CHAPTER 36 AILEEN
CHAPTER 36
AILEEN
The silence in the bus could be cut with a knife.
It was the same bus that had once transported the Rayne League newbies—and me among them—on the cross-country road trip to visit all other vampire Leagues. But unlike back then, the bus’s interior had been changed from a normal everyday bus to something like a field emergency room.
Aside from the first two rows and the back row, the seats were rearranged into triage beds for the injured, all with the necessary equipment, such as IV drips, EKG machines, and the like. Two nurses went from one patient to the next, checking their stats and making sure they were recovering in the required speedy manner of vampires.
Among the patients was Logan, who’d lost so much blood and Lifeblood, what with the spots spread across his thinning skin, that he needed a special blood transfusion from none other than Magnus, one of Ragnor’s Lieutenants. Magnus sat next to him, feeding him blood through a needle since he’d fallen unconscious.
Another patient was, surprisingly, a hawk. The hawk was attended to by one of the Rayne League vampires, who, more surprisingly, appeared to share his blood with the hawk. He seemed worried sick about the animal.
Isora and Zoey were on the bus as well. Both were receiving a direct blood transfusion from the dark-skinned woman who’d taken Logan and Cassidy before and whose name I learned was Neisha.
Meanwhile, I was sitting at the back of the bus, my ribs wrapped up and a cup of fresh blood in my hands. Ragnor sat next to me, and while he appeared expressionless, I had no doubt he was deep in thought, even as his eyes glowed neon blue.
Neither of us spoke. No one in the bus talked either. What would we say? It was as if there was an unofficial agreement to leave everything to silence in order to process all that had happened.
Still, my mind raced with burning questions, of course. But I was tired, exhausted even, and I couldn’t bring myself to satisfy my curiosity.
And yet I couldn’t rest. All I could do was look at the greenery outside as Abe, of all people, drove the bus toward Maine, to the Rayne League.
Hours passed as one landscape transformed into another. Eventually, I stared ahead, trying to wrap my head around how things had gotten this fucked up.
Despite my feelings about being sold in the Auction, I had only just started settling into life in the Atalon League. I’d already begun to accept that Ragnor and I were done, and I was preparing to become a museum guide assistant, poised to sell a lot of expensive art to quite a few rich assholes. I had found a friend in Isora and had even been friendly with more than just her. I was starting to accept my new League and was becoming accepted in return.
Then reality came crashing down on me.
Atalon wasn’t the nice, forthcoming Lord he’d pretended to be.
Isora had become a blood slave and would’ve died in the Jinn’s hands if Ragnor and I hadn’t gotten her out.
Would I ever find a home?
Now, Wode’s words and everything else that had happened since the gala event began to sink in. My father and I weren’t the only ones who knew about the Children of Kahil. And worse than that, my father wasn’t the only one willing to maim, destroy, or kill for the Morrow Gods.
A headache seized me right as a nearby voice took me out of my thoughts.
“I’m sorry.”
My spine stiffened, and slowly, I turned toward Ragnor. He was looking ahead, at the injured and the nurses and the other vampires, but I knew his words were meant for me. “What for?”
For a few moments, Ragnor said nothing. Then he continued with “I’m sorry I didn’t get the other captives out.”
My heart jolted, and I clenched my hands into fists. Right. The villa had crumbled down, burying the vampire captives in the kitchen basement. But that wasn’t Ragnor’s fault. He’d done more than enough.
I let out a sigh and said, “Don’t be,” before I took his hands in mine. “All that matters is that you’re safe, and so are the others.”
The air was filled with things unsaid, but neither of us talked. All we could do was hold hands and wait.
It was early morning when we arrived at the warehouse that would lead to the Rayne League’s underground compound. When I stood, Ragnor grabbed my wrist and said, “Wait.”
Slowly, I sat back down and watched as Abe helped the nurses and the others take the patients out one by one. Only when the bus was empty did Ragnor rise to his feet and say, “Let’s go.”
I followed him out of the bus and into the familiar warehouse. Then, we took the stairs leading down to the elevator that would take us to the compound. We didn’t speak as we boarded the elevator car, and we didn’t speak as we exited it into the beautifully familiar entrance hall.
And just being here, in the hall, with its familiar marble floors and arched entry, made my shoulders sag in relief.
Ragnor led me to his suite at the end of the wing that held the Gifted residences. I’d been to Ragnor’s suite only once before, but I remembered it vividly. It was large and spacious, with a private living room and a huge bedroom. There was even a little kitchenette adjoined to the room, along with a small dining table.
