Page 4 of Avidian (The Demon and the Savior #1)

Chapter Three

“Don’t look so worried, my little demon. You know I would never let anything happen to you,” Marco says, lounging across from me in the plane.

His little demon.

He’s called me that since the day we met. According to him, seeing the dead is the devil’s work, so I must be one of his creatures.

I have no idea where we’re headed. I went from packing to being hauled into the aircraft. Marco owns several planes and helicopters, but this one is reserved for his closest comrades—a dubious honor, if you ask me.

To my right sits Orin, one of Marco’s sons. His cologne assaults my senses almost as much as his attitude. He lives for the work—or more specifically for the parts that get messy. If there’s torturing to be done, Orin’s the first choice.

To my left is Zane, quiet but no less dangerous, and across from me on either side of Marco sits Banks and Gary, who’s the more level-headed of Marco’s sons.

“I’m not worried,” I reply, my face an effortless mask of calm. “I don’t like to fly.”

“I think you’ll enjoy this trip. I don’t believe you’ve ever been to the Eastern District,” Marco says. I start to gnaw on the inside of my cheek.

The Eastern District—run by Marco’s twin brother. Rumor has it the twins despise each other, which is one of the reasons they rule on opposite sides of the country.

This should be interesting.

“No, I haven’t,” I murmur as my gaze drifts past him to the window. The sun is beginning to set, its warm hues casting shadows over the horizon.

“Why don’t you get some rest? I’m going to need you fresh when we get there in a few hours,” Marco says, nodding to a small bedroom at the back of the plane.

It isn’t a request, so I rise from my seat and ignore the way Orin leers at me—his light-blue eyes always teetering between lust and something far more disturbing. I can never quite tell if he wants my body for his pleasure or my pain. Either way, I’m used to it.

I step into the bedroom and close the door behind me. Lying down on the bed, I close my eyes, but my focus sharpens on the conversation happening through the thin wall.

“I don’t know why you always insist on keeping her so close,” Gary mutters, sounding irritated. “She gives me the creeps.”

I roll my eyes. Creeps, huh? Guess I’ll take that as a compliment.

“Yeah, Dad, what else does she do for you behind closed doors?” Orin sneers, his laughter grating.

“Enough,” Marco snaps, cutting off the sound with one simple word. I silently thank him for it. Marco has never laid a hand on me—Orin is sick in the head, always looking for ways to twist the world into something uglier.

I already know why Marco keeps me close, and it’s something he keeps from the others.

Marco once had a wife and daughter. They both died before I came along, but I’ve always believed that loss is why he sought me out in the first place—why he purchased me.

He missed them. Needed to know they were okay on the other side.

Sometimes, he still has me contact them. The conversations are brief, full of raw, quiet grief that I don’t think he shares with anyone else. It’s the only way he keeps himself moving forward in the hollow life he’s built.

I may hate Marco and wish him dead for the simple fact that he owns me, controls my life, and dictates my every move, but there’s a twisted sick part of me that loves him too—because, in many ways, he saved me.

Once I was out of the hospital all those years ago, I floated through a few foster homes and eventually made a friend—a girl named Aurora with red hair that matched her fiery spirit.

She was the first person I ever trusted enough to share my gift with.

To my surprise, she didn’t run away screaming when I told her I could see the dead.

Instead, she showed me a gift of her own.

Aurora could heat anything with a touch of her hand. God, we were kids then, still figuring out who we were. I can only imagine what her power must have grown into over the years—she’s probably throwing fireballs these days.

She was the first Avid I’d ever met. Before her, I thought Avids were a fairytale, a myth whispered about in history books.

Supposedly, Avids began appearing across the world as some kind of mutation—whether born from the Earth’s wrathful elements or a disease no one fully understood.

Personally, I blame the genetically engineered garbage they call food that we’re forced to eat most of the time.

No one knows for sure. Some call it evolution.

Others whisper that we’re demons walking among the living.

The term Avid comes from Avidus, meaning hungry, eager.

