by Vic Tyler
In a flash, she hooks her leg around my waist, rubbing herself against my growing erection. “My pussy will be warmer if you keep me alive.”
“I don’t fuck corpses, but you’ll wish I do if you pull that shit on me.”
She winks. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
My hold on Kitty drops immediately when something dark flits in the corner of my periphery.
I whip around just in time to catch a glimpse of a child disappearing around the corner, and I can feel myself pale as my heart plunges through the pit of my stomach.
Elena?
I could swear it was the same dark hair wisping behind the same delicate frame as she runs down the halls, finding hiding spots in the most obvious of places.
If I go right now, would I find her crouched behind the door? Would she look up at me and smile? Would she laugh and run away again?
Am I hallucinating? Is it another delusion?
They stopped over the past couple of years. Are they coming back? Why now?
It’s like being trapped in that dark room again. Icy water soaking through my skin, my emaciated fingers slipping against the wet stone in that cell. And even with the numb paralysis of my cold, unfeeling limbs, my heart’s racing, desperate to stay alive.
“Damien?”
My head snaps back to Kitty.
Back to the present.
Back to reality.
I resist asking her to pinch me. Because this traitorous organ in my chest seizes painfully enough as it pumps the stolen life through my veins. Reminding me that I’m the only one who survived.
“Did you see a ghost?” With an amused look, Kitty glances towards the door before looking back at me, giggling. “It’s a good look on you.”
Masking my expression, I stalk past Kitty, leaving her behind — all desire to play with her lost to the sudden dismay plaguing what’s supposed to be a happy occasion.
Ghost.
Elena already haunts me in the recesses of my mind, threaded in my very existence.
Maybe she’s reminding me that I don’t deserve even a shred of happiness, even one as fucked up as this.
Everything that I’m doing is for her — for my family. And no matter how much it torments me, I’ll live every second of the rest of my life reliving the pain and anguish.
If the only way I can see her breathing again is in corporeal form, then come, Elena.
Haunt me, possess me, lurk in my shadows.
You deserve to see the sunlight one more time.
chapter three
The festivities are underway with copious amounts of alcohol and raucous laughter.
With Turan and Kitty flanking me at this massive circular end of the ram–head table, I should be at ease, but maybe it’s because I’m so comfortable around them that I’m openly in a bad mood.
Good thing that West is sitting smack dab in the middle of the table, on the other side of Turan, meaning I can’t see his irritating mug. And besides Ubo, the other annoying Twelve members are sitting on the other half of the rounded table.
I’ve been fidgeting and restless this entire time — my muscles vibrating with the fierce itch to do something — anything — to work off the adrenaline streaming through my veins from that vision earlier.
Maybe I should take Kitty outside and fuck her behind the building — work off the excess energy threatening to explode straight down her throat.
But it wouldn’t be satisfying to hold back just because we have to return to this goddamn dinner.
Jesus, I can’t fucking do this right now.
My chair shoves back with a loud skid as I suddenly stand.
The people around me glance but don’t pay any particular attention when I stalk past and out the door.
Hopefully I won’t feel like imploding once I get some fresh air.
As the maids pass me in the hallway, their faces drop immediately, and they draw closer to the walls as they scurry by, giving me a wide berth.
They seem more intimidated than usual, although I suppose I can’t blame them when I’m practically shaking with agitation.
Just as I turn the corner, something collides into me and bounces off my built frame. Silverware rains the ground in a deafeningly shattering crash.
A maid I’ve never seen before is sprawled flat on her ass. Her floppy dark hair curtains her face, and her clothes are bunched unnaturally around her. The strange crinkly bulkiness of her filled–out uniform defies the skeletal sensation I could swear I felt only a second ago.
She’s tiny — smaller than any of the other maids bustling in the hall — and thin.
My pulse quickens but the angry vibrations in my muscles simmer with the sobering realization that this must’ve been the person I saw earlier, metabolizing my high from all the adrenaline.
I don’t know how to feel about it, the disappointment and relief swirling together in confusion.
But just as quickly, irritation heats my blood when I really look at her.
She’s not just small — she’s young.
She’s a child.
What the fuck?
Tamping down the sudden surge of indignation, I try to extricate myself from the emotions threatening to consume me.
West shouldn’t be utilizing child labor. This is unusual even for him.
But the disapproval quickly fades to the background as her suspicious nature crowds the forefront of my attention, flipping me on high alert.
Still sitting on the ground, she motionlessly watches me through her mop of dark hair. I can just barely see her eyes through the tangled strands.
I hold out my hand. “Are you alright?”
One grip would tell me whether she’s a threat or not.
From what little of her body I can see, her muscles aren’t toned. She moves clumsily, and her build is frail and shaky, her muscle control subpar even for a well–practiced act.
She’d have to move lightning fast if she wants to surprise me with something poisonous or sharp, but for some reason, I doubt she’s capable of it.
My wariness only grows when she ignores me, not taking my hand or responding to my question.
Shuffling on her hands and knees, she scrambles to collect the fallen silverware.