I went to sit at one of the plush sofas, groaning at the sudden comfort. Ragnor didn’t join me, heading to the kitchenette instead. “Coffee?”
“Yes, black,” I said, knowing I needed the extra caffeine to deal with what was to come. We had many things to discuss, after all. “Thanks.”
Ragnor came back with our drinks and placed them on the coffee table before taking a seat on the sofa next to me. Despite our bodies being right next to each other’s, I felt as if there was a gulf between us. A gulf that hadn’t been there prior to our incident at the Jinni villa.
This time, I didn’t want to jump to conclusions like before and assume the worst. So all I could do was swallow the concern and wait for him to speak.
We both sipped our coffees, and then, without further ado, Ragnor leveled his gaze on me and dropped the gauntlet. “I know you’re an actual Child of Kahil.”
Shock froze my body.
No.
He can’t know.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I said lightly, sipping my coffee, pretending his words didn’t strike me like thousands of knives.
“There’s no point lying, Aileen,” he said quietly. “I know that you tried to summon the Morrow Gods back at the Auction. I thought you were simply a follower of the Children, but I know better now.”
I forced out a laugh and put my coffee down before rising to my feet. “What the hell is this bullshit?” I said incredulously as I walked to the kitchenette, my hands shaking. This religion was a sham. I never believed in any of it, especially after seeing what my father did in the name of it.
And yet, Ragnor seemed to actually believe it. Why?
I stiffened as I heard him coming after me. “Thou shalt find pleasure in the agony of the feeble,” he suddenly said, and I froze. “Thou shalt seal thy allegiance with a pact written in the blood of kin. Thou shalt be the harbinger of discord, for the Gods thrive in the turbulence of the suffering.”
My hands landed on the kitchen island as I tried to bring my breathing back to normal. “Sounds like some zealous shit, these phrases,” I said, voice on the verge of shrill.
“Aileen, please.” He was right behind me, his rapid breathing and mine equally filling the audible space between us.
My heart stilled. I opened my mouth to speak, but my voice abandoned me.
He ran a hand up and then down my back now. “I won’t judge you,” he said quietly. “I want you no matter who or what you are. But I need to know.” His arms enveloped me from behind, and instead of feeling warm, I felt cold all over. “Talk to me.”
The first time my father was arrested, I was thirteen years old. At first, I was put in an orphanage, but two months later, Ella and Roger Kazar, Logan’s parents, had taken me in as a foster child, with plans to adopt me down the line.
I’d heard many stories of kids suffering in the foster care system, landing themselves with the worst kinds of caretakers. But Ella and Roger weren’t like that; they didn’t need government money, what with Roger working in the oil industry and earning enough to last for a few generations. They voluntarily chose to be foster parents from the kindness of their hearts.
Even back then, I recognized them as good people. At thirteen, I already knew how to differentiate good from evil, and seeing how good they were to me didn’t leave any room for questioning which side of the coin they belonged to.
But I was far too broken for them to fix, and a year into our life together, when they caught me cutting myself for a would-be tribute to the Morrow Gods, they did what any good, responsible foster parents would do.
They put me in therapy.
My therapist was called Dr. Jameson. He was a tall man with a large belly and white hair who looked like Santa Claus. He was all smiles and gentleness. The perfect therapist.
From the weekly meetings over the two years I spent in his clinic, I remembered only one session vividly. I was sixteen at the time, and as usual, he handed me a hot cocoa before he asked me, “How was your week?”
Being a typical teenager, I kept my answers short. “Fine.”
He smiled. “Care to elaborate?”
“Nothing special happened,” I said broodingly. “Got a D in calculus. Ella was enormously proud.” Considering I’d been getting Fs for months before then.
Dr. Jameson didn’t speak, simply prompting me with a look. He loved using the silent technique to make me talk, and it always worked; I hated sitting in his clinic with the oppressive silence surrounding me.
After letting out a sigh, I glared at him and said, “Fine. I had a nightmare.”
He was quiet for a moment before he asked, “Was it the same one?”
I shook my head. “It was a memory. Or at least it started as one.”
“Describe it for me,” he requested gently.
Scowling, I looked away and folded my arms. “It’s my first memory, from when I was like six,” I responded, irritated. “Dad gave me a clean sheet of paper and a pencil and asked me to draw a scene from the book he was using to teach me.”
Since I was homeschooled right up until his arrest, it was up to my father to give me a proper education. In his mind, he probably thought that he did just that. In reality, there was a reason I was getting Fs in most subjects left and right.
“Was the scene from that religious book?” Dr. Jameson asked quietly.
