Page 24 of Even Vampires Bleed (Even Ever After #2)

Léandre

I don’t know where it came from, but the smell on my pillow is starting to disappear, and something inside of me doesn’t like the idea.

Except I don’t know where it’s coming from.

I’ve been talking with Angélique since I discovered that my brain has been tampered with, and I know that my former self used to share this room with a girl.

Angelique has been avoiding the subject, and I didn’t try to push her to share.

Whoever I was, I’m not him anymore.

But that passion fruit and cinnamon smell on my pillow…

I shake my head.

This is just a smell.

I shouldn’t be bothered by its disappearance.

Except I’ve been catching whiffs of it from time to time inside of Notre Dame, and it’s now driving me crazy.

It’s very faint, but it’s like I can still smell the person in the air.

I shake my head again.

I’m late for training with the warriors.

From what I understand, my former self was more of a book person, and I do enjoy books, but they aren’t enough.

I feel restless if I don’t exercise a bit, and maybe that’s just how my brain has been rewired, but I’m feeling good.

I’ve barely trained with them for more than a week, and yet I’m starting to see the change. My arms are more defined and can finally count my abs.

You think I’m silly?

Well, I’m mostly bored out of my mind, and working out is the only way I’ve found to feel like I’m doing something.

I know things are in the making. Angélique tried to make me join one of the meetings where they organize shipping, guard duty or even rescue teams, and it’s interesting, yes, it is, but what can I really do to help?

I’m not fit like Elhyor’s warriors, and I don’t know a single thing about any of the dungeons they’ve been talking about.

Past me would have known, but new me is useless in this endeavor.

So, I’m working out for most of the day and visiting my father at least an hour a day.

I don’t know him.

I don’t know our history.

But I can see some of my face in his—the slope of his nose, the shape of his eyes or his lips—and there is no doubt that he is my father.

He’s also very broken.

Two stumps that never seem to heal are at his back where there used to be wings, and he wanders into the archives as if it was his domain.

I feel like my presence is grounding him though, so everyday I come back and read a book next to him.

We don’t talk, we just sit together and that seems to be enough for both of us.

Maybe his brain has been tampered with, too, but since he only talks to his books, no one can really be sure.

But I feel some kinship with him that goes beyond blood.

We’re two lost souls, and when we’re together, we’re not so lost anymore.