive Nidhogg so easily; the Black Dragon’s teasing often crossed like claws over a boundary.

At the thought, Lilith’s fingers pressed a shade harder; the little shard winced, face crinkling like a petal, and batted away Lilith’s claws with a sharp smack.

“It hurts! I hate Mom!” Litt wriggled free, leapt like a sparrow from the air, and dropped straight into Abaddon’s arms, seeking a nest she knew would open.

“She really clings to you,” the Little White Dragon said, laughing as Litt burrowed like a kitten into warm fur.

“Naturally. I, the great Abaddon, declare every creature of this earth is Lord Satan’s subject and owes loyalty to me.” She lifted her small chin, her Demon nature sparkling like polished obsidian.

Even Lilith had picked up classic tsundere lines from her, and Abaddon—mother of that contagion—cracked open her left eye and, with mock shyness, went on, “But if it’s you two, this lord may graciously permit you not to treat me as your liege. Remember, it’s Abaddon’s bestowed favor; accept it with gratitude.”

“Many thanks for Lord Abaddon’s grand favor—heart of a bodhisattva,” the Little White Dragon said, bowing exaggeratedly like a courtier at a festival.

“Pizza sausage!” Litt squealed in Abaddon’s arms, fizzing like soda, and both the little Demon and the Little White Dragon burst into laughter like bells tumbling.

Abaddon couldn’t hold her tsundere pose; she sat Litt on her lap, and Lilith bent with a smile, crouched before them, tapped Litt’s soft cheek with a fingertip, and asked, bright-eyed, “So hungry you’d call your sister ‘pizza sausage’? Planning to take a bite and test the flavor?”

“Really?” Litt’s eyes turned glass-bright toward Abaddon. Then something clicked; she sat back, gripped Lilith’s slim, pale finger, and murmured, “When Mom wasn’t here, I already had a taste.”

“How was it? Tasty?” Lilith knew “taste” meant blood. Litt had inherited Vampire traits, living by blood like a candle by wax; they’d thought only Lilith’s blood would work, but any magic-rich blood did—though Lilith’s was best.

While the Little White Dragon was away, Abaddon fed her, each drop a warm ember; Nidhogg refused, saying her blood carried forbidden sorcery like thorny vines, not fit for Litt to drink.

So far, the little shard had tasted only Abaddon’s and Lilith’s blood, a narrow river running between two sources.

“Sis, it’s delicious!” Litt reported, bubbling. “Her blood is sweet, and there’s a little tingle in my mouth like a spark. Litt doesn’t like the tingle, but Litt loves the sweet!”

“Then whose blood tastes better, mine or your mother’s?” Abaddon had never thought her blood would be compared to Lilith’s, much less in mouthfeel—curiosity padded over like a cat.

“Mom!” the little shard blurted. “Mom’s blood is the best in the world! It’s like the cream cake Aunt Black Dragon feeds me—sweet, silky, no greasy taste, not cloying. Litt can drink forever! But Mom’s blood is too cold. Litt doesn’t like that.”

“Mom. Mom, can Litt drink your blood again? It’s been so long.” The plea rose first, soft as sugar, as Litt hugged the Little White Dragon’s hand.

“What’s wrong, did you skip dinner?” Lilith reached and lifted the milk dumpling from Abaddon, her petite arms fitting Litt like a cradle, the pale girl perching on Lilith’s shoulder, head shyly drooped like a lily.

“I ate. I still want to taste Mom’s blood,” Litt muttered, head low, voice thin as thread. “Just a tiny sip. Litt won’t drink much.”

“You can’t drink much anyway.” Lilith flicked Litt’s nose; normally her portion was a fingernail-sized moon drop of blood—no exaggeration. If she ‘tasted,’ she’d flood the river and drink a full session.

“Who says? Litt can drink lots and lots now. Mom doesn’t care about Litt.” The protest waved her small arms like flags, and the Little White Dragon frowned, swatted her tiny butt, and murmured, “Even if you can, no binging. Careful, or you’ll puff into a chubby dumpling.”

“Just one sip, please?” Seeing Lilith stand firm, Litt tugged her arm, voice syrupy and bright. “Just one sip, just one!”

“No.” Lilith’s answer dropped like a hammer. “It’s not mealtime. No snacking. Understood?”

“Mom ate too! I saw Mom lying in bed eating bread that day.” When pleading failed, Litt flipped the White Dragon’s old ledger like a scrolled record. “Aunt Black Dragon said you’d brushed. You said you’d brush again after, and you didn’t.”

“That’s because your mom, at the time…” Lilith’s cheeks bloomed like peaches. She hadn’t expected a lazy day during her period to stick in Litt’s memory; her dignity teetered, and she cut Litt off quickly.

“Hmph. Then here’s the deal: Litt tells Mom a little secret, and Mom lets Litt drink.” Seeing Lilith soften, the little shard offered a trade, her words twinkling like coins. “Litt knows a lot recently!”

“What kind of secrets could you have, little one?” Lilith laughed. Small body, sly mind—already bargaining. She found it amusing and played along. “Go on. What do you know?”

“Litt won’t—Mom must let Litt bite first.” She shook her head; drool pearled at her lips like tiny beads, her eyes fixed on Lilith’s finger, ready to pounce.

“If you don’t talk, I’ll walk. No blood for days.” Lilith decided to tease, to test how long this little heart could hold.

“No, no, Litt will say. Let Litt sip first.” The little shard derailed at once, then leaned to the Little White Dragon’s ear, whispering like wind through bamboo. “Actually, Litt keeps dreaming of a strange woman. Litt can’t see her face. But she always tells Litt to tell Mom: go to the summit of the Holy Mountain and find her.”

“A strange woman? The Holy Mountain?” Doubt rose in the Little White Dragon like fog from a valley. “Why would you dream that? Did you make it up to trick Mom?”

She had carried Litt up the Holy Mountain before—no interest in climbing, only cradled by the Little White Dragon and Nidhogg—so how would Litt know its heights?

“That’s a separate price!” Litt’s words bolted like a wild colt; she lunged, opened her mouth, and bit Lilith’s hand hard, teeth like a sudden white crescent.

“Ah!”