I nodded. “Yes. The Tefat,” I said, grimacing. “Dad had me reading it front to back since the moment he taught me how to read, so I knew every chapter of this book by heart. I chose a scene from when the Morrow Gods visited Esheer, the Realm of Fire, to visit the infernal jail of Bennu, their ancestor spirit.”
Dr. Jameson frowned. “You referred to Bennu as a bird a few months ago.”
Shrugging, I explained, “Bennu is depicted in many ways throughout the Tefat. Sometimes it’s a bird, other times it’s a divine being titled the Creator, and there are times it even appears as shapeless flames. It depends which chapter you read and the context of the story.” I gave him a smile. “Confusing, I know.”
The good doctor smiled back. “So how did you draw the scene?”
“I painted the silhouettes of three grotesque men, as the Morrow Gods are often described in the Tefat,” I replied, “and in the background I sketched some flames and straight vertical lines, like jail bars.” I paused, recalling the nightmare, and pursed my lips. “But in the dream, the painting was a bit different.”
Leaning back against the couch, I sipped my hot cocoa as I said, “In the real memory, I stopped at drawing the flames. In that nightmare, I continued the drawing, sketching a feathered bird behind the bars, with its wings wrapped around two metal poles. Then the bird’s eyes flashed yellow, and I was suddenly set on fire.”
Dr. Jameson was silent, watching me with an expression I couldn’t quite read. Then he asked, “Did you wake up after that?”
I shook my head and shuddered. “I wish,” I murmured. “Instead, as I became fire itself, the bird spoke to me.”
He leaned forward. “What did it say?”
“That’s the thing,” I said, scowling. “I don’t remember. All I do remember was staring at it, listening to its voice, and terror making me suffocate. That was when I woke up.”
Dr. Jameson stared at me for a few long moments, seemingly lost in thought. I took the chance to drink my hot cocoa, which had already turned cold.
When he finally spoke again, his voice was contemplative. “How much do you believe in the Tefat?”
I looked pointedly at the chain cross necklace hanging around his neck. “Not as much as some do.”
He smiled. “When was the last time you read the Tefat?”
Giving him an incredulous look, I snapped, “Are you really suggesting I reread that monstrosity?”
“All I’m saying is that sometimes, dreams, and even nightmares, are an insight to our true self,” he replied quietly. “Perhaps, despite your denials, you’re still a believer.” He paused and gave me a kind look. “It doesn’t have to be one way or the other, Aileen.”
Anger erupted inside me so quickly, it almost gave me whiplash. “If you think my ‘true self’ is being a fanatic like Dad, then you’re crazy,” I snarled, slamming the hot cocoa mug on the coffee table so hard, it almost cracked. “You have no idea what being a devout Child of Kahil entails, Dr. Jameson.” Thinking back to the atrocities my father committed, I hugged my knees to my chest.
“That’s not what I was saying,” he said so gently, it made tears rise to my eyes. “I simply meant that you must have internalized many of the things your father had taught you, and one of these things is the content of the Tefat. Perhaps this is why you’re having nightmares—and this nightmare now too—and maybe the key to understanding these nightmares is learning where they come from.”
I looked away from him, anger and pain clamping my mouth. I knew he didn’t mean it that way, but I felt as if he just told me I was as much of a monster as Dad was.
And I didn’t need to be told I was a monster. Not when I already knew that I was.
The session had ended not long after, and I remembered going back to the Kazars’ and staring at the Tefat I hid in the back of my closet. Just the thought of touching it made me tremble in fear.
After that session, I did not mention the Tefat again.
“I can’t,” I said now, turning around to face the man who was pleading with me to talk. To tell him about the horrors of my past. To reveal the truth of what the Morrow Gods were and what I had been forced to do in their name.
There was a reason the Children of Kahil were no longer around. The reason why my father and I were the last descendants.
And while I wanted Ragnor with everything in me, I refused to speak of this. Because like my ancestors, some things should stay buried.
The main one being how much of a monster I was.
Because this was the truth. I was a monster of epic proportions, so much so that if Ragnor knew the extent of what I’d done, he would never, ever look at me the same again.
And the fear of seeing him reject me for my past was so overwhelming, I began to shiver. I could take him throwing me away because he didn’t care much for me as a person. I could take him rejecting me because he put up walls around his heart.
But having him reject me on the basis of my monstrous acts was too much for me to bear. Even though I knew I deserved it.
He searched my eyes, his own dimming to their soothing midnight blue. Then, in a defeated voice, he said, “All right.”