Probably a smart move on her part, although admittedly, it is strangely unnerving to be treated like I suddenly don’t exist. Especially since the rest of the staff wouldn’t dare ignore any of the Twelve and are hypervigilant around us to the point that most of them are skittery and jumpy.
Keeping an eye on her, I kneel to help.
I can’t see much of her face because of her hair, but she’s definitely young.
Hell, she looks like she’s ten years old. Is she fucking prepubescent?
Shit. She shouldn’t be here, trapped in servitude to witness the worst of humanity.
We pile the utensils onto her tray silently, but before I can ask her anything else, the head maid hastens from around the corner.
“What are you doing?” Nadia hisses.
At the sight of the chubby older woman, the little maid springs to her feet, the massive tray jumping in her small hands.
“What happened to your hair? I told you you can’t look like a dirty mutt while you’re working.”
Nadia’s hand flashes out, but the girl jerks back with shocking reflexive speed, spilling some of the silverware onto the ground again.
“I’m sorry.” The sound coming out of her mouth is low and scratchy, and I’m taken aback when I realize it’s her voice. “I’ll fix my hair.”
Nadia quickly hides the surprise in her face as her eyebrows stitch together. “Maybe I should ask Georgia to serve dinner instead —”
“No!”
We stare at the little girl, her yell pitifully quiet and strained.
As she bends to pick up the dropped utensils, she hurriedly begs, “Please. I can do it. Let me prove myself.”
Her dark hair shifts as she pleadingly stares at Nadia.
It’s
startling to see a sort of adult beauty in her face with that childlike body. Maybe she isn’t as young as I thought.
The older maid purses her lips with disapproval.
“I crashed into her,” I say, turning to the severely featured, heavy–set woman. The little maid’s face jolts towards me, her eyes widening. “It wasn’t her fault.”
Reluctantly grumbling a concession, the head maid grunts as she shoos the little maid away.
The girl runs off, her shoes tickling the floor, sounding much too light even for her tiny figure.
Before Nadia can leave, I stop her with a hard look. “How old is she?”
Her gaze drops immediately, her expression filled with guilt.
“Young,” she says hesitantly. “I found her begging on the streets. I was going to take her to a shelter, but she said she only needs a little bit of money to get back home to her family. I offered to give it to her, but she insisted on working for it.” Her face wrinkles with distress, tinged with fear. “Please don’t tell Cardinal Westlake.”
Clenching my jaw, I look in the direction where the girl ran off. “How long will she be here?”
In choppy hastiness, Nadia answers, “Just tonight. She gets paid the same rate as the other girls, so she’ll have enough for her travels, food, shelter, and then some.”
She glances in the same direction, the strangely slight image of the girl disturbingly etched in our sights.
As though she’s talking to herself, Nadia murmurs, “I’ll have to send her off with some of the old clothes we have lying around.”
I frown, the uneasiness settling heavily in my chest. “Are you sure she’s telling the truth? Why is she away from her family in the first place?”
It’s not an unusual situation to find lost and hollow kids around us. But only the exceptionally strong, exceptionally talented, or exceptionally damaged are recruited and trained in the Blood Trials.
That girl is weak and timid, and I can’t feel any sort of malice from her. Even if she were accepted into the Trials, she wouldn’t last a week with the other kids.
Nadia looks down at her hands. “I don’t know, Master Zephyrus. She won’t talk about it, but I promise she isn’t a threat. I feel it in my gut. She… she just needs help, that’s all.”
Exhaling heavily, I turn on my heels before she can see the grimace on my face. “Make sure she’s out before the end of the day tomorrow. I don’t want to see her here again. If you need anything else, let me know.”
“Yes, sir.”
The echoes of Nadia’s heeled shoes clacking on the marble floor only punctuate the deafening quiet of the girl’s pitter–pattering feet in my memories.
chapter four
After getting a breath of fresh air and cooling down, I return to the domed hall, infinitely more composed than before.
When I sit, Kitty slides her hand up my thigh, even as she continues bantering with Ubo.
Sitting between them, not paying either of the louder Twelve any mind, Richter and Jura converse about the latest infiltration mission they were assigned.
Next to me, Turan roars with slurred laughter as he pours wine into my glass, and I already dread the idea of taking him back to the Twelve’s quarters.
Hopefully he doesn’t pass out because the man is massive and heavy as all fuck.
My mentor, rivaling André the Giant in height and weight but nowhere near as friendly, can’t handle his fucking liquor. And when he does drink, he likes his alcohol sweeter than chocolate syrup on a hooker, which he likes a whole goddamn lot too.
But just try telling him he’s a pussy for it, and the only way you’ll live to see the next week is with a breathing tube and enough fentanyl to overdose all your favorite rappers.
I sigh as I watch him chug his glass of wine, and a dribble of the red liquid trails out the side of his mouth.
At this point, I might even have to fight Ubo off from slicing off his own souvenir from the drunken man, and that’s going to be a bitch.
Fighting to survive or to kill is one thing, but fighting to protect is burdensome.
