Page 53 of Shadowblood Souls: The Complete Series

One

Riva

T he room smells like death.

That’s probably because of the copious number of dead bodies sprawled all across it.

It’s like a house party of corpses, three dozen or so limp forms gathered around the kitchen and open concept living and dining room of Ursula Engel’s expansive but homey cottage in the woods. Some slump on the floorboards and tiles, others loll across leather and hardwood furniture.

Most of them died because of me.

It’s pretty easy to tell which ones I took out—at least, the ones I killed with the shrieking power that’s now settled down inside me rather than with my claws. Those corpses are definitely not enjoying this undead party.

While the unearthly scream tore out of me, I saw right inside our enemies. I knew exactly where to twist and what to snap to wring every drop of pain out of them before their bodies shut down completely.

Limbs lie askew at impossible angles. Faces have locked in contortions of anguish.

The meaty, metallic tang of blood laces the air, but also the nauseating odors of urine and shit. A lot of my victims lost control over their bladders and bowels in the grips of my brutal talent.

I close my eyes for a second, but removing the gristly view doesn’t stop my stomach from churning. Partly because it’s not just the scene that’s making me queasy, but also the stares of the four other figures who are still standing with me.

My guys. My fellow shadowbloods, who have the same dark smoke winding through their veins that I do that gives them their own unnerving talents.

The four gorgeous, tormented, vicious men who spent most of the past two weeks punishing me for a betrayal I didn’t even commit.

They believed I was a monster. I wasn’t back then, back when we were separated four years ago.

But looking at the carnage around us with my shriek still ringing in our ears, it must be difficult for them to see me as anything else right now.

I swallow thickly, willing down my nausea and the protests that want to bubble out.

I didn’t want to do this. It was the only way to save us.

But those claims aren’t totally true. Some part of me did want to wreak all this havoc, to savage and maim with wild abandon.

Some part of me reveled in it, drew strength from it. It took all my self-control to shield the guys from the sadistic hunger inside me.

I want to say it isn’t me but some other being inside me, but I know that’s not true. There’s no alien in my chest that can be carved out and burned away.

The hunger is woven into my body, mind, and soul. It’s etched in my DNA.

And the woman who lived in this house wrote that code, even if she didn’t realize at the time exactly what abilities would emerge and grow in us.

I glance behind me at the mangled body of our creator at the same time Jacob does. The chiseled planes of his stunning face harden even more with the clenching of his jaw.

“Engel said reinforcements were too far out to get here quickly, but we don’t know how true that was,” he says, breaking the shocked silence. “Let’s grab anything that could be useful and get out of here.”

Dominic follows his gaze too, his dark auburn hair falling across his tan forehead to shade his eyes. He sways a little and catches the edge of the blood-streaked kitchen island for balance.

He’s just spent the past several minutes healing the worst of the other guys’ wounds—with the slim, orange tentacles arcing from the top of his shoulder blades to the backs of his knees.

He grabbed most of the life energy he needed from the assailant now lying dead by our feet, but the process must have taken a lot out of him as well.

His voice comes out in a low rasp. “She really hated us.”

The accusations our creator threw at us echo from the back of my mind. You’re monsters of the worst kind. Abominations. A catastrophe I set in motion.

Of course, the bloodbath we’re surrounded by doesn’t exactly stand as evidence in our favor. I’m not sure any bystander would accept “She started it!” as a reasonable excuse.

Andreas rakes his hand back through the tight coils of his hair, his mouth twisting into a grimace. “Yeah. Well, I can’t say I liked her all that much either.”

None of us laughs at the darkly wry remark, but the rough attempt at humor stirs us all into motion. We tramp over the shattered chunks of the dining table that formed one side of our makeshift fort and pick our way between the bodies.

The search feels unnervingly familiar. I scanned a similar scene just a couple of weeks ago, appropriating weapons and cash, in the arena where I’d been forced into cage fights.

I don’t look at the guys, but every now and then I see one pause with a flick of his gaze from a distorted body to me. Each time, my gut knots tighter.

They’re moving slowly through the mess. Zian is still favoring one brawny shoulder, though it looks like Dominic was able to stop the bleeding. His wolfish features have vanished, but his normally peachy-brown skin has lost some of its warmth.

Andreas leans a little to the left and bends his knees when he checks something on the floor rather than tilting his torso. A bloody hole marks his shirt where the bullet caught him minutes ago, the wound sealed now but no doubt still painful.

And Jacob’s blond hair is dappled crimson from the shrapnel cut that’s closed but still an angry pink on his pale forehead.

Dominic speaks up again, quiet as usual and with a wary note in his voice that pricks at me more than I like. “You’re not injured, are you, Riva?”

I shake my head quickly. “I’m fine.”

I’m actually better than fine. The influx of our enemies’ pain has left me energized and rejuvenated.

As the guys have probably noticed.

I shove my uneasiness aside and grab a rifle from where it’s lying next to a hand lumpy with shattered bones.

We each pick up every gun we can find that hasn’t been broken by Zian’s wolfman strength or Jacob’s telekinetic powers.

