Page 31

GWYN

“Hello?” I answer, groggy. My voice doesn’t sound right, far too low and raspy.

I haven’t exactly spoken in the last few days since Sasha left, so maybe I’m just unfamiliar with it.

Part of me wonders if this escape into bed and unconsciousness is a desperate attempt to find familiarity in the face of the unknown.

At least in this, I’m comfortable, having been here more times than I can count.

“I touched base with demons in each of the areas you mentioned on that list, and there was an unusual uptick in vampire killings, but not enough for them to be concerned. The authorities didn’t suspect my people, so there was no need to worry about it.

Based on how many bodies were reported, my guess is he only stayed a couple days at each location.

But he’s hit every single one. Virginia was the last known place, but that was a few days ago.

One of the bodies was found near your townhouse. ”

I wonder if he killed one of my neighbors.

If so, I hope it was Cunty Carol across the street who liked to sit on her front porch and shout bitchy things about my ‘offensively fat ass’ and the outfits I chose to wear.

She also referred to Hale as ‘that gay man you live with,’ so I kind of hope Agnarr killed the shriveled bitch.

“So, I was too late?”

“Yeah, pretty much.”

“I mean, could he be back here or in California maybe? Visiting Ketill’s coven?”

“My boss fucking hated Bjorn, little hybrid.” He inhales quickly before blowing out, and I imagine the demon sitting at a grand desk, expensive shoes propped up on the corner while he puffs on a cigar.

I’m not sure exactly why I imagine him as some kind of Mad Men businessman.

Maybe the vintage-looking business cards are what did it.

“We owe you one for taking that asshole out, so believe me when I say to stay the fuck away from Ketill’s coven. You will not find Agnarr there.”

“But they’re brothers,” I argue.

“By all means, do what you want. But we will not assist you in such an endeavor,” the demon says. “Perhaps you’ll make a deal with me before you go?”

Before I can respond, he lets out a low and guttural rumble, and I hear a whimper in the background.

“Uh,” I say, rolling onto my back and rubbing my eyes. “Did you call me while you were fucking someone?”

“Facefucking. My mouth isn’t occupied, and I have business to attend to,” he says and it's so detached, lacking in any passion whatsoever, that I’m momentarily stunned into silence.

“Well, I guess if he revisits those places, they’ll let you know?” I ask.

“Yes. If he moves anywhere near any of the locations on that list, me or Dahlia will call you. Right, Dahlia?”

Dahlia, I assume, gives a muffled yes, and I make a face, thinking about her saying it around the demon’s dick.

“Thanks,” I say, before eagerly hanging up.

Just one more disappointment. Agnarr had been making his rounds to all the places I once lived. Is he looking for Cynthia, I wonder? Angry over what she’d done to him, I don’t blame him for seeking vengeance, but she’s already dead.

I was his vengeance when she died in childbirth.

From my conception, I have been vengeance by design. Now, though, do I have any left in me?

Navigating to my text thread with Hale, I frown at the message he sent me the same night Sasha left.

Hale

I just need some space.

Without Sasha and without Hale, I don’t know what the fuck to do with myself.

I’m spiraling, and the only escape I have is sleep.

Hale lost his magic and was turned into a vampire because of me, no matter what Sasha says.

They were only here in Chicago, susceptible to Emile’s attack, because of me.

Every bad thing that has happened since my parents’ death is because of me.

It should have been me who died that rainy night over a year ago.

Of my family, I was the one who never felt particularly tethered to staying.

It’s not that I’ve always wanted to die necessarily—although there have definitely been times that I desired it—but I’ve never cared either way if I live or not.

I close my eyes again, wanting to escape back into sleep, but it evades me.

I roll out of bed instead, carefully traversing abandoned takeout containers, empty blood bags, piles of clothing, boxes that had been delivered after Sasha left, and a sprawled sleeping dog.

I missed Zuul so much, but having him living in a top floor penthouse is not the most convenient thing.

He deserves better than pissing and shitting in the small rooftop garden.

He deserves better than me.

For a fraction of a second, I imagine Roman’s greystone and the small backyard where Hale nearly bled out.

At least Zuul likes Roman—annoyingly. But I blink it away, not allowing myself to think anything so goddamn dangerous, and I’m rewarded with the distraction of stubbing my toe on a box of my things.

I grunt and switch on the light in the corner.

Before Ascending, that lamp wouldn’t have done much to illuminate the room, but now it’s nearly blinding.

The entirety of my life has been stuffed into cardboard and brought into the penthouse by begrudging vampires who are sworn to Roman now but don’t know what the fuck to do about me. Sasha had texted, telling me she thought I’d like to wallow amongst my own things.

It was a waste of time. I don’t intend to be here much longer, so I don’t bother to unpack.

Vaguely, I consider trying to find my vibrator if only to lull me to sleep. Although that makes me think about the fact that a stranger packed my drawer of sex toys.

Whatever.

I find a stack of boxes and plop the top one onto the bed, surprised by its lightness.

And then I roll my eyes when I find my pillow shoved into it.

One giant box for one single pillow feels like a waste.

I toss it on the bed, throw the box out into the hallway, and tell myself if I don’t find my vibrator in the next box, I’m giving up.

