Page 99 of Tainted Souls
I take a deep breath and nod. “Not like I have a choice.”
There’s no disagreement.
She guides me through corridors I haven’t seen before, each more elaborately decorated than the last. Classical music drifts through the air, a haunting melody played on strings and wind instruments. The redolent scent of incense grows stronger, drifting in hazy tendrils and mingling with something sweeter—blood, freshly drawn and waiting.
We descend a spiral staircase into what must once have been a ballroom, now transformed by hanging silks that partition the space into smaller, intimate enclaves. Candles float in glass bowls, casting a warm glow that softens everything it touches.
A long banquet table stands off to one side, draped in velvet and set with big platters of fruits glazed in honey, warm bread, smoked meats, and delicate pastries arranged like offerings. Those are likely meant for the bloodmaids, though a few masked figures drift by and pick at the delicacies as if sampling them out of sheer curiosity.
At the center of the room, a raised dais holds several high-backed chairs, where more masked figures watch the proceedings with regal detachment, occasionally raising a goblet in silent acknowledgment of some unseen motion or word. One mask is a more elaborate version of the others, with intricate silver scrollwork tracing the edges.
It must be Revenant’s.
“You don’t happen to serve blodas here, do you?” I ask, eyeing the drinks being carried on silver trays.
Irene gives me a perplexed look. “That processed rubbish Penn City sells?”
I had a feeling she would say that.
She takes me a few steps farther, then pauses at the edge of the room and gently squeezes my arm. “Partake,” she says. “For the night is long and the hour fleeting.” With a graceful pivot, she disappears through a gap in the silk drapes.
For a moment, I stand alone, noting each cushioned alcove where a Raven and a bloodmaid sit together, engaged in what looks more like courtship than anything else.
A blond Raven whose name I recall to be Reece, though it’s hard to tell with the mask, sits with a young woman whose dark hair falls in waves down her back. He speaks to her softly, his hand brushing her arm in a gesture that seems both reassuring and possessive. She laughs at something he says, then tilts her head, offering her neck. Reece leans in slowly, his lips tracing the line of her throat before his fangs sink in. The woman’s eyes close, her expression one of rapture rather than pain. His hand cradles the back of her head, supporting her as he drinks.
The intimacy isn’t what bothers me. After all, I’ve seen this sort of interaction before in Penn City. With my friends, even. What bothers me is that, despite getting paid for it, these people simply don’t know a better existence.
The Ravens are preying on those who are scared, hungry, and live where no soldiers come. It may look like consent, but having to choose safety and money over fear and death is no choice at all. It’s a desperate surrender masked as agreement. A desperation so deep it smothers real choice. They take the Ravens’ offer because they have no other.
I look away, suddenly uncomfortable with the scene.
But everywhere I turn, similar tableaus unfold. A Raven with her mouth pressed to a woman’s wrist. A man straddling another Raven’s lap as he offers her his throat. Each feeding seems choreographed to maximize pleasure and minimize pain.
“Obscene, isn’t it?”
I startle at the low, sarcastic whisper brushing against my ear.
Revenant moves to stand beside me, his white hair falling in tousled strands around his face, some grazing the upper edge of his mask, drawing the eye down to the stark, strong line of his jaw. He’s clad in black over white, taut lines clinging to hisform just enough to suggest the strength beneath. The first few buttons of his shirt rest open—not quite styled like Cain, simply undone—as if he never thought to fasten them in the first place. Every fold and seam looks like it were composed for some grand symphony, as though the night itself has tailored him for the stage.
It’s a plain ensemble, really, only made powerful by being on him.
Even here, in this pristine setting, he carries a coldness that none of the fine clothes can soften. Something untamed beneath all the refinement. It emanates from his gaze, his body language, betraying a seasoned brutality that’s ready to slip into something far darker when the need arises. This outward perfection is merely the guise he’s chosen to wear for tonight.
“At least you’ve mastered the art of pretension,” I say. “Too bad you can’t hide what you really are. Abloodsucker.”
He tilts his head, eyes narrowing as if trying to decide whether my words are worth taking seriously. A faint, almost amused smirk plays at the corner of his mouth.
Before he can respond, a young man approaches us. He’s short and slender, with clear blue eyes that seem to hold an innocent curiosity. He bows to Revenant, then turns to me.
“My lady,” he addresses me, his voice carrying a slight accent I can’t place. “Would you honor me with your company?”
I freeze, unprepared for this direct approach.
“She’s new,” Revenant tells the bloodmaid, who offers me his hand. “Perhaps start with conversation rather than feeding.”
The young man nods. “As you wish, my lord.”
I shake my head frantically, a mix of confusion and disgust lodged in my throat. “I don’t drink from the vein.”
