Chapter 5
Arcane
Some days are worse than others. On those occasions, my chest feels as if it’s ripped apart by pain, a seed taking root within, only to never let go. Before him, solitude was my constant companion, with no friends to speak to back at the orphanage. I understood them because why would anyone befriend the quiet, weird girl who barely dared speak to someone?
Then, he intruded upon my world when I was seven years old. Through teasing and taunting, he eventually made me snap, and I spoke for the first time in years. His response was nothing but a grin, a captivating, calculated smirk playing upon his lips.
That was the day I realized he was something else, a boy unlike anyone I had ever met before, with a dark sense of humor no one but I could understand.
“We are meant to be together. You’re mine.”
His words were possessive. His actions told me I was to be his, and I yearned for a big brother to look up to, someone who would care about me in ways no one else ever had.
Now, I find myself alone in a world he vowed to stay in. A liar, a manipulator, a goddamn thief who stole my trust and heart.
My fingers dance across the keyboard as I infiltrate the Grimaldis’ security system with ease, effortlessly deactivating their alarms for thirty minutes. I have Mr. Valenti’s right-hand man to thank for my proficiency in hacking. I know it wasn’t in my best interest at heart; they did it for their own selfish reasons, like every other syndicate in this twisted town, where the underbelly controls it all.
I never showed up at the meeting yesterday, and something tells me neither did Viper. According to Mr. Valenti and Alec, we’re supposed to meet again today, but I disregarded their demand and went straight to the dock instead. I’ve already gathered all the necessary information from the outside, taking photos of the dock and the Grimaldis’ submarine stationed nearby, and now I’m working to deactivate their alarms so I can get a better look inside. This is the largest dock in Penumbra Crest, situated on the other side of town where buildings are sparse and civilization is scarce. I don’t understand why I have to work with another person for this mission. It’s so goddamn easy alone, especially as no guards work here on Sundays.
I know what dire consequences might befall me when Mr. Valenti finds out I ghosted Viper. But he and his misogyny can go fuck themselves with a stick up their asses. If this heist is going to go as smoothly as possible, it’s better if fewer people know about it.
We can’t have the other organizations finding out about this, especially not the Grimaldis. I certainly do not trust the Garcías enough to let them in on this shit. I’m a loner and observer, having survived by myself for so long that I cannot depend on others anymore.
The screen illuminates the shed they use as a guard station, providing shelter as I work on installing a driver into their security system. When the light turns green, indicating the successful deactivation, I instantly remove the drive from their computer. I secure the ski mask over my head, tucking my short hair into it, and adjust my leather jacket before slipping out into the darkness. Cautiously, I make my way toward the looming main building, the night shrouded by an unsettling fog.
The wind is a haunting whistle in the distance as I stride toward the front of the building I spotted while taking the photos I sent over to Alec. The faint scent of salty water fills my nostrils, and the boards of the dock creak underneath my weight as I approach the bridge leading to the building. There’s no one nearby, yet I quicken my pace, determined to complete this part of the mission and leave as soon as possible.
Drawing closer, I observe its sturdy brick construction, with its small windows barred, offering no glimpses of the activity hidden within. I stick to the walls as I sneak closer, eventually reaching the main door. With a deep breath—fearing the alarms might still be active—I open the door, one hand on my gun, prepared to use it if the need arises.
Only silence greets me as I enter the desolate warehouse, its corridors stretching out before me, devoid of any signs of life or furniture gracing the barren floors. As I step farther into the place, a foul stench assaults my nostrils, making me gag as it weaves its way into my very marrow. The smell seeps from the walls like a festering wound, the rotten sensation emanating everywhere. Out of instinct, I grab my gun to keep it steady before me, my eyes searching for the office. Forcing myself to ignore the smell, I shift my focus to finding the schematics for the submarine and the shipment.
The heavy pitter-patter of rain against the windows resonates from the outside world, heightening my sense of urgency. After what feels like an eternity, I finally spot a door at the end of a smaller hallway, adorned with a sign that says, “Owner Only.” A smirk plays on my lips as I approach, satisfied that the door is unlocked. I’ve reached the office—mission accomplished.
Instantly, I rummage through the drawers for any information I can find, all the while anxious about someone walking in. I’m acutely aware of the severe consequences the Grimaldi syndicate imposes on those who cross them, and they’re not exactly known for being kind or merciful.
Beneath one of the drawers, I find a bundle of papers, my heart hammering against my ribcage as I take them out. Among them, one sheet appears torn, sending a surge of panic clawing through my senses as I scan the remaining text, wondering what valuable information once filled the page. “Schedule—” is written in bold, italicized letters on top of the paper, with nothing more.
A frustrated growl slips from my lips as annoyance takes over.
That can only mean one thing. Someone has either been here, or the Grimaldis have hidden it. I scan the room as if merely gazing at my surroundings will conjure the missing words into view. Glancing down at my phone, I’ve already connected it to the driver system I installed briefly in their security setup, granting me access to the hidden cameras scattered throughout the warehouse.
I deactivated the alarm for thirty minutes, and this current feed of the cameras will self-destruct when the alarm reactivates—leaving no trace of anyone having been here.
