“Yeah. There was something else. A darkness.”
“Male?” Sapphire asked.
“Yes. The victim was definitely a guy, and he’s also important, but I couldn’t tell how. Everything around and inside him is about guilt and self-doubt. I felt like there was someone there, causing this and masking their presence. They’re deliberately making this person suffer,” I mused.
“Punishing them?”
“Yes. The more his target suffers, the more their power grows. The victim already experienced these feelings, but the perp is amplifying them with death as the end goal,” I muttered, remembering in oily black sensation of smugness.
“They’re strong,” Sapphire said, and I nodded. Worry bled from her. “What if they track you? Are they stronger than you?”
“No, I’ve had my powers for years. These feel new. But the hate is established, and the desire for blood is growing. Whoever the target is, Sapphire, they have my heartfelt sympathy.”
“What you’re saying is scary shit,” Sapphire stated, and I laughed.Talk about an understatement.
“Yeah. I’ll need to keep my walls up. If the attacker psychically hits me, I’ll know about it!”
Sapphire nodded, but the expression of concern on her face didn’t fade. “Can we track either?”
“No. I didn’t get that clear a reading. If I do, I’ll tell you.”
“Make sure you do,” Sapphire ordered.
“Saph! Bozo’s here!” Dagger yelled.
Sapphire sighed as I grinned. “Wait for it.”
“Three, two, one…” I counted.
“I’m gonna fuckin’ cut your balls off!” Dagger shrieked. Hayden Wylde had scored a point off Dagger.
Sapphire shook her head. “If those two stopped fighting for a minute, it would be a miracle.”
“I want pork for dinner!” Blade yelled, backing her twin up.
“Oink, oink, I smell something stinky,” Hayden retorted. “Smells fishy in here!”
Blade screeched, and I couldn’t hide my grin. Sapphire’s man, Wylde, was a detective. Who the hell thought she’d have fallen for a cop? No one. But Sapphire had. Wylde had believed we were dirty at the beginning, and he’d had us under surveillance. But things had happened which changed his mind, and now Wylde was happily shacked up with Sapphire. Alongside their bliss came the insults from the sisters and himself, as Wylde found his footing.
“Put the fuckin’ knife down, Blade, or I’ll shoot your kneecaps out,” Wylde threatened.
“Catch you in a bit,” Sapphire said as she stalked towards the rec room.
“Have fun,” I called, and then sagged against the wall. I hadn’t wanted to show Sapphire how much that brief contact had drained me, but it had. Slowly, I began making my way to my bunk. I needed rest.
Phoe
Drake eventually came in, but was a shivering mess when he did. He hadn’t put the coat on, and I knew he’d end up with flu. Ace had stayed, watching, concern clear on his face. Drake needed serious help. Did I commit him to a psych ward? Could I do that to Drake? Something deep inside said if I did that, Drake wouldn’t return. He’d be lost for good.
Drake wouldn’t celebrate Thanksgiving either; somehow, I knew that without a doubt. He’d make an excuse and slink away. I was gradually losing him.
Drake had stopped telling me how he felt or what was bothering him, and he acted as if he were a burden. A year and a half had passed since the war, and at first, Drake’s grief had been manageable. But over the last few months, Drake had changed dramatically.
Where Drake had been healing, he was now spiralling. There was nothing to pinpoint as the cause. I recognised depression; I’d suffered it myself, but Drake appeared beyond depression. Many times I’d asked him to see a doctor, and he’d refused. And it led me to consider committing him so he could get the help he needed.
That would end our marriage, but Drake would regain himself. That or he’d commit suicide away from the kids. I swear that was the only thing stopping him. Drake was too scared that one of the children might discover his body. Drake wasn’t living; he was merely existing. That wasn’t acceptable—not for him. He deserved better, but I didn’t know how to reach him.
It would be fair to say Drake had PTSD, and deservedly so. After what he’d suffered and been through, PTSD wasn’t a surprise. But there was more; Drake looked haunted. Like the ghosts of the dead were present and destroying his sanity with unheard accusations.
