Page 6 of Avidian (The Demon and the Savior #1)

Chapter Four

The smell hits me first, sharp and distinct, before my eyes adjust to the darkness. Sweet and coppery, it clings to the air, unmistakable. Fresh blood. Only fresh blood has that metallic sweetness. The scent of decay hasn’t settled in yet, which means death is still new to this room.

I don’t move an inch, my stomach tightening at the thought of stepping into a puddle of blood in my only pair of snow boots. Marco, far less hesitant, flicks on the light. The yellow glow floods the small space. I thought I knew what to expect from the smell, but I couldn’t have imagined this.

Blood.

Everywhere.

My brain takes a second too long to process it all.

The walls, the floor, the bed—it’s all streaked, smeared, and splattered with red.

When I glance up, my stomach churns. The ceiling too.

I have to fight the absurd thought that a pack of rabid wolves broke in here and shredded someone to ribbons.

There’s no body, but the remains are gruesome—clumps of flesh, tufts of hair, and barely peeking out from beneath the dresser is a severed finger.

The room itself is modest—clearly a servants quarters.

The tidy furnishings are jarringly at odds with the carnage.

A simple dresser with a large mirror, a nightstand, and a narrow bed that might squeeze in two people if they didn’t mind the closeness.

It would all look neat and unassuming if not for the nightmarish coating of blood on every surface.

This room is chaos, a brutal explosion of rage.

“Whose room is this?” I ask Marco.

“Carmen’s,” Marco replies. “She was one of the cooks.”

Cooks? I frown, my mind spinning. What could a cook possibly have done to deserve this?

“She’s not why we’re here,” he says.

I whip my gaze toward him in disbelief. “Not why we’re here?” I ask, incredulous. “A dead cook isn’t enough?”

“My nephew,” Marco says, his nose pinching like he can’t stand the smell. “Damien. Viktor’s son. He was found here. With her.”

I swallow hard, keeping my expression locked in that carefully controlled mask I wear so well, but inside I’m blown away.

“Both deceased, both mutilated,” Marco finishes, his pitch flat, like he’s forcing himself to speak.

I bite my lips to keep myself from saying “fuck.” Whatever happened here is worse than a murder. It’s a tragedy, and one that reeks of secrets. If Viktor is anything like Marco, I almost feel sorry for the soul who did this when they find him.

“I’ll be outside. Let me know when you’re finished,” Marco says, handing me an envelope before stepping out of the room. He always gives me space when I need to use my gift—or curse, depending on the day.

I glance at the envelope in my hand, its weight suddenly heavier with the realization of what’s inside.

This must be what Viktor passed to Marco when we first arrived.

That hug between them had seemed longer than necessary, even for brothers.

Now I understand the secrecy. If Viktor truly believes someone close to him killed his son—someone possibly staying here under the same roof as all of us—this situation is far more precarious than I thought.

I shake my head to clear it. This isn’t like summoning Mischka, my sweet dog and the closest thing to a constant in my life.

With her, it’s effortless. I simply think of her, and she’s there.

But reaching someone I’ve never met requires more effort.

A photograph helps me focus, gives me a tether to their essence.

Without one, it’s like trying to navigate a maze in the dark.

Seeing the dead without seeking them out isn’t common for me, but it’s happened. And it’s never pleasant.

I take a deep breath and open the envelope.

The first photo I pull out is of Carmen.

It’s grainy, clearly cropped from a larger image, and not exactly ideal.

The picture is of a crowded table full of people, but she’s easy to spot.

She’s the only one wearing a cooking apron, a tray of food balanced in her hands.

She’s young, maybe my age or a little younger, with long blonde hair braided neatly back.

Her face is freckled, light-colored eyes bright, and there’s an unspoken kindness in her expression.

What happened to you, Carmen? What were you mixed up in?

I slide her photo back into the envelope and pull out the next one.

Damien.

He’s exactly what I’d expect the son of Viktor to look like—sharp features, short brown hair, and a chiseled jawline.

He’s clean-shaven and impeccably dressed in a tan suit, his posture rigid and composed.

But it’s his eyes that catch me. They’re cold, calculating.

