Page 96 of Tainted Souls
Saul steps forward first. He holds out my pendant, but when I reach for it, he pulls away. “You were never meant to survive this,” he says quietly. “Not once you stopped being useful.”
Behind him, Revenant doesn’t move. He just watches as Saul turns his back on me, as if this had all been decided long ago. His silence cuts deeper than my brother’s words.
“Don’t go,” I whisper, my voice cracking. “Don’t leave me.”
Revenant steps forward next, but he doesn’t say anything.
The mirrors crack, one by one. I see my reflection at last—bloodied, alone, and holding two daggers. One is buried in Revenant’s chest. The other drips with something darker than blood.
The hall collapses in silence, and I fall with it.
I wake choking on my own breath, the sting of betrayal still burning behind my ribs. Wan afternoon light filters through the heavy drapes, casting the room in a soft, blue glow. For a moment, I lie still, trying to separate memory from dream, truth from wishful thinking.
A knock at the door interrupts my thoughts. “May I come in?”
It’s the same woman who brought me to this room last night.
I sit up, pulling the covers around me defensively. “Yes,” I call out, my voice still thick with sleep.
The door unlocks and the redhead enters, her arms laden with silken folds in deep pearl and midnight blue.
She’s transformed since I last saw her, utilitarian clothing gone and replaced by an elegant burgundy charmeuse evening gown.
But most striking is the mask adorning the upper half of her face: a sculpted raven crafted from ebony black leather, its beak dipping only just beyond her nose—subtle enough to avoid a true point—feathers sweeping up toward her temples.
“Good afternoon,” she chirps, laying the fabric out across the foot of my bed. It unfurls into a formal dress, the bodice embellished with intricate beadwork that glitters even in the dim light. “I’ve brought you something to wear.”
I eye the midnight blue dress suspiciously. “What’s the occasion?”
“Dinner,” she says, as if it should be obvious. She shows me another mask, seemingly smaller than hers but similarly crafted in the shape of a raven. “You’ll need this as well.”
“I’m not hungry,” I lie, even as my stomach clenches painfully at the mere mention of feeding, growling traitorously at that exact moment. If there were ever a time I wished the mortal part of me didn’t exist, it’d be now.
“Your body says otherwise,” she laughs, holding the mask out to me. “We all wear these when the bloodmaids visit. It’s for their protection as much as our privacy.”
“Bloodmaids?” The term is familiar, but I pretend it’s not.
“Humans who provide blood service,” she explains, perching on the edge of the bed. “They stay for a few weeks, then return with generous payment. We rotate them regularly to ensure they remain healthy and well-rested.”
I take the mask, running my fingers along its smooth surface. “And they do this willingly?”
“Of course.” She sounds almost offended. “We are not barbarians like the Veltri. Our bloodmaids are compensated handsomely, enough to support entire families.” She stands andgestures toward the dress. “The ceremony begins at sunset. I’ll return in an hour or two to help you prepare.”
The thought of participating in their feeding etiquette makes my skin crawl, but hunger gnaws at me insistently. It’s been days since I’ve had proper sustenance. Sometimes survival means wearing a mask and playing their game.
After she’s left, I examine the dress more closely. It looks exquisite, clearly designed for someone of importance. I turn the mask over in my hands. It seems too carefully made for something simply meant to hide me.
Ceremony.
As if feeding is some sacred ritual rather than gritted teeth, warm mouths, and the weight of hunger pressing against control. Like it can be dressed up in silk and manners, and made into something beautiful, dignified even.
But beauty doesn’t belong to hunger. Hunger is instinct, raw and desperate. There’s nothing ceremonial about it.
And dignity doesn’t belong to the animal part of myself I try so hard to ignore.
I clutch the mask tighter.
I’m about to walk into a theater without knowing the script, unsure if I’m the guest, the audience, the predator… or the offering. And worst of all, I don’t know which one I’dwantto be.
