Page 93 of Tainted Souls
Whatever the answer, it won’t be easy or clean. I can almost hear the echo of danger in the silence that follows, like the price might be more than I’m ready to pay.
Saul glances toward Reece, who responds with a faint downturn of the lips, his brows rising in a gesture that reads more like indifference than permission.
“Only siphoners can, by draining the life essence from vampires,” Saul reveals, a cloudy trail drifting from his mouth, “including Nobles, who are otherwise unkillable.”
Before I can inquire further, the door swings open.
Revenant strides in with purposeful steps that seem to compress the air in the room, making even the crackling fire seem to dim in response. Everyone in the room straightens instinctively, a reflex born of respect and hierarchy, no doubt. He’s wearing a crisp black shirt matching the shade of his soul, fitted just enough to trace the contours of the muscles beneath. Ink coils around his arms that look both sacred and cursed. His trousers are equally utilitarian, built more for movement than style, tucked into combat-grade boots polished not for shine, but for silence.
Unlike Cain, he doesn’t dress like royalty or a prize, but like death with a purpose.
His anomaly eyes find mine immediately, and something shifts in his expression—a flicker of recognition followed by intense focus. I feel pinned beneath that gaze, my heart thundering in my chest.
After years of dreaming about facing him and imagining revenge, now that he stands before me, all I feel is small and vulnerable.
And I hate it.
I hate him.
“Leave us,” he commands without looking away from me, his voice low but carrying the weight of absolute authority.
No one argues.
Not even Saul, who shoots me a cautionary look before following the others out. The door closes with a soft click that feels oddly final.
Revenant takes the settee across from mine, the leather groaning as he settles in. He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees, fingers steepled beneath his chin.
His pale gray eyes lock onto the heliotrope nestled against my chest, keen and accusing. The weight of his stare presses down on me, as if he’s peeling back layers, searching for something hidden, or judging what he finds. “Where did you get that?”
“This pendant?” I hesitate, my hand instinctively moving to cover it. “Some old woman gave it to me at the market. Said it would keep me safe.”
“She lied.” His voice is even, but the cold edge beneath it cuts clean. “Or she didn’t know what she was holding.”
He leans back with slow, composed ease. One arm drapes over the backrest with casual intent, while his ankle moves to rest atop his knee in a pose that reads more like a ruler holding court than a man making conversation. “That’s not a charm, nor something that protects you. That’s a necromantic conduit capable of pulling power from the dead. And only two kinds of people carry it: fools or warbringers.” His head tilts slightly, almost like a challenge. “Which are you, Seraph?”
My cheeks burn with anger and embarrassment. “I didn’t know.”
Truth is, I don’t even know if I should believe him. He’s someone others need protection from, and this pendant could be doing exactly that—protecting me from him.
And if that woman was right, if she really did know my father… then this could be the last safeguard he left me.
It may even be the reason he wants it.
“Clearly.” He straightens, extending his hand. “Give it to me.”
I hesitate again, reluctant to surrender the one thing that’s felt like my own since this nightmare began.
But his expression brooks no argument, and I don’t have another fight in me. Not against a Whiteshade—a Noble. “You can have it,” I say, pulling the cord over my head and holding the pendant in a hover over his waiting palm, “in return for my freedom.”
He doesn’t take it.
Instead, he rises from the settee in one smooth motion, his boots echoing faintly on the marble as he closes the distance between us. He leans in, one hand braced on the armrest beside me, the other drifting like he’s deciding whether to strike or simply unsettle.
His voice drops low enough to vibrate in my chest. “You don’t get to bargain with me.”
My breath catches, but I don’t let it show. I lift my chin and force my spine straight, my fingers tightening around the pendant. “I don’t follow orders from you.”
“Heh.” His mouth twists into something cold and cruel—not quite like Cain, but cut from the same stone. Sharper. Quieter. The kind of threat that doesn’t need to raise its voice to draw blood. “Keep it then,” he snaps, already turning away. “Let it rot you from the inside if that’s what you want.”
