Page 75 of Tainted Souls
“Like what?” My voice sounds distant, even to my own ears.
“Like this.” She takes my hand and presses it against the cool metal wall. “Feel that? The temperature difference?” When Inod, she says, “Now count the rivets while you breathe. Keep it slow and steady.”
I concentrate on the sensation of cold metal against my palm. One rivet, inhale. Two rivets, exhale. Three rivets, inhale. After a couple of minutes, my racing heartbeat has finally slowed.
“Better?” Her smile shows her dimples.
“Better,” I confirm, embarrassed but grateful. “Sorry about that.”
“Don’t be,” she says, in a tone reserved for moments like this. “I had the same reaction my first day back. We were only fifteen.”
I assent with a nod, then straighten my back. “The team is waiting.”
As Lexa opens the door, people rise from their seats, inclining their heads in a shallow bow. Digital screens line the walls, displaying maps, data streams, and surveillance footage from various parts of the city.
One screen shows the rehab facility where Max is currently being held, though I can’t make out individual rooms from this distance.
The rest of the conference room is even more modern than before, dominated by an expansive glass table surrounded by eight people who carry expressions ranging from curiosity to skepticism when I enter.
“Seraph Rosen, everyone,” Lexa announces. “She’ll be consulting on the sire bond investigation.”
I offer everyone a tight smile, uncomfortable under their scrutiny.
A tall man with a closely cropped beard stands. “Dr. Davis,” he says, extending his hand. “Vampire physiology specialist.”
I shake his hand, noting the calluses that suggest he’s more than just a lab researcher.
Lexa continues the introductions. “Lieutenant Whitlock, tactical operations. Specialist Song, weapons development. Dr. Emerson, vampire psychology. And field team captains: Rhodes, Martinez, Keller, and Wei.”
They each nod in acknowledgment, sizing me up with the refined eyes of hunters assessing potential prey—or competition.
“Please, sit.” Lexa gestures to an empty chair as she takes her place at the head of the table. “Seraph has firsthand experience with a sire bond that we need to understand.”
All eyes turn to me expectantly.
I take a deep breath and begin from the start.
“Three days ago, my partner was turned by an unknown vampire. A female Whiteshade. At first, everything seemed to be aligned with standard procedure. He was adapting just as expected.” I keep my voice clinical, detached, as if discussing a case file rather than the man I love. “Maxim has claustrophobia, and becoming a vampire made it hard for him to be within the confines of the hospital room. So, I broke him out and we had a picnic.” I pause, as if hearing my own words for the first time. It sounds insane when I say it out loud. Crazy, really. Most people would have gone straight to the authorities and obediently followed the steps required to treat symptoms like this. But me? I chose to steal him away for a day.
Sometimes, I wonder why I do the things I do.
All eyes are on me, but no one questions. Maybe it’s because I said it so casually. Or because they can tell that I’m not reallysorryfor what I did. Sure, there might be judgment in their glances—quick flickers of disapproval, like silent reprimands—but no one says a word. Not yet, anyway.
“He then attacked me out of nowhere,” I continue, “and tried to deliver me to his sire, all while apologizing profusely.” My voice wavers for just a second, but I push through it. “He was clearly not in control of his actions.”
“Attacked how?” Dr. Emerson leans forward, her eyes measuring behind wire-rimmed glasses.
I draw a slow breath. “He stabbed me with my own dagger, then carried me into the forest where a group of vampires was waiting, his sire included. It’s as if he had no will of his own.”
Dr. Davis taps something into his tablet. “And you’re certain this wasn’t just typical fledgling aggression?” he asks without looking up.
My back instinctively straightens. “Positive. I’ve seen newly-turned vampires before. This was different. He wasn’t hungry or disoriented. He was following orders that no one had verbally given.”
“Like a back door into his consciousness.” Dr. Emerson shifts in her seat. “The sire creates vampires who function independently until she activates the bond.”
“An army of sleeper agents,” Lieutenant Whitlock concludes, crossing his arms. “How many others were turned by this same vampire?”
“Thirty-six.”
