Page 147 of Tainted Souls
“It doesn’t have to be nasty,” he says with infuriating calm. “It can be done civilly. Knock on a door, use a little persuasion, take what you need, and leave them with a pleasant memory.”
“You can’t be serious,” I scoff, disgust evident in my voice.
“I could catch you something.” He gestures toward the forest. “A deer, perhaps. Not nearly as satisfying, but decently nutritious.”
I consider it for a moment. Animal blood. It’s not ideal, but better than attacking a human. The forest is full of wildlife, and no one would know. Still, the image of myself hunched over some poor animal, face buried in its fur as I drain its life away, makes my stomach turn with repugnance. “No.” I shake my head vehemently. “Just give me another cigarette.”
Ace sighs but reaches into his pocket for the silver case, handing me one with a look that says he knows I’m avoiding the inevitable. I take it with shaking fingers, and he lights it for me, the flame illuminating our faces in the darkness.
“This is just postponing the problem,” he warns as I inhale deeply.
“I know,” I admit, exhaling a swelling cloud of smoke. “But it’s my problem.”
“Your moral code is fascinating.” The corner of his mouth twitches. “You’re about to be surrounded by humans whose blood smells far too tempting for you to ignore in your current state. You know that, right? You’d rather risk turning negotiations into a slaughter just to keep your conscience clean—is innocence really worth that much to you?”
I hold the cigarette between my fingers, watching the ember pulse like the last bit of warmth in a dying world. I don’t know, and he’s not wrong, but saying that out loud would give him too much. Truth is, I simply don’t trust myself. Not when it comes tobloodsucking. I’m too compulsive by nature, which is why I cling to control so badly. I always tell myself I can resist, restrain, keep myself in check, but deep down, I know how fragile that resolve really is. Because once I let myself go, I’m left at the mercy of whatever emotion or desire takes hold.
Reckless. Impulsive. All labels I’ve heard more than I care to admit.
Having no good response to him, I stay silent, focusing on putting one foot in front of the other as we resume walking.
The first sign of something wrong is the smell—a sickly-sweet odor that hangs in the air, growing stronger as we approach a small clearing.
Ace stops abruptly, holding out an arm to keep me back.
“Blood,” he whispers, his posture instantly alert. “A lot of it.”
We carefully edge forward, and that’s when I see it: bodies scattered across the forest floor, limbs bent unnaturally, throats torn open.
Redmoore uniforms, stained dark with congealed blood.
This happened hours ago, not minutes.
Ace tenses beside me, his head tilting slightly as if listening. Without warning, his hand shoots up, catching something mid-air inches from his face.
An arrow.
He snaps it in half, his eyes scanning the trees around us.
More arrows fly from the darkness.
Ace dodges most, but one catches him in the shoulder. He pulls it out with a grimace, but something’s wrong. His movements slow and become sluggish.
“Gardenia,” he mutters, staggering slightly. “In the arrowheads.”
Another volley comes, this time accompanied by the ping of lumen bullets. One catches Ace in the leg, another in his side. He drops to one knee, vitae seeping through his clothing.
Figures all around us emerge from behind the trees, their weapons trained on us—no, Ace. Among them is Lexa, her face hard with dread and determination.
“It washim,” she snaps, gesturing to the mutilated bodies around us, the same type of hatred in her eyes that I’ve always carried in mine. “Slaughtered them all.”
I freeze, my eyes darting from the carnage that are too reminiscent of the massacre, of the attack in which Mira and Henry died, to Ace’s wounded form. My heart hammers against my ribs, a sudden wave of nausea threatening to overwhelm me.
“D-did you do this?” I stammer, my voice barely audible even to my own ears.
Ace’s face remains inscrutable behind his mask, but his eyes burn with something I can’t decipher. Pain from his wounds? Rage at being ambushed? Or is it guilt?
“Answer me!” I demand, louder this time, taking a step back from him. The cigarette falls from my fingers, forgotten.
