Chapter 4 Daxton
Do you know what the worst part about being topside is? Interacting with mortals.
Usually, I don’t have to bother with it. And in all my existence, it’s only happened a handful of times before, and never at this scale.
Do you know what becomes of a mortal when their soul rots inside of them, unable to move? When an undead soul gets trapped within a body?
No?
Then let's take a trip down memory lane, shall we?
The year was 1495.
Lantern light danced on wet cobblestones, pooling in every crack and hollow. Carriages rattled down narrow streets slick with the night’s rain and the faint stink of sickness.
Welcome to the Renaissance, mortals called it an age of rebirth, of beauty carved from marble and painted in jewel tones.
To me, it was the ushering in of a curious brand of death.
Cadavers piled behind apothecaries, princes spilling their blood for a gilded crown, fervent prayers echoing through vaulted cathedrals as if to drown out the suffering of the poor.
Death wore many faces that year—and I was busy wearing them all. I remember it like smoke curling under doorframes—impossible to trace, impossible to escape.
The first anomaly happened on a rain-slick morning.
A young man—no more than twenty-five—stood beneath an awning, rain dripping through his wool cloak.
His eyes shone electric, pale as dawn, and in the hollow of his palm, he cradled a scrap of bread.
Akin to a tremor before an earthquake, he gasped.
Time stuttered—footsteps froze, birds hung mid-song—and he saw what no mortal should…the rending of four souls before it was meant to happen, a blade of fate poised above unwitting hearts.
He screamed a warning as a scaffold collapsed across the way from him, and the people that it was meant to take had enough time to scatter out of the way.
Wood splintered as it hit the ground, and the souls that should have slipped into my grasp recoiled, clinging to their flesh. Wrong. Out of place.
Unlike Mackenzie’s thread, my sisters showed me every detail of this story.
So, I came to reap what was mine. And met my adversary.
Monroe Williams was an Englishman born three centuries too early. He copied manuscripts by candlelight—ink-fingered, elbow-deep in vellum and Latin prayers. A scholar, to say the least.
A priest who couldn’t help but be tempted by the very thing he urged against, carnal sin.
He would slip into taverns to steal sips of Chianti, leaving his lips stained some wicked shade of rouge that tasted of the sins of the flesh.
When I found him, he didn’t flinch. Instead, he tilted his head to admire me, eyes glassy as he drew closer, yearning for my touch. Oh, how he loved to be on his knees—
Hold on, that’s a tale for another night.
The point is, I’ve watched this dance before. And it always ends in blood.
When a soul lodges in flesh that it’s meant to leave, the rot begins from the inside out.
Mortals rarely notice the decay at first—the slow unraveling beneath the skin, the quiet warping of what should have been dead.
Not until the corpse finally gives out for the sheer exhaustion of animating a body that is dead weight. Pun intended.
But I notice.
I always do.
The first warning is the smell—it takes a while for this to happen—potent iron and sour milk, a rancid sweetness that clings to the air and settles in between breaths.
Then, the eyes turn glassy—too dull, drained of their light—like candle flames refusing to gutter.
The whites bloom yellow, sometimes the veins thread as black as night.
Finally, the skin chills, clamoring for warmth it cannot hold on to.
Kiss them, and you taste dank earth—the flavor of a dirt-packed coffin.
But far worse is the sound of the soul’s voice—a death bell quivering inside their chest, a string being pulled from inside a grave that no one will dig up.
That’s the fate of the dead parading as the living—it’s not pretty.
So, excuse me as I focus on the task at hand, to save this stubborn mortal from that fate.
At the edge of the courtyard, a curvy little thing with eyes the color of melted dark chocolate watches me from beneath thick lashes.
She pretends to scroll through her phone, thumbs hovering motionless over the screen, but I catch the way her gaze flicks up, trailing over my body.
She brushes her dark hair behind her gauged ear.
Two silver hoops stacked along the shell of it catch the afternoon light.
Her teeth press into her full pink bottom lip, the twin silver studs of her snakebite piercing glinting wetly with saliva. The star tattoo on her throat bobs in a slow, hypnotic rhythm as I step closer.
“Hi,” I say, pushing the thoughts away to focus on my latest inconvenience. I flash her the kind of smile mortals mistake for charm. “Do you know where Denton Hall is?”
