Page 22 of Tainted Souls
I grit my teeth. As much as I want to believe that he would, I haven’t been convinced of it since the night he left me. “I’m not sure,” I reply, a lump forming in my throat. “I’m not the one who ran.”
Unfazed, she types notes into her tablet.
The door swings open as General Lee strides in, his pristine uniform a stark contrast to my rumpled skirt and overall disheveled appearance.
He carries numerous pins and badges that display his high rank, ability, and dedication to the human race. In other words, he’s a supporter of my father and an adversary of my brother.
His black hair is combed back and slightly graying, his square jaw framed by a neatly trimmed beard and mustache. His expression gives nothing away of his thoughts or intentions. A scar runs down the side of his face, serving as a reminder of his years in battle. Despite his intimidating presence, there’s a subtle kindness in his gaze that hints at a strong sense of duty and justice. My father rarely spoke of his professional relationships, but the general had come up often enough in casual conversations for me to understand they were more than just colleagues. Someone called them the Ro-Bros once, and I remember laughing. Where I’m concerned, his gift has always taken the form of preferential treatment—whether at Redmoore or here in Penn City—a favor I’ve never minded cashing in.
And won’t now.
“Chief Penn.” He nods in her direction before turning to me. “Miss Rosen.”
“General,” I acknowledge, my posture correcting itself before I can stop it. Redmoore training runs deep.
He places a folder on the table between us. “We have a situation.”
The chief reaches for the folder, but the general quickly places his hand on it. “Thirty-seven civilians were turned tonight. All within a four-hour window.”
My breath catches.
Thirty-seven humans turned within the safe walls of Penn City.
“How?” the chief asks, leaning forward. “Even with a coordinated attack, they shouldn’t be able to pull that off without getting caught. Not in this city.”
“Unless they had inside help,” the general says, his eyes never leaving my face.
“If you’re implying I had something to do with this—” I say, anger flaring.
“I am stating possibilities,” he cuts me off. “The Ravens appeared precisely when you were attacked. Your brother is among them. Their leader saved your life.”
“My brother and I haven’t spoken to each other in years,” I retort, adamant on defending myself. “And if you think I’d let them turn Max, you’re delusional.”
“Fair enough,” he says in admission. “Speaking of, the doctors have managed to stabilize all thirty-seven victims, including Maxim Sinclair, but you know as well as I do that the transition can only be completed in one of two ways.”
Either they drink their sire’s vitae within forty-eight hours, or they’re left to die in agony. This is due to vesia, the vampire venom naturally injected into a human’s bloodstream with everybite and harmless while its host is alive, save for the numbing tingle it leaves behind. But if the host dies before the venom is flushed from their system—through either sweat or urine—the vesia resurrects them and kickstarts the transformation process. Only by drinking their sire’s vitae can the change be stabilized.
Without it, the venom has only one path to follow: death.
“The female Whiteshade that led the attack,” the general continues, opening the folder to reveal a heavily discolored piece of paper. “She’s left us a message.”
An elegant script flows across it, the composition of it all reminding me of the time Revenant had done the same. It was the very letter that urged us to meet up with him, claiming to want to help us search for our mother. My brother, as gullible as he was, fell for his trick.
To this day, our mother has yet to be found, and my brother has pretty much vanished along with her. They have got to be some sort of cult.
I reckon this is what they do: incite trauma, act as a catalyst for some sort of closure, then brainwash and recruit them. The female Whiteshade could be the leader of an opposing cult.
The chief picks up the piece of paper, skimming it. “She’s offering her blood, enough to complete all thirty-seven transitions,” she says, reciting the letter out loud. “In Blackham. Midnight tomorrow.”
The abandoned mining town that sits like a festering wound along the border between our Northcross and the vampire lair, Mythcrest. Once a thriving community, now a haven for outcasts and criminals too dangerous for even Penn City’s liberal policies.
“What’s the catch?” I ask, knowing she wants something in return.
The chief’s lips part in something between shock and understanding as her eyes lock with mine. “You,” she says softly. “She wants you.”
“It’s a trap,” I blurt out, more to myself than anyone else.
“I agree,” the general says, “but it’s also the only chance those people have.”