They call us that because it represents our innate hunger for survival and freedom.

Kind of sad when you think about it. Not just trafficked but condemned to slavery.

History has a cruel way of repeating itself—those in power always seek to control what they fear.

And they will always fear those who are different.

Aurora and I were taken in the middle of the night from our foster home.

I’ll never know how or why, but I’m pretty sure one of the other foster kids exposed us, figured out what we could do.

Gladys, our bitch of a foster mom, probably got a nice payday for turning us in.

The thought still makes my body tense up.

The days that followed our capture were dark—so dark I try not to think about them.

Even now, eight years later, the memories make me want to vomit.

The things that went on in those underground houses, the way they treated us like animals—or worse, like playthings—was the stuff of nightmares.

The men who kept us, waiting for the next auction, were the most despicable humans I’ve ever encountered.

I met many other Avids while being shuffled from one house to another. Some shared their abilities with me, others stayed silent, too scared or wary to trust anyone. The range of powers I witnessed… I wouldn’t have believed it was possible if I hadn’t seen it myself.

There was a boy named Ramus who could channel electricity into a bottle. I watched him do it once, his hands trembling as sparks leapt from his fingertips into the glass—it was both mesmerizing and terrifying.

The night I was auctioned, they put me in a tall, round cage that descended into a room like an elevator. The walls were lined with two-way mirrors, giving the bidders on the other side a perfect view of me while my abilities were exploited, while I could only see myself.

But my ability is unique. You can’t shove me into a cage and make me conjure lightning in a jar or something flashy like that. No, Marco made me prove my worth in his own way before he agreed to pay for me. That’s when I met his daughter, Anya, in the afterlife.

I never saw Aurora or any of the others again after that night. I don’t know if they were sold off to someone crueler or if they’re even still alive. Over the years, Marco has collected a few Avids, but I’m the only one he keeps close to home.

He gave me my own room, a private bathroom, all the clothes and books I could ever want. It’s comfortable, even luxurious. But it doesn’t change what this is. I’m his prisoner, and his pretty palace is my jail.

Still, I don’t doubt things could’ve been far worse if someone else had purchased me that night. And for that, as twisted as it is, I’m grateful Marco found me.

“Get up, terror. We’re almost there,” Orin says, pounding on the door.

I might have dozed off for a bit, but it wasn’t nearly enough to prepare me for whatever kind of night lies ahead. With a sigh, I slip on my long coat and tug a light-blue beanie over my head to keep warm. The Eastern District is covered in snow almost year-round these days.

I’ve never seen snow in person before, and the thought sends a small thrill through me. I bury it quickly, forcing my face into a neutral mask as I head back to the main cabin and settle into my seat across from Marco.

It’s too dark to see much of anything when we land.

We quickly pile into the back of a black SUV, and as we pull away, I catch a glimpse of the Volkov family’s other plane unloading into three more cars behind us.

Marco rarely travels with such an entourage, and the sight only solidifies the rumors about his twin.

Whatever’s waiting for us must be serious.

We drive for what feels like an hour, the darkness outside pressing in like a thick curtain. Finally, we come to a set of gates and turn onto a well-lit driveway. I glance out the window, and despite myself, a smile spreads across my face at what I see.

Trees. More trees than I’ve ever seen in my life. Here, on the other side of the country, I had no idea so many could grow, let alone in such harsh conditions. They’re tall, thin, skeletal things, spindly branches drooping under the weight of heaping piles of white snow.

It’s the most magnificent thing I’ve ever seen.

We pile out of the car, the crunch of snow beneath our boots filling the icy air.

The sharp cold bites at my cheeks, and I pull my jacket tighter around me, though it’s useless against the chill.

Marco notices, shrugs off his thick black coat, and drapes it over my shoulders.

The warmth of it is instant, and the scent—something rich and woodsy—lingers as I burrow into the heavy fabric.

He might be a killer and my jailer, but moments like this almost make me forget. Almost.