Page 21

CHAPTER NINETEEN

WILLIAM

The pain is exquisite.

I welcome it, savouring each throb, each ache, each burning muscle as I push my newly corporeal body to its limits.

After a century of spectral numbness, even discomfort is a gift.

I flex my fingers, watching the play of tendons beneath skin, feeling the rush of blood through veins that haven’t pulsed in a hundred years.

This overexertion is a gift, one that I will never take for granted again.

Isolde left the training hall an hour ago, exhausted but showing remarkable progress. The others went with her. I remained behind, needing time alone with this miracle of flesh and bone.

Starting to break a sweat, I strip off my shirt and examine myself in the mirrored wall of the training hall.

The body is exactly as I remember, not a day older than when I died.

Lean muscle, pale skin, the scars from my more dangerous experiments still visible.

I trace the largest one, a jagged line across my ribs where I once cut myself open to observe the effects of a particularly potent blood ritual.

The memories flood back.

Two months before I died. A subject—willing, for once—strapped to a table as I extracted his lifeforce drop by drop, refining the process to maximise power transfer without killing him outright. The rush as his essence flowed into me, amplifying my abilities beyond what I thought possible.

They called me The Butcher, although my methods were far from crude. Precise, methodical, an art.

But I didn’t care what they called me. I was advancing knowledge, pushing boundaries. If a few lesser creatures had to suffer for the greater understanding of Blood Magic, so be it.

I flex my hand, calling forth a small orb of power.

It floats above my palm, pulsing with dark energy.

The magic feels different now, stronger, wilder, infused with Isolde’s unique signature.

The runes along my spine tingle, not unpleasantly, as they channel and monitor the power flowing through me.

The power that Blackridge can shut off at any moment.

The thought sours my elation. I am alive, yes, but on a leash. The old bastard made that perfectly clear.

I dispel the orb with a flick of my wrist and pull my shirt back on. My new clothes are a concession to the modern era. No more stuffy suits. I admire myself as I button up the shirt. Perhaps it's vanity, but after a century of no one seeing me, I want to be looked at.

Especially by her.

Isolde. My dark salvation. My queen.

The thoughts of her trouble me, even as I surrender to it willingly.

I’ve never felt this way about another being.

Not in life, not in death. My previous interests were clinical, academic, test subjects and research partners, nothing more.

But Isolde burns in my blood like a fever, her existence is a gravitational force I neither can nor want to escape.

Her power resonates with mine on a fundamental level. We are a match. Blackridge’s words echo in my mind. Is she my queen, or am I her king? Does it matter? We are one and the same.

I leave the training hall, my footsteps echoing satisfyingly against stone floors. Another simple pleasure. Making noise, having a presence, existing in more than whispers and cold spots. Students scatter as I pass, sensing the predator in their midst even if they don’t understand what or who I am.

The Butcher of SilverGate, returned to life.

I head for Blackridge’s office. I don’t knock in a petty defiance that doesn’t go unnoticed as Blackridge looks up from his desk with a knowing smile.

“Mr Harrington,” he says, setting aside a leather-bound tome. “Enjoying your resurrection?”

“Immensely,” I reply, striding into the room and taking a seat without invitation. Another small rebellion. “Though I’m aware of its limitations.”

“The runes,” he says, nodding. “Yes, quite the leash, aren’t they? How does it feel, knowing your second chance could be snuffed out with a thought?”

I smile thinly. “About as comfortable as I’d expect from an arrangement with you.”

He chuckles, the sound like dry leaves scraping stone. “I’ve always appreciated your pragmatism. It’s what sets you apart from other creatures.”

“A century of thinking, observing, and learning hasn’t diminished that.”

“Indeed.” He steeples his fingers, studying me with those fathomless black eyes. “And how is Miss Morvoren’s training progressing?”

“Rapidly. She has a natural affinity for Blood Magic I’ve never seen before. Even I had to work harder for my abilities.”

