Page 79 of Bleed with Me

“I know, idiot,” I mumbled, hiding my face behind my palms. “But tonight, we cleanse the world of one abuser.”

My voice was barely audible, so my brothers didn’t notice that I was talking to myself again. They always took it as a sign that my mental state was in a poor condition, even when it wasn’t entirely true.

The times when the darkness within me was in control were over, but it stayed with me no matter what I did, buried under the duties and responsibilities, patiently waiting for the shackles to slip. And today was exactly the day I was glad it was part of me. I’d let it consume all evil, erase the sin, and punish the monster for all he brought to the innocents.

It’s almost biblically poetic, the demon laughed maniacally.

The darkness spread, consuming my rational thoughts, my feelings, the empathy that made me great at my job, but held me back from becoming the person the world needed.

The doctor stayed behind in the hospital, in the OR, where he saved another life. Here, in this car, there was only a cold-blooded killer, a ruthless predator hunting his next prey.

“We’re here,” Zyon said, disturbing my thoughts, and I peeked outside.

The neighborhood looked forgotten. Rotting fences leaned toward the road, rats disappeared into overflowing dumpsters, and two half-naked women passed a bottle to a little girl no older than ten.

“Are you sure we’re in the right place?” I asked, grimacing when a gut-twisting stench attacked me the moment I exited the car.

“The address is correct.” Malin shrugged and handed me a skull mask, the same as Zyon’s.

“But the surroundings aren’t,” I ground out, pulling the rough fabric over my face.

“Not everyone was born with a golden spoon in their mouth, Dorian,” Zyon said, observing the house we planned to enter.

Grimacing, I walked behind my brothers up the three half-broken wooden steps to the white door. Without much effort, Malin picked the lock and let us into the dimly lit, tiny entry hall.

Zyon moved first. With a golden gun in his right hand, dressed like a ninja in black cargo pants and a black turtleneck, he looked like the embodiment of a living, breathing nightmare. I followed him, scanning the old flowery wallpaper and inhaling the aroma of baked chicken. Muffled voices came to me from the upper floor, a series of steps echoing through the ceiling.

Zyon stopped at the living-room entrance, with me on his left and Malin on his right. Weak light revealed a cramped, neglected space: a torn brown sofa, matching armchairs, a broken coffee table, and the shattered frame of a glass wall beside the stairs. My heart clenched. Aryna must have crashed through it when she fell. Cracks spread across the shabby walls, the carpet was filthy, and shelves overloaded with newspapers and boxes sagged under their weight.

“Get him…” Zyon started in a hushed voice, but before he could finish the command, a scream echoed around us. A teenage girl, about fifteen, stared at us as if we were aliens.

“Well, change of plans,” Zyon said, lifting his golden gun and pointing it at the girl to make her climb down the stairs. She visibly shook, and the boys behind her were frightened too. One by one, three boys followed the brown-haired girl, their eyes jumping between us frantically.

“Where are your parents?” Malin barked, eyeing the youngest. He could be around four or five, clutching a dirty green dragon to his chest protectively.

“I-in the bedroom,” the girl answered, nodding toward the upper floor.

Without a word, he disappeared into the darkness upstairs.

The growing panic seized the room. Four sets of eyes stared at Zyon and me as if we caught them…

Wait, we did.

My brows dipped when I noticed a huge backpack thrown over the girl’s shoulder, and two older boys had bags, too. The littlest one carried only his toy and a pair of sandals.

“Where are you going?” I asked, earning a curious look from Zyon. The girl flinched at the sound of my deep voice and let go of the backpack, which hit the floor with a thud.

“Are you trying to escape?” Zyon joined me, slowly placing his gun in the holster under his arm. I followed his lead and checked the stairs.

No reply came. They just stared at us, frightened, like trapped birds, trying to find a quick way out.

“We’re not here to hurt you,” I said gently, unsure of what was going through their heads. With the horrors they endured on a daily basis, I couldn’t imagine what they thought of us. “We want your foster father.”

The girl watched me as if I had grown another head. The boys exchanged baffled looks, one of them nervously shifting his weight from one leg to another until he finally found the courage to speak.

“Are you a police officer?” he whispered, fear lacing every syllable.

“No,” Zyon replied flatly, lifting his eyes toward the stairs as the commotion grew. “We’re much worse.”