Page 78 of Tainted Souls
We thank the nurse and head to the armory in the main building, where the rest of the teams are preparing. Halfway there, Dr. Davis splits off to attend a final briefing with command.
I’m told to stand off to the side as Rhodes carefully coats my dagger in G-oil, short for gardenia—the seemingly innocuous white flower that vampires are allergic to—so Redmoore naturally harvests and uses them wherever and however they can.
It’s a common myth that garlic keeps the bloodsuckers at bay. For centuries, people swore by its pungency, stringing braids above hearths and doors, tucking cloves beneath their pillows, and even planting rows of it in their gardens.
When the gardenia bushes beside them flourished, white blossoms gleaming like little warding stars, the people took it as proof that the garlic had done its holy work.
In truth, the garlic only deterred garden pests, not the thirsty dead. It was the gardenia itself that repelled the creatures, its sweet fragrance turning acrid and poisonous in a vampire’s lungs, its essence their skin’s undoing. Yet many generations clung to the garlic tale, mistaking the flower’s silent defense for the garlic’s protection, not realizing their true salvation bloomed quietly beside it.
As I’m watching, I slip on a pair of specialized gloves. Reinforced and lightweight, they’re built to stop even trace amounts of oil from seeping onto the handle.
For most, they’re just a safeguard against slipping. For me, they’re protection from pain.
I’ve learned the hard way that even a single drop can ruin a fight. I may only be half-vampire, but I’m not immune. Gardenia burns. The last time, I was too hasty, too eager to test the theory, and it cost me. Tonight, I won’t make the same mistake.
My focus is unbroken as I continue equipping myself with tools meant to blister fangs and melt flesh—oil for the blade, mist for the skin, and smoke for the lungs. Two small spray bottles, the kind meant for quick, close-range bursts, click into place on the upper side of my hands, secured by the buckles and straps built into my gloves. I adjust them carefully, ensuring they’re snug but not restrictive. They’re easy to activate with a quick squeeze of my fingers, being a useful backup if things go sideways. Then, without needing to think about it, I fasten two smoke bombs to the empty slots on my battle belt, with one on each hip for easy access, right where instinct can find them.
The idea of using gardenia in a fight doesn’t sit well with me, being a weapon against myself. I haven’t been around the shrub ever since I moved to Penn City either, considering it’s an act of violence there to carry it around, almost forgetting it exists.
But for a high-classed mission like this, I know better than to be caught without every tool I can get my hands on.
As everyone finishes their preparations, I take one last look at my gear to make sure everything is where it needs to be. To the vampires, this will look just like any ordinary bounty hunt, which is how they’ll take the bait. I just have to play my part.
We assemble on the rooftop landing pad, a persistent drizzle coating Northcross in a glistening gray haze. Our matte-black aircraft waits, its engines idling as we board. I take my place nearthe rear, away from the others, who maneuver with the seamless coordination of those who’ve flown countless missions together.
Four teams of slayers have been deployed for this mission, but none of their faces are familiar to me.
Lexa slides into the seat beside mine. “The general sends his regards. He’ll have his squads on standby.”
“Let’s pray it won’t come to that,” I say, tightening the straps of my harness.
Lexa snorts. “You sound like you need a drink already.”
I nudge her shoulder. “After this, we should.”
The aircraft lifts off silently, banking sharply to the east where the abandoned industrial zone forms a fragmented silhouette against the darkening sky.
Through the viewport, I watch Penn City’s lights recede behind us, replaced by the crumbling remnants of pre-war industry. Towers give way to skeletal cranes and shattered windows. Factories, long dead and picked clean by time, sprawl like the bones of giants.
“Drop zone approaching,” the pilot announces over the comm.
We’ll land three miles from the target location, as explained by Lexa during the briefing. Close enough for a quick approach, far enough to avoid detection. The aircraft touches down in a clearing surrounded by the rusted hulks of ancient storage tanks, on the edge of what used to be a freight district. The moment our boots hit the ground, the aircraft ascends again, disappearing undetected.
“Comms check,” Lieutenant Whitlock orders.
One by one, team members confirm their channel is operational.
“Remember,” Lexa says, her voice low and authoritative, “this is a capture mission. We need the sire alive.”
We move in formation through the industrial wasteland, our path winding between massive pipes and collapsed structures.
The air smells of ash and copper, tinged with something older, more ancient, something forgotten—a metallic tang of oxidation combined with a sickeningly sweet undertone that makes my skin prickle.
Vampire territory truly has a scent of its own.
With every step deeper into the zone, the world we left behind is peeled away. Rhodes takes point, scanning the terrain ahead. I fall into step behind Lexa, my senses heightened and alert. Every shadow could conceal an enemy, and every sound could be a potential warning.
“Movement, two o’clock,” Martinez whispers through the comm. “Single figure, moving fast.”