A small, jittery movement at the far end of the room catches my attention, and my gaze lifts to find the little maid nervously scampering about.
Tendrils of her dark hair are just barely pinned back, and she continuously shifts her head, so her hair falls directly onto her face.
Despite her odd behavior, I can’t help watching her with some amusement.
It’d be amusing to watch Nadia throw a fit when she sees that.
As dinner continues and each delectable course is served, the crowd gets rowdier with each bottle of liquor that empties.
There’s an unprecedented gaiety in the atmosphere, and it seems like everyone’s enjoying themselves.
Except for me.
Other than the first glass of wine I had, I haven’t touched another drop of alcohol. My senses are on high alert, especially whenever the little maid steps into the room.
With each plate that comes out, she’s been inching closer and closer to this end of the hall. And every time she’s in sight, her gaze is glued to West.
Judging from our encounter earlier, there’s no way she poses a legitimate threat. She’ll be taken out by any one of the lieutenants before she even makes it to this table. And on the off chance she does, she has twelve of the most ruthless murderers on the west side of this continent who’ll snuff her out before she can even think of taking her next breath.
As much as we’re all dying to kill West and living to execute him, we’ll protect him no matter the cost.
He’s the head, the law, the foundation of this organization and therefore our lives.
It’s fucked up. It shouldn’t make sense, but he’s ours to kill. When he dies, it better be by one of our hands.
More accurately, it will be by my hand. I won’t even let God touch a hair on the devil’s head because it’s mine to take.
But the little maid doesn’t look like she’s going to attack him.
Most of the other maids can’t even bring themselves to look at the Cardinal, not knowing exactly what he does but their animal instincts silently screaming of all that he’s capable of.
But she… she stares at him with a masked expression that betrays only a hint of her fear. It’s as though the fear is what magnetizes her to him.
As the little maid draws nearer, she catches the attention of a few people on this side of the table. Namely, Turan and Jura, who warily eye her like I do.
The rest aren’t particularly concerned considering the maids aren’t a threat. Besides, seeing children, especially ones with such an empty look in their eyes like the little maid, isn’t an unusual occurrence.
But a child employed in West’s staff is, and whether she’s gutsy or brainless, it hasn’t escaped some of our notices that she’s only getting closer.
The ones who are aware of her pretend we’re not, keeping her in our periphery as we continue talking, laughing, eating, drinking, or whatever the fuck we’re not actually invested in doing.
Like the others who served us, the little one slides along the inner surface of the horned ram table as she refills our drinks. Her small, thin fingers tremble against the crystal handle, her pale flesh whitened against the crimson liquid. With her hair covering her face, she might just barely pass for being of legal working age.
I press my lips together to swallow back a curse and to stop myself from berating her.
The idiot should’ve stayed at the far end of the room where the chance for West to notice her was minimal. Doesn’t she know she’s jeopardizing Nadia as well?
Even in his inebriation, Turan sobers minutely when she pours wine into his glass, his dark eyes studying her with a curiously solemn depth to them.
I’m almost afraid to look at West to check whether he’s noticed her. And if he hasn’t, I don’t want to give anything away.
A certain tension seems to lift whenever she leaves, making it easier to breathe. Her presence is a
ggravatingly suffocating. I won’t feel at ease until this dinner is done and over with and I never see her again.
When Turan starts enthusiastically discussing our last — and unfortunately, uneventful — assignment together from my time as his lieutenant, I start to relax.
If it wasn’t for the fact the poor bastard was frightened out of his wits and a blubbering mess, I might’ve been irritated that my mark decided to jump off the roof instead of waiting around for me to kill him.
Kind of an asshole move but can’t do anything about it now.
The slight clink of silverware hitting the marble floor registers in the back of my mind, but I ignore it.
Not unusual. Someone will come by to replace it.
It’s when we hear a light gasp from the far end of the table that Turan and I look to the commotion.
It’s already too late when I see Ubo’s arm coiled around the little maid’s waist.
“What’s this? I wasn’t aware we had a daycare sector.” He bares his teeth in a delighted smile like he caught his stubborn niece who thinks she’s too cool to give uncle a hug.
Everyone on this side of the table watches motionlessly — Richter bored, Jura expressionless, and Kitty amused.
My shoulders tense when I see the little maid trembling in his grasp. “Let go of her, Ubo.”
Shifting his gaze to me, Ubo cocks his head before dipping his face in front of hers, the movement disturbingly owl–like. “Does the Dog have an interest in the help?”
With eager fascination, he studies her thoroughly over the few inches between them. Even with her frantic squirming, she doesn’t budge an inch in his iron grip.
“On the contrary,” I say, keeping my tone even and cool. “It looks like you do. Best to keep the Twelve from gaining an unsavory reputation.”
He barks out a laugh that echoes in the hall, attracting more than a few glances our way.
But Ubo’s eccentricities are common knowledge, so people hastily return to whatever they were originally doing, mostly from the fear that he’d turn his creepy interest on them.
“Unsavory reputation, you say? More than we already have?”