Chapter Thirty-Three Damien
Chapter Thirty-Three
Damien
The trust in her eyes had been too much to bear.
I’d forgotten myself for a moment, caught up in the sunlight possibilities of everything, of her, of how she’d felt so perfect curved to the outline of my body, like a puzzle piece that had finally found its partner.
For the first time in my life, my heart had shed the bricks I’d built around it, and I happily allowed the destruction to happen.
Then her sister knocked, and reality had struck. Hard.
Wren wouldn’t forgive me. Ever. Eventually, she’d uncover my treachery and cast me aside as the man who betrayed her in the worst possible way. She’d go on either to roam the world like she wanted, or to marry some lord. One day, I’d be nothing but a bastard she rarely thought about.
I trudged up the hill, the midday sun bearing down on my exposed neck. Droplets of sweat trickled down my back, my black shirt soon clinging to my skin. If I’d realized how far away Everett Sinclair’s estate was, I’d have scrounged up a copper and hired a carriage.
All of this heat and the ache in my legs would be worth it—I needed to know what that woman had meant when she said “brother.” And the stony eyes. She’d described me.
The stony-eyed thief. I scoffed. That was what I amounted to.
My birth parents had been a mystery my whole life, but with Everett in the picture, I was the son of either Emily or Arthur Sinclair.
It was likely the latter, as men such as Arthur weren’t known for their faithfulness.
It had to be the reason I’d been given up.
Still, with Sinclair blood in my veins, I’d been handed a gift when others in the Void hadn’t.
The possibility of a brother like Everett—a child they kept safe and coddled—boiled my blood.
If I focused on my anger well enough, I could almost forget the pang of hurt and blistering envy that threatened to blind me to reason.
It sat there, beneath the fury, an ache in my stomach refusing to go away.
So I went home after I left Wren’s, dressed, and walked to his estate. I didn’t have a plan after that, which wasn’t like me, but none of this made any sense. If I had a brother, even a half brother…That changed everything.
Finally, finally, after hours had passed, I crested the neatly trimmed hill of the grand estate.
I expected nothing less from Everett and his family—the fine mansion basically a palace of blooming flowers and ivy, the scent of luxury potent upon the breeze.
It made my insides tighten. Made that gnawing ache inside me swell.
Standing before the enormous entrance, I stared daggers at the lion knocker, my fingers inches from grazing the gold paint.
You need to know.
If I didn’t, I’d always wonder. Always question. The secret of my parents had haunted me like a specter for my entire life. Hell, I didn’t have a last name. It was simply Damien. Or the Ghost.
Those were the only names I went by, and they felt so fucking hollow.
I grasped the knocker with clammy hands and pulled it back before letting it drop against the wood with a thunderous bang. A sudden gust of wind inched the door open, and I stepped back as the wood creaked, allowing me entry into the house.
No one would be so careless as to leave it open. Not with servants manning the place.
Unease raised the hairs on my arms as I nudged the unlocked door with the toe of my boot. Not a sound could be heard.
Wrong. I didn’t need a damned instinct to tell me I should run away.
Too bad I was a masochist.
Slipping inside, I stood within a grand foyer of ostentatious wealth. I’d seen it all before, the lords decorating their homes to reflect their status, and I hardly paid attention to the cream-and-gold décor.
No. My attention drifted to the ground—
Red smudged the shiny white marble flooring.
I grew cold all over, like glacial ice water had been poured over my head.
The abrupt boost of adrenaline flourished in my system, my body heating as it readied for a fight.
The blood led deeper into the house, splotches of it staining the white stone, marring the otherwise pristine dwelling.
Heart thudding in my ears, I stepped around the red, slowly following its trail.
Death. I scented death in the air—and not merely due to the blood. An odd weight settled over my chest, a rotten stench overpowering the floral scent wafting from the vases of gardenias scattered around the house.
My vision twisted, a gray sheen sliding over the color of life. I blinked, but the gray didn’t dissipate. The red on the floor, however, shone as brightly as before.
Shutting my eyes, I tried reasoning with myself. Saying that the next time I opened my eyes, the world would be right again. That my recent hallucinations were due to seeing photos of the murdered victims. That the flashes of death surrounding me were nothing more than me projecting my fear.
I opened my eyes.
Gray.
The world was gray and red.
I stumbled back into a china cabinet, the porcelain plates rattling within. Dizziness and nausea combined to form a sickly spell, and I struggled to remain upright.
I didn’t dare call out for help—I was, after all, sneaking in. Yet no staff emerged to greet me, and not a single person scurried around an estate. It was too quiet. If I announced my presence, whoever had caused all this gore might decide I looked like their next victim.
Forcing my eyes open, forcing myself to take in the new shade that covered my sight, I breathed deeply, focusing on each inhale, each exhale, centering myself.
Something crashed nearby. Glass breaking.
The jarring noise kept my vision from tilting, which helped. Cautiously, I placed one foot in front of the other, finding my footing again and cursing all the while.
There could be no more denying that something dire was happening to me. Something…magical. And not in a good way.
Talk to Everett and get out of here.
I’d find Ruby and we’d go to a healer. Yes, we’d uncover whatever sickness currently seeped into my body.