She tucks her phone into her back pocket and drags her eyes down my body again, slow enough to feel like a touch. I can’t tell if she’s wary or intrigued. In a sultry Southern drawl, she says, “Yeah. It’s across the quad. I can show you, if you want.”
Her voice has a lilt to it, an unmistakable invitation but not just to give me directions.
I trail after her across a bustling patch of lawn, students rushing in every direction like scattered ants.
Our footsteps echo in sync, hers lighter, mine more deliberate, ready to get this over with.
Midway through the door, she halts abruptly and casts a glance over her shoulder—eyes narrowed, lips curved in a smirk.
“Half the boys live in Denton,” she says, her voice a velvety hum. “The rest are on Greek Row. So, what did you really want? Because I’ll bet you’re not lost.”
I lean in, so close that I can feel the fading warmth of her body radiating like the dying embers of a campfire. “And you’d win that bet,” I murmur, my voice a low rumble like the first echoes of thunder in a distant storm.
Her eyes go heavy-lidded, lashes casting spiked shadows across her flushed cheeks as she purrs, “If you want to talk to me…privately, all you have to do is ask.” The words drip off her tongue like warm honey—slow, sinful, meant to entice.
I can’t help the smirk that cuts across my mouth.
She doesn’t wait for an answer. Her fingers wrap around my arm, and she yanks me inside the building, leading me to a narrow closet down the hall.
The door slams behind us, hard enough to shake the hinges, and the room engulfs us in darkness—but my vision is as clear as if I were standing in daylight.
A mop slumps against the wall, a dusty bucket sits forgotten in the corner, a battered workbench bears the scars of overuse, and an old broom lies abandoned on the floor like a snapped spine.
She pushes me back against the wall, her body a heated brand sealing itself to mine as she rises onto her toes and our mouths collide.
My teeth dig into her bottom lip, hard enough to draw a bead of blood.
And her breath stutters as my hands slide to her waist, lifting her on top of the workbench.
My fingers find the cord dangling between us—a single tug, and the light snaps on, our shadows dancing on the walls.
I stroke my thumb across her cheek, flushed and warm like a ripe peach.
“Careful, Jade,” I whisper, my voice a raspy growl. “You don’t want to know what happens to mortals who bite off more than they can chew.” She trembles, a tremor that runs from her spine to her fingertips, but she doesn’t resist. Instead, she arches into me, a silent dare.
“How do you know my name?” she breathes.
I don’t answer her. A storm wells inside me, eager to rid myself of the little mortal across campus who is etching herself into my cold bones with those eyes that seem to look right through me.
My hands clamp onto the waistband of Jade’s sweatpants, and she lifts her hips so I can yank them down with a harsh tug. She kisses me again as I undo my jeans.
“Lie back,” I command, spitting into my palm before slicking my length. She listens so well, leaning back onto her elbows and spreading her legs wide to make room for me to slip between them.
She groans when I press into her, fighting to accept me.
“Oh my fucking God,” she whimpers, a sound that does something to my brain chemistry, igniting a fire within me.
She’s so soft, so warm. And I try to focus on that—the feel of her, her scent.
She’s the first mortal I’ve had in years, and I intend to give her all my pent-up hostility.
I thrust inside her without mercy, and she moans, a sound from deep within her soul. “Oh…shit.” That’s the thing about good sex—they don’t even realize the danger they’re in until it’s far too late. “You’re pierced, fuck.”
“Mmm-hmm,” I hum. But really—they are something I added for a bit of fun this time around—ridges that run along the underside of my cock.
I drag my thumb across my tongue before sucking it into my mouth, slow and taunting, then I pull it out with a pop and massage the other hole I intend to fill.
Her fingers clamp down on the edge of the workbench, the wood groans under her grip, knuckles white, as if she knows what’s coming next. I squeeze my thumb into her ass, and the strangled sound she makes causes a grin to slip onto my face.
I pound into her over and over again, until she is on the brink of orgasm—she’s so close I can feel it. Her arousal drips down her thighs, to the seam of her ass, coating my hand in her juice before I pull out my thumb and replace it with my cock.
“Holy…f-fucking shit,” she cries as I press deeper into her, her eyes rolling back.