“That would be the Sanguimonarch lineage asserting itself,” Blackridge murmurs. “She’s not just a Sanguinarch, after all. She’s something more.”

We stare at each other across the desk, knowledge and power crackling between us. I’m under no illusions about my position in this hierarchy. Blackridge is ancient, something beyond categorisation. But I’m not powerless, not anymore.

“The Collectors are closer than we thought,” I say finally. “They are waiting.”

Blackridge raises an eyebrow. “You sensed them?”

“Isolde did, during training. I taught her to extend her awareness beyond SilverGate.”

“Impressive,” he murmurs. “Sooner than I anticipated, but not unexpected. The power surge from your resurrection was significant.”

“What are they waiting for? Or should I say whom ?”

A shadow passes over Blackridge’s face, something close to concern. “How many?”

“Seven.”

“That’s troubling.”

“They want her that badly.”

“Or they fear her that much.” Blackridge leans forward. “Which makes your role all the more crucial, William. She needs to be ready.”

“She’s progressing remarkably, but against seven experienced hunters? Even with my guidance and the others’ protection, she’s not ready.”

“Then perhaps it’s time to consider alternative strategies.” Blackridge rises, moving to a cabinet behind his desk. He unlocks it with a key that materialises between his fingers, removing a small vial of viscous black liquid. “This might accelerate her development.”

I eye the vial suspiciously. “What is it?”

“Something ancient. Something that has been in my possession for a very long time, waiting for the right moment.”

“And what does it do?”

Blackridge smiles that cold, calculating smile. “It awakens dormant potential. Specifically, Sanguinarch potential.”

I stand abruptly. “Absolutely not.”

“You haven’t heard my full proposal?—”

“I don’t need to. Whatever that is, it’s too dangerous. Isolde’s power is developing naturally, as it should.”

Blackridge studies me for a long moment, then returns the vial to the cabinet. “Very well. We’ll try it your way, for now. But remember, Mr Harrington, those runes in your spine don’t just give you life. They can take it away just as easily.”

The threat hangs in the air between us, undisguised and unmistakable.

“Is that all?” I ask, my voice steady despite the cold fury building inside me.

“For now.” He dismisses me with a wave of his hand. “Keep training her. And remember your place in all this.”

I turn to leave, my hands clenched at my sides. At the door, I pause. “One more thing, Blackridge.”

“Yes?”

I look back at him, letting a hint of The Butcher show in my eyes. “When this is over, when The Collectors are dealt with, you and I will have a reckoning.”

He smiles, genuinely amused. “I look forward to it.”

The door slams satisfyingly behind me as I stalk through the corridors of SilverGate. Students and faculty move out of my way, sensing the dark energy surrounding me. The runes along my spine burn cold, reminding me of my tenuous grasp on this second life.

I need to see Isolde.

It’s a compulsion I don’t try to fight. I walk towards her room.

As I approach her hallway, I sense another presence nearby. CJ, his strange energy signature unmistakable. He’s waiting outside her door. The blood in him calls to something primitive in me, a challenge and a warning.

I slow my pace, considering my options.

CJ turns the handle, giving it a shove with his foot. I give him a nod of acknowledgement as I pass. Not friendly, but not hostile either. A temporary truce.

I close the door behind me, and see Isolde sleeping, curled up in the comfortable bed. Crossing over to the window, I stare at the Bell Tower.

I flex my hands again, feeling the power coursing through my veins. Despite Blackridge’s threats, despite the runes monitoring my every move, I am alive again. And with life comes opportunity.

I close my eyes, extending my senses outward as I taught Isolde to do. The world opens up around me, a tapestry of lives and power signatures, each distinct, each telling its own story. I feel the seven cold stars waiting, watching. The Collectors, coming for their prize.

Coming for my queen.

I smile into the darkness, feeling the killer inside me rise up. They think they’re hunting her, but they have no idea what awaits them. The Butcher of SilverGate has returned, but this time I have more than myself to protect. They won’t get near Isolde. Not when they have to go through me first.