Something about his expression doesn’t suggest kindness. Not in the slightest.

I tuck his photo back into the envelope and slip it into my back pocket. I might need to look at them again later, but for now I need to focus. With one last glance at the bloodied room, I let out a steadying breath and prepare to do what I came here for.

There are two main ways I communicate with the dead—at least for me.

The first is simple enough. I picture them in my mind, focusing on their essence, and silently call to their spirit until they answer.

When it works, they appear to me as if they were standing right in front of me, tangible but not quite.

Most of the time, they have a faint blue aura, but not always.

And they don’t necessarily look like they did when they died.

Some spirits prefer to present themselves how they want to be remembered—maybe ten years younger or in a moment they cherished.

But it’s never straightforward. Conversations are fragmented, like trying to piece together a puzzle in a dim room.

Sometimes they give me images instead of words or a few cryptic phrases that don’t make sense until later.

I have to decipher it all, pulling meaning from the pieces they leave behind.

The second method is far more complicated—and infinitely harder on me. I call it projecting, and it’s as draining as it is dangerous. It’s something I’ve only been able to do in the last couple of years, as my gift continues to grow stronger, evolving in ways I never expected—or wanted.

Projecting requires me to send a part of myself—my soul, I guess—into the veil, the liminal space between life and death.

It’s not something I do lightly. Every time I go, it feels like a part of me is slipping away.

Maybe the devil is taking a piece of my soul.

I don’t know enough about my gift or Avids in general to say for certain, but if demons exist—and Marco’s cryptic warnings have me half-believing they do—then maybe he’s right.

Every projection could bring me one step closer to a place I can’t come back from.

One day, I might project and my soul might not return. That thought terrifies me more than I’ll ever admit.

It’s as if my spirit leaves my body entirely, slipping through the veil and wandering the realm of the dead.

From the outside, I probably look comatose, like I’ve drifted off into some deep, unreachable thought.

But the reality is far stranger and riskier.

On the other side, I can connect with spirits in their element, see the world through their eyes.

It’s disorienting and eerie, but it’s invaluable. Otherwise, I wouldn’t do it.

The details I pick up when I project—the whispers of what lingers where life and death collide—are often the only things that make solving certain cases possible.

But it’s always a trade. The longer I project, the more drained I feel when I return.

Every trip leaves me feeling like I’ve left a piece of myself behind, scattered somewhere in that cold, endless in-between.

Sometimes, it’s too much. There have been times when I’ve projected for too long and woken up days later, disoriented and barely able to move.

I’ve passed out in the middle of the process, only to come to in Marco’s bed, weak and barely able to sit up.

He always takes care of me afterward. He could easily assign one of the servants to tend to me but never does. It’s always him.

I don’t know why. Maybe he actually cares about me in his own twisted, manipulative way. Or maybe he wants to ensure his prized asset, the obedient little demon he always boasts about, is safe. Either way, I let him.

As much as I hate what my life has become, it’s the only one I have. And if projecting is what it takes to survive—to solve cases, to keep myself useful, and to maybe help others—then so be it.

I don’t want to try option two now when I’m already too tired, my energy frayed from how late it is.

Instead, I close my eyes and picture Carmen and Damien as they appeared in their photos, focusing on the details.

Carmen’s braided hair, Damien’s sharp eyes.

I silently call to their spirits, pushing the image of them forward in my mind like a beacon.

One of you, answer me. Please.

A faint, floral scent fills the air, soft and out of place in the gore-filled room. My eyes snap open, and I feel the shift immediately. The temperature plummets, the air thick with an unnatural chill. Then she appears.

Carmen.

She sits on the edge of the bed, her figure faint and slightly translucent but undeniably present. Her form glows faintly, otherworldly, casting a pale light over the room. Her hands rest in her lap, her head slightly bowed.

“I’m here to help,” I say softly, taking a cautious step closer, careful to avoid the blood and debris scattered across the floor.

She doesn’t react or even look at me. Her presence is quiet, but the room grows cold enough for me to see each breath puffing white in the frigid air. I take another step, now a foot away from her.

“Who did this to you?” I ask.