Page 20

They keep the key in the open, hidden in plain sight. A test? A warning? Or just arrogance?

I close the compartment, my fingers trembling as I slide the key into my pocket.

Looks like I’ll be exploring tonight.

I wake to hushed voices.

Sitting up quickly, my head spins slightly as I gather my bearings. I hear them again. The hushed, careful voices people use when they don’t want to be overheard. Moonlight pools across the floor of my bedroom.

I slip out of bed and move to the window. Down below, I see the boys gathered in a group. They’re dressed in dark clothing again, with masks in their hands. I furrow my brow, trying to lean close to the window but still stay inconspicuous enough not to be noticed.

Slinking away from the window, I pull on my jumper. My body’s still half asleep, but my mind is wide awake and spinning, thinking about everything that has been going on lately. The glances they share when they think I’m not looking, whispers in the hallway, locked doors.

It’s almost as though I’m constantly being watched but forgotten at the same time.

Opening my bedroom door, I creep down the hall, barefoot on the cold tiles. The house is silent except for the ticking grandfather clock and the occasional groan of old wood settling. My original plan was to head down to the courtyard and try to eavesdrop, but I have a feeling they’re probably already on the move. Instead, I begin moving toward the part of the house I’ve been told never to enter. There was never even a reason given, other than a very strict ‘do not enter, ever’ house rule that everybody upholds. Or maybe it’s only me who isn’t supposed to be in there.

The further I go, the colder and darker it gets. I fumble for my phone and turn my light on. I shouldn’t be here. The words echo in my head like a heartbeat as I cross the threshold into the East Wing. I might be paranoid, but the air feels different here.

My bare feet make no sound on the cold stone floor. When I get to the end of the hall, the door is just as I remember it. I stare at it for a long moment. Digging around in my pocket, I pull out the key and with a click loud enough to echo around the room, I unlock the door.

The air is freezing in here, as though the room is constantly air-conditioned and hasn’t breathed fresh air in decades. Glass jars line the stone shelves, filled with things that make my stomach lurch. A part of me wants to go inspect them closer, but I’m instantly nauseous at the thought. From afar they look like they contain organs and other body parts.

Turning my phone light, it reveals a long stone table at the centre of the room. Dark stains mar its surface. They soak deep into the grooves, as if they’ve been scrubbed too many times and never fully removed. Leather straps hang loosely from either side, buckles dulled and nicked from use. This isn’t storage – it’s a workspace.

A metal tray rests atop the table, instruments laid out in careful order. Hooks, needles, blades of varying sizes, their edges catching the light. They’re clean, but scratched and worn as though they’ve been sharpened and reused again and again. I move closer to the shelves despite myself.

Up close, the jars are worse. Not just organs, but pieces of flesh, different shapes, different sizes. Each jar bears a small tag tied with twine, marked with symbols and short notes.

Test subject. Phase two.

My heart plummets into my stomach. This wasn’t a single experiment. This room has been used over and over. Whatever they were trying to create – or change – they’ve been continuing to do so.

I cross the room slowly, drawn forward by morbid curiosity and a mounting sense of dread. There are photographs nailed to the stone wall: black-and-white images, aged and curling, of gaunt, pale figures strapped to chairs. Their eyes are all the same. Distinct, black, endless gazes. Vampires. Beneath them, there are scribbles of tests, different types of medicine and drugs. I don’t recognise the handwriting. Messy and uneven, as if the notes were jotted down in a hurry.

Staggering back, my heart pounds. My adoptive family are witches. They’re supposed to be the good guys. They’re the people who saved me from wherever I came from and gave me a better life. Now, there is undeniable proof that they’re involved in something much larger than I realised.

They capture vampires and experiment on them. For what? What is the purpose?

My eyes turn to clear containers lined up on the shelf, labelled with names I don’t recognise. I scan them, pausing when I see the name Theo Coleman. Curiously, I inspect it. A black ring sits in the bottom of it, and a phone. I attempt to turn it on but it’s flat and the SIM has been removed, since the casing is beside it, empty. I slip the ring into my pocket but leave the phone, since a missing phone would be much more noticeable.

This room is suffocating. I should snoop more, but I feel like every second is borrowed time and the more I see, the worse I feel. After a few more seconds, I decide I can’t take the stress of possibly being caught, and leg it out of there.

Once in my room again, I sit on the edge of my bed. My heart is pounding, and I can’t tell if it’s from fear, rage, or both. They’ve been lying to me for years. Hiding so many things. Keeping me in the dark.

My whole life, they’ve talked about monsters, about protecting people, that it’s the coven’s duty to keep the balance. To keep these monsters at bay and have control. Instead, I find out that they hold them captive, experiment on them, and the boys actively hunt them down like animals. I mean, I’m against vampires and what they do, but hunting for sport and experimenting on them feels like crossing a line.

I press my hand to my forehead. My skin is damp with sweat. I feel sick. I’m not sure if I even know the people I live with. The people who took me in. The people I thought saved me.

Are they the monsters?

7

THEO

The Captive

The most exciting part of my day is when the men in masks return to inject me with something that makes me sleep. I try not to hold out hope for the pretty girl with the teal-coloured hair to come rescue me. I’d like to think she may have a change of heart and let me out, but I’m not holding my breath.