“Parker paid with his life for that,” Silas mutters.
“Poor chap wasn’t clever enough to live, then,” his mentor shrugs easily, returning to his desk. He peers up at me one more time as he caps the vial. “If you’re in earnest about leaving Engela safe here, I suggest you leave promptly. I’ve thoroughly enjoyed your answers, and I shall greatly like to see how the rest of this plays out—but as you know, I prefer avoiding those immortal simpletons.”
I nod and then pause. “Have you considered whether you will test my other theory?”
“I have. Should you succeed, we shall talk again.”
I nod and give the briefcase to Silas to stash in his void pocket for safekeeping before we leave the room. I’m trailed by my quintet, who all give me curious looks about what I meant.
“We’ll leave in the morning,” I tell them instead.
After all, now that I have etherium, there’s no more reason to hide.
It’s time to hunt.
23
CRYPT
The pain is becoming unbearable.
I clench my teeth as my damned markings light up yet again, brighter as Limbo calls urgently to me from outside of this Sanctuary. But since I cannot leave the wards of the Sanctuary without permission, and I refuse to leave my obsession’s side anyway, there’s no help for it.
My limbs burn. Each breath scrapes. Even my skin seems to ache.
I’m searing from the inside out, pulled thin by this unbreakable curse—and now, my keeper knows it is slowly but surely destroying me.
I wonder if Crane would mind resurrecting that damned acolyte so I can have the pleasure of killing him all over again. Of course, it being just after midnight, I don’t suppose he would appreciate it if I were to wake him to ask such a favor.
Especially not when he’s lucky enough to hold Maven in his arms tonight.
I stand at the edge of the room, observing them all from Limbo. The cottage’s bed is not nearly big enough, so our oversized Decimus dozes on a simple makeshift bed of blanketson the floor. Frost is on Maven’s other side opposite Crane. The whole lot of them are peaceful, their subconsciouses wafting in this space as they pass through vague dreams—most of them centered around Maven.
Lucky bastards. I long to dream of her, too.
And I fully intend to, once I take her as my muse.
My darling has had trouble sleeping tonight, just as she has ever since that godsdamned wraith appeared in Nebraska. But just as I notice her dream finally start to take root, pain lances through me yet again. I’m left trying to breathe through it as I fight the temptation to simply stop feeling altogether.
It’s a little-known fact that powerful siphons are capable of almost wholly numbing themselves to pain and emotions. Call it a predator’s self-defense mechanism—when feeding on blood, emotions, arousal, or dreams, it’s rather pesky to deal with trivial feelings like fear, sorrow, or guilt. We can dull ourselves to physical pain to better focus on the hunt, losing ourselves in our more monstrous heritage.
I distinctly recall the night I first chose to exist in that numbed state.
I was eight years old and so badly beaten that I frightened the other children when I snuck into the orphanage late at night. Saint Eileen’s Private Home for Little Angels was located six miles down the road from one of the Immortal Quintet’s residences near Sutton. It was my favorite of their ever-changing mansions because whenever Melvolin or Somnus lost their tempers and took it out on me, I had somewhere to escape and pretend I was gloriously parentless.
But that time was different.
It was my first time visiting these children at night rather than during the day. When I first ventured into their dreams, I witnessed the horrors that haunted some of those defenseless young souls. Their stomach-turning nightmares were filled withtrue terror and agony at the hands of adults whom they had hoped would be their protectors.
Their psychological pain was excruciating.
After experiencing their dreams—theirmemories—I emerged from Limbo as numb as a corpse. Turning off my emotions and any ability to sense pain allowed me to hunt down their abusers and anyone else who was taking advantage of the innocent in all the savagely insanity-inducing ways they deserved, and I never looked back.
Not giving a fuck about anything but revenge was freeing. Empty years passed by, and I cared and wanted for nothing.
Until I saw her on that stage.
That’s when I decided to feel again—feeleverything, including agony, hunger, and every other dreadful thing I had numbed myself to. Painful memories. The suffering of innocents whose dreams I experienced. Even the terror of those I took revenge on.
