Aamon huffs, shaking his head. “It’s evening, Quinn.”
I shrug, taking another sip of my coffee. “Okay, so an evening excursion, then.”
“I can’t. Not now,” is all he offers. I sigh, but I’m not surprised. It’s felt like an eternity since Aamon and I haveshared. I miss it more than I care to admit, but I know Aamon's been working through some shit lately and I don’t want to demand or pressure him into anything he isn’t comfortable offering at the moment. If there’s one thing I know about Aamon, it’s that he's delicate as fuck. He may put up an intimidating front, may handle more shit than the rest of us, especially from Andras. But I know this life affects him differently than it does me. But this is a long dry spell, even for him. If this mood doesn’t clear up soon, I might have to seriously consider more invasive measures.
“Come on, Aamon. It wouldn’t hurt to—”
“You can’t either.” Aamon cuts me off, draining the rest of his coffee and discarding the mug on the island. “Andras has another job for us today.”
I sigh, not feeling entirely inclined to obey Andras’ orders. Especially when I have two half-naked and exceptionally kinky sirens in my bed. “What is it?” I ask, not even remotely wanting the answer.
“An increase of ghoul activity on the outskirts of the ungoverned district. Just at the border of the WildLands.” Aamon strides through the kitchen, towards the adjoining garage. “Nothing huge—it'll probably be a waste of time. But Andras wants us to check it out, so we go.”
I let out an overexaggerated groan, scrubbing a hand over my face. “I fuckinghateghouls.” I’m a good outlaw; I believe in equality for all touched by the Arcane and exiled from society. But ghouls are filthy nuisances, little more thanvermin in our streets. It’s a fucking awful fate, to have the Arcane manifest in such a way. It claims them hard and fast, driving them towards death and abandoning them in the space between worlds. Forcing them to exist as something not in life but not quite death, pushing them to turn towards cannibalism as a way to cope with the endless hunger and resentment left inside them.
There’s seven factions, seven ways the Arcane can manifest in someone. One for each circle of hell the Arcane magic slithered into our world from. There’s Blood—that's us. Then Bone, Death, Wrath, Spirit, Lust. And lastly, Decay. The Watchers would have us believe the ghouls are nothing more than an example of the vile essence of the Arcane, a real world manifestation of Decay. We have our theories, though—that ghouls aren’t necessarily a faction of the Arcane, but rather what can happen to an individual who refuses to accept its touch. Denying the Arcane’s power fights against nature itself and clings to what the Watchers would have us believe isrightandpureandclean.
But if one were to accept that truth, then one would have to admit that the whole seven circles of hell bullshit is just that: bullshit. Because without seven factions of the Arcane, there couldn’t be a true seven circles. And there’s not many inside the city center who are willing to go that far, to be that blasphemous.
But we in the ungoverned district know better. Or at least, we like to act like we do.
I grab a bag of blood from the fridge tucked into the corner of the kitchen and run to catch up with Aamon. The irony is not lost on me, how calling the ghouls cannibals can seem rather hypocritical when we need blood to survive. But the vampire race has evolved, developed humane methods for keeping our kind not only fed but sated. Sustainably. Our primal sides are still a necessary tool, our own bloodlust weaponized as a means to maintain order—but only when needed.
“Here.” I toss the bag at him without waiting for him to turn it down. He catches it, though I see the irritation in his black eyes.
“I know how to take care of myself, Quinn.”
“Obviously.” I roll my eyes. “That’s why that bruise is still lingering from the other night? If you want me to go with you today, to obey our orders from Andras, then you’re going to feed before we leave. Or I’ll march my ass all the way into Andras’ office and tell him I refuse to abide.”
Aamon narrows his eyes at me. “You’re an asshole, you know that?”
I nod, grinning ear to ear. “And that’s why you love me.” I turn back to the kitchen and grab the tray of coffee, strutting down the hallway to my room.
“And what about you?” he calls out, lifting the blood bag in the air and waving it around for a moment.
My lips tip into a devious grin. “I’ve got two willing participants in my bed right now, Aamon. Don’t you worry about me.”
“Be ready in five,” Aamon counters, frustration in his tone. I lean against my door, pushing it open with my ass as I meet his gaze.
“Make it fifteen,” I say, and throw him a wink.
Voices float past me, distant whisperings I cannot quite make out. They sound mad, flustered. Scared, even? I sift through the fog in my mind, following them until they fade and I’m left alone once more. I don’t know why I’m here, can’t help but feel like there’s something I’m forgetting. But as I sit in the silence, in the blackness, in the bone-chilling cold—I cannot find the energy to concentrate on it.
The voices come and go. Sometimes one, sometimes a few. Each time I try to chase them, try to catch them. But each time they evade me and I’m left alone once more. It doesn’t bother me. Despite the feeling that there’s something I’m missing, it feels safe here in this darkness. Like I don’t want to leave. To face the truth waiting for me on the other side.
When the voices finally return again, I don’t chase them. I’ve given up trying, at peace with the concept of remaining in this space. But they sound different this time, closer. And it’s just as I’m leaning in to hear them, trying to decipher what they are saying, that the image of my bedroom comes together through the darkness.
“Ah, there she is.” A male’s voice, I think. I blink, trying to get the image of him to focus before me. His words sound like he should be excited, like he’s been waiting for me. But I can’t help but notice the lack of enthusiasm in his tone, the words feeling hollow and empty.
I blink a few more times and my vision finally clears. My mind is moving in slow motion, but after looking at the image of the grey-haired male standing at the foot of my bed, I finally recognize my father.
“Evangeline,” he coos, but yet again it feels forced, disinterested.
“Father?” I ask, trying to push myself up on the bed. My muscles are weak and it's then that I notice the bandages on my arms and the IV in my hand. Panic takes over, the sight of it triggering not so distant memories of other days just like this, hooked up to Tamiel’s machines and being treated with experimental methods that made my skin burn, made my bones ache.
I scratch at the IV needle, attempting to rip it from my skin—but to my frustration, my muscles are not cooperating. My father has his guards on me in a moment’s notice,holding me down and keeping the line pumping gods know what into my bloodstream.
“Now now, Evangeline,” he chides, stepping up to the side of my bed and resting a hand against my ankle. “No need for the theatrics. It is only medicine to help you recover.”
