Page 43 of Lord of Ruin (The Age of Blood #2)

Chapter Twenty-Six

Isaac

I saac pulled his shirt back on, his fingers running quickly along the buttons, covering the dark cloth of his binder as Celeste turned away, dumping the small scalpel into the sink as she washed his blood from her hands.

He ignored the way that his blood ran dark and slow, even with the aid of water, thick like syrup and just as sticky, clinging to Celeste’s fingers as she scrubbed with harsh soap.

It didn’t matter, truly, or that is what he tried to tell himself.

He was something out of myth, a manananggal, but still mostly human.

At least when he wanted to be. And despite the worried looks that Celeste kept shooting him during their appointment, his treatments continued to be successful.

Easier, even, as though his body was continuing to change—to adapt—and in his horror, he would not become lost.

Not in the levels of hormones in his blood, somehow growing more stable, or the changes he had he wrought in himself to create a body he could be at home in.

The shape of his face, subtly carved into something more masculine, the cut of his muscles and the breadth of his shoulders, the hair that spread across his body—down his chest and stomach, thickening on his arms and legs.

It was alignment, it was euphoria, but this was something more.

He was a beast of fear and hunger, of claws and fangs. He was shedding all the polite trappings that society had forced upon him, leaving him with only the truest, rawest bits of himself on display for all to see.

It was more than a transition, it was a transformation, unlocking something within him that he never even knew to want.

He should fear this, he understood that.

But whatever the endgame was here, whatever he would be once it was complete—he was still him .

Even more so than before, and the peace and joy that ran through him was like nothing he had ever felt before.

Even if others couldn’t quite understand it.

Celeste slammed a towel down on the counter, the white fabric stained dark with the remains of his blood. It wouldn’t come clean, no matter what she tried. Meaning there was only one option—it would have to be burned. “Anything you feel like telling me about, Isaac?”

He ignored the way she asked the question, low and sugar sweet, the same tone she had employed when he was young and had been caught in some minor failure. Plying on his better nature to make him fess up, because he used to be good and kind.

He wasn’t good and kind anymore, thoroughly ruined by what Aeravin had made of him. “You don’t want to know, trust me.”

She huffed, crossing her arms over her generous chest, leveling a glare that would have made his mother proud. “You don’t get to make that decision for me, young man.”

It was a fair point, and an echo of what he had told someone else recently. When Samuel had tried to hold him at arm’s distance, protecting him from that gift that lurked in his veins—the one he had never been afraid of, anyway. Perhaps this was his problem, perhaps he shouldn’t be acting this way.

Perhaps he needed to learn to trust.

“I was wrong,” he admitted. “I am not a vampire, I’m something else.”

Celeste didn’t push him, coming to his side and laying her hand on his. A comforting squeeze that emboldened him to continue. “I’m not a vampire, I’m a manananggal.”

He saw the confusion on her face, the way her jaw moved as she tested the word on her tongue.

“It’s a creature from the Tagalan Islands,” he began, filling her in on what Anton had shared, on what the books of mythology had confirmed.

How he had killed and fed, how each drop of blood made him stronger, made him more of what he was become.

How he wasn’t going to stop.

And through it all Celeste watched with her hand on her throat, her discomfort plain on her face. She didn’t understand—he should have known better. She was still good in a way he was not. “I thought you wanted to find a way to reverse it.”

It was a fair question, but it still sat oddly in his chest. “I was afraid, I think. But I’m not anymore. I am doing what I need to do to see this through.”

Her gaze softened; the intensity of her judgement replaced with something like sadness. “And what about you, Isaac? When it’s over, are you going to be okay?”

“It doesn’t matter,” he said, not realizing how true it was till he voiced it. It wasn’t something that bothered him. He had already committed to this path, and it was too late to turn from it now.

“Isaac,” Celeste began, but he shook his head.

“I am not a child anymore—”

“You most certainly are not,” Celeste tried to cut in, but Isaac barreled on.

“—and I appreciate your concern, I truly do.” He tilted his chin up, unafraid. “But this is something we can use, Celeste, and I’m willing to pay whatever price I need to pay.”

