Page 25 of Tainted Souls
An icy shiver ran down my spine. Whoever—whatever—he was, he wasn’t just fast. He had them dancing to his strings. And for the first time in my life, I saw my father falter.
As they began to circle him, closing in from all sides, I forced my trembling legs forward, stepping into the atrium despite the terror clawing at my chest.
“Dad!” I called out, running, unable to contain myself. I wanted him to know I was here, that help had arrived.
His head turned slightly at the sound of my voice, his concentration broken for just a fraction of a second.
It was all the opening his opponents needed.
Time seemed to slow as a tall figure with shocking white hair like my mother materialized behind me. My father lunged at him as I rolled away. A veined hand plunged forward, punching straight through my father’s chest. Blood sprayed in an arc, spattering across the floor.
“NO!” I screamed, grabbing a gun from one of the dead bodies and leaping to my feet, but it was too late.
My father’s eyes found mine as he fell to his knees, his mouth working silently. The vampire pulled his hand free with a sickening sound, my father’s heart clutched in his crimson-stained fingers.
Horrified, I watched him collapse, his body hitting the floor with a finality that completely shattered me from the inside. Irushed to his side, skidding on my knees across the blood-slick vinyl.
“Dad? Dad, please—” My hands hovered uselessly over his body, shaking with shock and disbelief.
His eyes were still open, fixed on something beyond me, beyond this room.
Beyond this life.
The blur slowly moved to stand in front of me, his shadow falling across my father’s body. I looked up at his masked face, blurred by my tears. He looked at me as if I were some specimen to examine.
I knew I should run. Hide. Fight.
But all I could do was clutch my father’s cooling hand and weep with ugly, heaving wails that tore through my throat, the grief and rage making me struggle to breathe as sobs wracked my chest. Snot and tears streamed down my face, but I didn’t care. Nothing mattered anymore.
The vampire crouched down, bringing his face level with mine. I could make out some of his features now—ones that would haunt me forever.
Something primal snapped within me. I wouldn’t die like this. Not without a fight.
I lunged forward with a scream, hands outstretched for his throat, ready to tear him apart with my bare hands if necessary. My muscles coiled, my teeth bared in a snarl that felt more animal than human. I expected to feel his flesh beneath my fingers, the satisfaction of causing him even a fraction of the pain I was feeling.
But my hands met nothing but air.
He was gone. Simply vanished, as if he was never there at all.
I collapsed forward, my momentum carrying me to the floor where he had stood moments before. The room was silent except for my ragged breathing and broken cries. I was alive.
Why was I alive? Why did he spare me when everyone else lay dead around me? The questions tortured me as I crawled back to my father’s side, cradling his head in my lap, rocking back and forth as I whispered apologies that he’d never hear.
The bodies of the guards that were revived and somehow enslaved were later found at the security checkpoint, where all logs indicated no unauthorized entry.
Not only did he treat humans as tools to be bent to his will, but he’d discard them the moment they’d outlived their usefulness.
In the debrief that followed, I was questioned over and over, forced to recount every moment of the chaos in the atrium.
Where exactly were you when the initial breach occurred? What did you hear? Why do you think he didn’t attack you? Did you feel any compulsion or influence from him? Were there any interactions—speech, eye contact, gestures—that might explain why he spared you? Are you certain you weren’t manipulated in any way? Do you have any abilities, training, or knowledge that might’ve made you of interest to him? Could there be a reason he chose not to enslave or harm you?
Even in reports, his presence demanded a name: Revenant.
The next morning, a letter arrived, addressed in elegant handwriting I didn’t recognize. No return address, just my name written with flourishes that seemed to mock me with their beauty. I almost threw it away with the junk mail, but something about it felt significant enough to stop me. When I finally tore it open, my hands trembled so violently I nearly ripped the contents. Inside was a single sheet of parchment, the scent of expensive cologne wafting from it.
Dear Saul & Seraph Rosen,
It is with sorrow I write this missive that brings no comfort for the pain I have caused. I am aware it will be both unexpectedand unwelcome, yet I feel an irresistible compulsion to tender my condolences. The reasons and justifications dwelling in my mind are feeble against the weight of what has been done. We may be too far past the point of forgiveness, and our paths may never cross again, though I would like to humbly offer you my assistance in the search for your mother, Seena Rosen.