The next box proves more promising as I pull my bedroom lamp out of it.

The lampshade is dented, and I wonder who the fuck Sasha paid to pack up the townhouse because they did a shitty job.

Beneath the light fixture, there are various odds and ends from my nightstand and dresser, including a picture frame I don’t immediately recognize.

When I flip it over, I realize it’s a 2-in-1 frame, and it has flipped shut.

On one side there’s a picture of me and Dad, and on the other is one of my biological mother, glaring at the camera with her pregnant belly in the summer heat.

The frame had fallen behind my dresser ages ago, and I’d never bothered to pick it up.

I’m young in the picture with my dad, probably in middle school judging by the braces, and I was newly informed at that point about what I was and what I‘d been made for. Newly aware of the fact that he wasn’t my biological father.

For whatever reason, it never bothered me.

Angela wasn’t my biological mother either.

All that mattered was what Cynthia had died for.

I’d started training to take down the coven with abandon, ready to exact revenge upon the people who had attacked us a few times by then.

Sometimes I wonder exactly when my dad started thinking about how that life might not be for me.

That maybe I should hide and try to be normal and that maybe the weight of taking down an entire coven was too heavy for me to bear.

Even when this picture was taken, I was probably already showing symptoms of depression.

And yet, Dad didn’t stop training me. He didn’t share with me that he’d spilled innocent blood.

He told me I would be the one to end this—not just for my family, but for the ones Bjorn hadn’t discovered yet.

It wasn’t until I was approaching adulthood, and it was becoming more clear that my mental health wasn’t exactly in the best form to become an assassin, that he seemed to really second guess himself.

Abandoning my training, going to college, distracting myself with Josh, trying to beat the fucking monster in my mind just so I could be what I thought Dad expected only seemed to make the depression worse.

At first, I couldn’t believe what Roman said.

How could my dad kill a woman, innocent or not, in front of her kids?

He was lying, that’s all there was to it.

But as I spent time alone in my thoughts, I parsed through things Remy had said about the mother he didn’t remember and the hunter who murdered her.

I thought about the details that matched Roman’s story.

I remembered a hushed conversation my dad had with Angela when I was small about killing for the cause.

I never questioned how Dad and Cynthia got the sperm sample to conceive me, assuming it was a quick break-in that didn’t harm any innocents.

Knowing my dad chopped off a woman’s head in front of her two small children puts a black mark on my memory of him.

But worse, I look at my mother’s stomach and feel sick.

I don’t have a single goddamn maternal instinct, but I don’t know how she could even think to conceive a baby from her enemy with the expectation that the child would become a warrior.

It’s bad enough to bring kids into this shit world, but this? It’s even more fucking selfish.

Dad might have eventually viewed me as his child, as something to protect and love and wish happiness upon, but it doesn’t change that I was meant to be a tool to be used before I was born.

My parents were always moving and running, hiding from the coven after what they did, so the likelihood of a baby shower was slim to none.

Did they paint the walls pink in anticipation?

Or was my crib lined with hatred and history and expectation?

With my dad’s murder, I should have been released from it all, but it only pushed me farther. Into a self-fulfilling prophecy or toward a death wish, I’m not fucking sure anymore.

But in the back of my mind, I know which one it is—subconsciously or not.

I never wanted to steal the coven. I wanted revenge, and I wanted to die.

I didn’t want to find out my dad was even more imperfect than I already thought. I didn’t want to find things in common with Roman, and I certainly didn’t want to fucking fall in love with him.

Roman’s brutal honesty and corrosive tenderness had kept me tethered when I allowed myself to think about my past, but I wonder if it was a disservice.

Though the yawning chasm of eternal silence had tempted me, rich brown eyes and a simple request for me to stay had been enough to draw me back from the edge.

And I’ve hated myself for it ever since.

Hated him for it.

And then I realize it’s Roman’s fault that Hale got his throat sliced and had to be turned.

It’s Roman’s fault that Hale lost his magic.

Because if he hadn't taken my sister, Hale wouldn’t have been distracted.

He nearly got the two people I love the most killed, even though I had his brother.

If he was willing to go to those lengths when he was risking Remy’s safety, what lengths will he go to now that he has him back?

Roman is only involved because of me. It all comes back to me, doesn’t it?

Without me in the picture, Roman won’t have the same motivations.

With a shriek and strength I’m still getting used to, I throw the picture frame against the wall. The corner embeds into the drywall, and glass falls to the ground.

My college therapist had clocked me pretty early on when it came to my depression. It manifests in a few ways—risky behavior, bed rotting, lack of hygiene—but there is one specific manifestation that she always said was the most dangerous.

And it’s anger.

“Anger leads to action,” I say, staring at the broken shards of glass littering the already messy floor. “Anger leads to action,” I repeat as I clench my fists, fingernails digging into my flesh. I got my vengeance already, so what’s left?

“Anger leads to action.”

I’m picking my way across the bedroom floor to Bjorn’s nightstand.

“Anger leads to action.”

I’m opening the nightstand and pulling out my gun.

“Anger leads to action.”

My phone rings, and I can’t stop staring at the Beretta in my hands.