“Oh, son.” She blinked rapidly, tears sliding down her cheeks. “This is not the future any of us wanted for you. We just wanted you to be happy.”

Isaac stilled. That was what this was about then—it wasn’t about him being a monster, not precisely.

It was about something more ephemeral than that.

The love of a parent for a child, the kind that wished they could protect him from all suffering and strife.

It touched an old scar, deep within, the promises his parents had made on the hope of a better future.

A hope that never came to life, not truly.

“I know,” he admitted, then stepped forward and let her pull him into a hug.

She was tall, still, able to rest her chin on the top of his head as he buried his face in her shoulder.

Feeling all of twelve years old again, when he had first whispered the truth of himself out loud, too nervous to claim it loudly.

She had held him then as she did now, her arms warm and tight, smelling faintly of the sterile tang of antiseptic, and it felt like he let some of the weight off his back, just for a moment.

“I didn’t want this either,” he murmured. He was so, so tired, and he wished he could just lay down his arms. “But I cannot live with myself if I turned away from it now.”

She squeezed tight, one final time, and then let go. “I understand,” she replied, wiping away the tears with the back of her hand. “Even if I don’t like it.”

“If it makes you feel better,” he said, “I don’t like it either.”

Her laugh was watery, but true. “It does, you know. But fine.” She squared her shoulders, took his face in her hands and pressed a kiss to his forehead. “My Isaac, a fierce manananggal.”

He squeezed his eyes shut to fight the tears, but they were not bitter things. No, this was relief, threatening to knock his feet out from under him. Despite all he had done and all that he was, the closest thing he had to a mother still loved him.

Still stood by him—would stand by him till the end.

The moment was ruined when the door to the clinic banged open, loud enough to be heard even in here in the back. Celeste moved quickly, placing herself before him in the doorway, as if she could protect him by bodily putting herself between him and whoever had broken in.

But it was no threat. Isaac recognized it instantly, the cologne that Anton favored and the fear that had his heart pounding a frenetic beat.

Celeste recognized him a moment later as he pushed through the curtain, her posture easing, but her tone still testy. “You shouldn’t be back here while I’m with a patient, young man.”

Anton barely even blinked. “People have been hurt, Celeste. We need help. We can pay—”

She cut him off by turning away. “Keep your money, boy. Just let me grab my bag.”

To spare them the troubles of avoiding the Guard and their uncomfortable questions, Anton decided to hire a hackney. Isaac glanced out the window as they rattled through the city, wheels on cobblestone.

They were already approaching the Fox Den, the crowds growing thicker as the early winter night crept in, heading towards their gambling hells and restaurants and theaters.

Something like shame twisted in Isaac’s stomach, sour and bitter.

Not even a year ago and he would have been one of them, playing their games with a false smile while stewing bitterly in his heart.

The world he lived in now was far more dangerous—and far less comfortable—but there was something freeing about it as well.

He no longer had to hide the anger he felt, the schemes that he planned.

He had allies, even if they weren’t the ones he had expected.

Anton, leaning back against the far seat, eyes closed as if he could relax into a light nap.

Celeste beside him, her expression far more grim than he had ever seen, her big leather bag balanced in her lap, carrying all the tools she might need: scalpels and knives, bandages and antiseptic.

And beneath all that, wrapped in thick bundles of cloth, were two large glass bottles of blood, just in case.

He could still sense it, even through all the layers—not quite a siren’s call like blood fresh from the body, but still alluring.

He worked his jaw, thankful that the hackney came to a stop at last. He was the first out, holding the door open so that Celeste could follow.

Anton flicked the driver a tip before turning on his heel.

He led them into the Den without another word, and Isaac bit back the strange feeling of déjà vu.

It hadn’t been that long since he had last been here, swearing allegiance to a rebellion he once had been tasked with destroying.

It felt like a lifetime ago, though, and he ducked around the bustling workers as Anton took them to the same back staircase.

The scent of iron hit him, copper on the back of his tongue, and Isaac deliberately let himself fall back as they emerged into the lounge again, seeing the people scattered about the chairs and lounges, all of them beaten and bloody.