My boot suddenly slid out from under me, smearing the blood as I stumbled through a hallway, my senses painfully heightened. I swore I could hear every scurrying mouse and ragged exhale. Each tick of the grandfather clock. Everything was too loud, too bright.
I pulled out my dagger, holding it before me while my nerves prickled. The steel made me feel slightly more at ease. Slightly being the key word. I was far from fine.
The red trail came to an end on the second floor, in front of a pair of elaborately polished silver doors. One was slanted, somewhat ajar. I barely had enough space to sidle up, my back pressed against the wall behind me, and peek inside.
Get in, get out.
“Son,” a garbled voice pleaded, low enough for me to know that whoever spoke rested on death’s doorstep. “Please.”
There was no answer.
“Stop this.” A choked noise came, followed by a sputter. “I-I’ll give you a-anything. I never meant for it to happen to you! I swear! She’s manipulating you! A snake, that one, always had been!”
“You are the one who deceived me, Father. She’s the one trying to make things right. How could you allow your failings to ruin my chance at success? Selfish. All my life you’ve been a stain on our family name, and how you treated Mother?” A scoff. “I should kill you just for that.”
Everett. His voice was unmistakable.
“Is that why you killed them?”
Sweat dripped into my eyes and I wiped a shaking hand across them. Killed who?
“They watched,” Everett snarled, more beast than man. “I should’ve thought about it earlier, how they did nothing, just sat there and allowed her to be beaten and bruised by your hand. I just needed my eyes opened.”
“No, you’re being manipulated—”
I ground my teeth as the distinctive sound of steel piercing flesh punctured the silence. No more gurgles came. No more pleas.
I smelled it—death—the same as earlier, though it was more potent now.
Like I’d inhaled chimney smoke and couldn’t expel it from my lungs.
My skin prickled, my adrenaline continuing to pump.
It was odd, this foreign sensation, this burden that weighed on me, and the way my body responded.
The feelings overpowering me weren’t born of fear… but something I couldn’t name.
The gray shrouding my eyes flickered, flashing black before settling once again. I was too far gone to think about my vision anymore, too frenzied to think clearly.
Without opening my mirror, I kicked the door and strode into the bloodstained study.
It was everywhere, the blood. On the lord’s desk. His books, his carpet, the furniture. It appeared as though the attacker had severed an artery and tossed him about the room like a rag doll.
“Fuck.” I lifted my eyes from the prone body on the floor, his features hidden and his back to me. Arthur Sinclair. My possible father.
Standing before his dead body, holding a glinting knife smothered in blood, was his son, Everett.
“What did you do?” I asked, breathless. So much anger had gone into this rampage of his. So much rage. The room was a testament to it. To Everett’s need to cause his father as much pain as possible.
Everett’s head slowly swiveled to me, a detached look on his slack face. His blue eyes swirled, the bright color mixing with flashes of white. As if he were in some sort of trance.
“Everett?” His severe posture frightened me, his deadened stare one that sent chills to my very bones. Instead of smoke and rot, I smelled a hint of gardenia again, and mixed together, the two scents nearly had me retching.
I stuttered out his name again, not daring to draw nearer.
I repeated it four times before his shoulders slumped.
Before his body loosened and his stained blade clattered to the floor, echoing throughout the house.
His head shot up, his shocking eyes pinning me in place.
The dazed look about them had vanished, and they shone with sharp, fresh terror.
“Wh-what did you do?” he asked, voice trembling. He blinked rapidly, his muscular form shaking. He stumbled back a few steps, almost knocking over a bust of the newly deceased lord.
“Everett,” I began, cautiously starting toward him like he were a wounded animal. He lifted his hands before him—they were coated in blood. Some of it dripped onto the parquet floors.
“Stay back!” he screamed, his eyes shifting between me and his dead father. “You’ll p-pay for this! You’ll d-die for it!”
I froze midstep.
“What are you talking about?” I murmured, shock numbing my limbs, the scene before me one of horror. “I just watched you kill him!”
Everett wasn’t listening. He stormed toward me with such tangible ferocity that true fear slithered into my veins.
Everett lunged, almost tackling me to the floor before I sidestepped him at the last moment.
He rose, not ready to end this fight, but I didn’t wish to stick around and figure out what nightmare raced through his head.
Clearly, he wasn’t in his right mind; his eyes had been clouded and glazed when he murdered his father, his irises nearly white.
“Evy!” he shouted, but no one came. “Ava!”
Silence. More ungodly silence.
“Did you kill them too?” he gasped, tripping backward in alarm. The horror painting his creased features told the truth—that he actually believed he’d played no part in this. That I was somehow to blame.
I need to get the hell out of here. Now.
“I just got here, Everett,” I coaxed, attempting to calm him down, even when I was rioting on the inside, my stomach tied in painful knots. “I didn’t hurt anyone.”
My heart plummeted as resolve hardened his gaze.
He dove for me and I instinctively reacted, punching him right in his regal nose.
Red splattered, adding to the macabre scene, and Everett let out a hiss of pain.
He clutched his nose as blood flowed out in a torrent.
I didn’t wait one more second before bolting through the house of death and gray.
As I turned the corner, I glimpsed the body of a maid, red pooled around her stark white hair like a halo.
Fuck. He’d killed her.
And now he blamed me.
“You’ll be caught before sundown!” Everett shrieked, his voice hoarse from the blow. “You’re a dead man, Damien!”