I hold on to those that still have at least a few bullets, tucking one pistol into the back of my sweats and setting the other weapons in a growing common pile near the front door.

There’s no way of knowing who we might have to fight next… and I’d rather fight with gunfire if I have the option.

That thought brings me to the huge living room windows that stretch from waist-height to the vaulted ceiling, two stories high. Most of their glass now lies in scattered shards on the floor, crunching beneath my sneakers.

A significant number of our attackers crashed in through these windows. I lean over the ledge into the cool autumn air and peer between the trees for any sign of where they came from—and any colleagues who might be on their way.

I can’t see anything suspicious, and the fresh breeze filling my lungs is a welcome relief. My braid slipping over my shoulder, I tip farther out into the forest air just for a second.

Glass crackles just a few feet away, and I jerk to the side instinctively. A burning sensation sears across my waist.

I flinch again, glancing down. A shard still lodged in the frame has sliced into my bare flesh where my hoodie and tank top rode up.

Biting my lip against the pain, I jerk my shirts down over the cut and the puff of smoky stuff that started to waft from it and spin around. The wound throbs against my pressing elbow.

Zian has come up by the windows, his massive body looming more than a foot taller than me even in totally human form. He studies me with his dark brown eyes, probably wondering why I flinched so badly.

Or wondering if I’m going to hurl my power at him in response.

Before he can outright ask anything, I let out a stilted giggle. “Just a little jumpy after… all this. I’m going to check the second floor.”

I hustle over to the stairs and dart up them, gritting my teeth against the deepening ache in my side. I am not going to beg Dominic for help, not when he’s already wiped out.

Not when I now know that every bit of healing talent he uses, the beastly appendages he’s so ashamed of grow even longer.

Engel’s bedroom is painfully tidy, not a drawer ajar, not a wrinkle in her duvet. I can’t help wondering whether she’d be more pissed off about the fact that I killed her or the mess I’ve made of her home below.

In the ensuite bathroom, I tear a chunk of thick fabric off a towel and fold it into a pad to stem the bleeding. Then I tie that firmly in place with a strip of one of Engel’s sheets.

Such lovely linens she’s outfitted her home with. I’m sure the thread count made her proud.

They bind my wound well enough. With my baggy hoodie overtop, you can’t tell there’s anything unusual underneath.

I stand in front of the bathroom mirror for a moment, digging my hands into my pockets and pressing the hasty bandage against my side. The throbbing makes my jaw tick, but a strange sense of peace settles over me.

This is one small fragment of what I inflicted on all our attackers downstairs. A reminder of what I did—what I don’t ever want to have to do again.

If having that reminder helps ensure that I keep my most vicious hungers under control, it’s a good thing.

The stairs creak, and I pull myself out of the ensuite into Engel’s bedroom where I can make myself useful again.

It isn’t Andreas coming upstairs after me, I realize with a faint tingling on my clavicle. I can sense him moving around on the level below through the little dark blotch on my skin—the mark that formed after we merged our bodies in more ways than we recognized at the time.

The mark that also appeared at the top of his sternum, that maybe he now wishes he could scrub off along with any other association with me.

I yank open the bedside and dresser drawers and find an envelope with a wad of hundred dollar bills in one and a jewelry box tucked into another. Well, we need any extra cash we can get from pawning Engel’s valuables more than she’s inclined to wear them in her current state.

I stuff the envelope into the ebony jewelry box and carry it into the hall just as Jacob makes an eager noise from the room next door. He comes out with a laptop clutched in his hands.

“Who knows how much useful info she’s got stashed on this,” he says, aiming a sharp but seemingly genuine smile at me.

I don’t know how to respond when the vast majority of the smiles Jacob has shot at me in the past couple of weeks were cold and cruel. But I’m saved from needing to when Dominic calls up from the first floor.

“I found Engel’s cell phone—and her car keys.”

Jacob’s smile widens. “All right. We make a swift getaway and then ditch it as soon as possible.”

As we hustle back down the stairs, Zian rubs his jaw. “Should we drive back to the car we took most of the way here?”

Andreas shakes his head. “We don’t know who might have found it by now. I say we head straight to the nearest active trainline and hitch a few more rides.”

“Perfect.” Jacob tucks the laptop under his arm. “Let’s get moving.”

His motion toward the door encompasses me as well as the guys. We all stoop to grab a couple more guns from the pile on our way out.

None of the other men look at me. As we tramp around the log house to the 4x4 parked off to the side, uneasiness prickles over my limbs.

We all need to leave—me getting caught would be a danger to the guys. Are they going to kick me to the curb after that?

Don’t I want to leave, after everything they put me through?

We are blood , we always said to each other. But they’ve broken the promise of those words so many times since I found my way back to them.

I only came this far with them to get answers… and while we got plenty of those from Engel, what she told us only spawned new questions. I need to know more, and whatever Engel kept on her devices could be the key.

So I guess I’m sticking with them for now, at least during this brief reprieve while we save our skins. But who knows what horrible thoughts about me are winding through the guys’ heads as we clamber into the vehicle.

This could be the very last ride we share.