Page 90 of Devoured

“Think of Celeste,” he tells me. “Think of her death, and do what you need to do.”

Cora hums in delight. “Clock’s ticking, Vanessa.”

Calix presses a palm to my cheek and tilts my head up, toward his. In that moment, our gazes crash. Perhaps it’s the fear unraveling between us or the rage crushing my chest, but it takes seconds—seconds—for that red gaze to bleed through my vision and drown me.

Unlike the bishop’s irises, Calix’s don’t undulate. Instead, they eddy and surge like a maelstrom, violent, unpredictable currents catching me and dragging me to the bottom of their agonizing depths. Red streams through my mind in riotous waves before collapsing in on itself. Before collapsing in on me too. And then it transforms, until the ocean is dry and a desert surrounds me. I no longer remember myself. I am someone else now. I am somewhere else.

A barren wasteland of red, red, red.

The red of youthful laughter echoing down empty midnight corridors before fading into silence. The red of split lips and broken fists, of stitches sewn hastily over a small bathroom sink. The red of a corpse in bed, rotting from the inside out as a boy weeps into its chest.

The red of starlight, of prayers whispered in darkness, begging for a different future, a different outcome, a better life.

The red of death, of guilt, of blood on my tongue.

I am only red. Bloodstained and battered and beaten. And I am alone.

“Find his darkest memories, Vanessa,” someone commands through the red. I do not know the voice or the name, but I remember enough to know that I am supposed to hurt. I do hurt. Opening a palm, I allow the red to settle on my skin. It spills over me like salt water, absorbing in seconds, until I pinpoint a droplet of hurt. Until I smear it between my fingers.

The red of a massacre, of a neglectful mother dead on the ground and a best friend holding the knife. The red of lies, of failure, of guilt—

Someone jerks. Cries out. A guttural, masculine sound.

It takes a moment for me to feel the resounding thunder of pain. It weeps through my fingers like blood.

“More,” someone demands.

I close my fists, drenching myself in an oblivion of self-loathing.

The red of an order, a command: Find the illegally Bitten humans and destroy them. The red of hope, of earning love and trust, of proving myself. Then—the red of a girl’s broken body, ripped to shreds between sharp teeth, and the howls of her friend. She will never forgive me. She will hate me for the rest of her life, and I will regret it for longer.

A snarl this time, imprisoned behind gritted teeth. Seconds later, a torrent of pain surges through me.

“If it was just a job,” I ask, though I hardly feel the words pass my lips, “why do you still hate yourself so much?”

“Stop,” a masculine voice pleads. A faint, agonizing whisper. “Please… stop.”

But I can’t. I taste the copper of that red; I smell the sweet caramel musk; I feel the pain, the rage, the loneliness.

I should fix it. I can change it.

I roll that red blood between my fingertips, imagining a better ending. A better life. Where did the sadness start?

“No.” A growl. A visceral plea.

I ignore it.

There are so many memories—too many truths—to sort through. The pain goes on forever. It doesn’t stop. It has had no other chance. To undo the misery, one would have to unravel the entire tapestry of blood.

One would have to start over.

I imagine the blood vanishing. I imagine—

“That is enough, Vanessa. You have done very well. I’m impressed.” A hand presses hard on my spine. I don’t move, however. I can’t move. I am red. Red and red and red. “I said, enough.” A harsh command, followed by a sharp pressure on the back of my neck.

In an instant, my tether on the red snaps. It drains away from me until the world returns in darker, drabber shades. Until I blink and blink, and remember who I am. What I was doing.

Who I was hurting.