Filtering through the various viewpoints, I notice that no one is here. I try to tell myself that it’s just nerves and paranoia, yet the mere presence of being here sends shivers down my spine, like spiders attempting to grab for me. It triggers a reaction that makes the inner child in me want to retreat into a corner, hide away forever, all because memories of the family I once had haunt my mind.
Scouring the room, determined to find the missing pages, I come up empty-handed. I consider other possible locations where the documents might be stashed—they were supposed to be here. Where else would anyone put schematics? But it seems as if they’ve been torn, indicating someone doesn’t want the shipment details discovered.
Just as I’m about to leave the room, something odd catches my eye on my phone. The surveillance camera feed remains static. Some of them typically pivot back and forth, scanning the area with precision, but now they’re as motionless as the rest. Squinting, I check the time stamps, noticing they’re frozen at 11:12 p.m., three minutes prior to my arrival at the warehouse.
I put down my phone, standing utterly still while thoughts churn in my mind like a malfunctioning robot, gears grinding against each other in a chaotic mess. Realization dawns on me—they’ve been frozen all along. That wasn’t the plan.
I instinctively tighten the grip around the gun, knuckles white from the motion. The hold gradually grows slick with sweat and the heat radiating from my trembling palms. Panic surges within me, like a prowling panther with its claws tearing at my sanity as it extinguishes the hunger.
I need to fucking focus and get out of here as soon as possible.
Opening the door to the office, I look left and right, scoping the area for any potential threats that might jump at me. Like before, it’s silent. Almost eerily so.
I push the thought aside, stepping out into the desolate hallways while aiming solely at the entrance.
I freeze in place the moment a visceral sensation courses through my veins like icy tendrils, fingers crawling down the nape of my neck. My limbs are frozen, every bone in my body motionless as I stare at the sight—a primal instinct telling me to run the other way and never look back, yet my curiosity gets the best of me.
My eyes widen in horror as I take in the scene before me, my pulse thudding loudly in my ears. Rivulets of blood glisten ominously in the darkened hallway, the only source of light filtering through the barred windows. They trace a macabre path leading toward a room I know serves as a refrigerator.
A lump forms in my throat, forcing me to swallow despite the sensation of nails scraping down my esophagus. The morbid crimson trail is fresh, marring the cold, gray floor while creating a stark contrast that makes my stomach churn with unease.
Following the bloodstains with the gun tightly clenched in my hand, I ensure it’s loaded before arriving at the white, looming door. I know from scoping out the warehouse with the surveillance cameras in previous weeks that this refrigerator can only be opened from the outside.
A larger pool of scarlet liquid gathers outside the door, spreading with an impending sense of doom. My face turns a ghostly shade of pale as my eyes land on the blood smeared on the wall.
A fucking handprint.
A sickening feeling twists my insides while threatening to rise to my throat, and I realize how unfit I am for this kind of life. I never wanted to be part of this criminal world, but circumstances left me no choice.
Summoning what little resolve I have left, I push down the slick handle with my combat boot, refusing to touch it with my bare hands. The door reluctantly gives way to my efforts, its weight heavy against my shoulder as I push it open, not prepared for the horrors lying beyond.
There it is. A body nestled in a pool of blood with its skin retaining a warm hue reminiscent of life yet betraying the stillness of death. I zone in on his chest, searching in vain for the rise and fall of breath that animate the living.
What did I expect?
I stare at the body, unable to comprehend why it’s even there and how I could have missed it before. Unless it arrived moments ago, though if that were the case, wouldn’t I have noticed something amiss?
A freezing horror grips me as my gaze follows the blood leading up to his bare torso, revealing a gaping wound serving as a canvas made of human flesh. My nails dig into my palms when I see the initials carved into his body, tearing through his skin in jagged slashes. They’re raw, with initials unmistakably mine, made with cruelty hinting at malicious intentions.
A.V.
Shivers dance across my skin, leaving prickling sensations that make it feel as though the warehouse has been draped in a cold wind from the outside, despite being indoors. My teeth sink into my lip so fiercely that the familiar taste of metal floods my tongue. I scrutinize the body with my eyes, questions swirling like a tempest in my mind, wondering why the fuck my initials are carved into a corpse.
This is bad. Especially if the Grimaldis discover what the initials stand for, and who supposedly dared to carve them into one of their own. That the ‘V’ stands for Valenti—a name I was given by the family when the Grimaldis stripped me of theirs.
It could spell disaster, one I’m not ready to face all by myself.
I’m careful to avoid stepping into the crimson pools when I notice bold, red letters scrawled upon a crumbled piece of paper. It’s smeared with the same liquid that stains the scene, as if the man before me died clutching it in his hand. Queasiness rises within me as I reluctantly step closer, bending down to retrieve the note, careful not to get blood on my hands. The putrid stench emanating from the already decaying body is overwhelming, and I stifle a gag.
All color drains from my face, leaving me a ghostly shade reminiscent of the dead when I realize who the note is meant for. Pulse thudding hard in my ears along with the rushing blood, it’s hard to even concentrate on anything except that cryptic message.
Me.
Fucking hell.
“Arcane,
Your soul is as stained as mine, crumbling from the edges with the afterthought of decaying death. I’ve long awaited your return, hiding in the abyss of shadows. Keep your eyes open. The reaper will come for you, and he knows your name. Soon, you will enter a slow danse macabre.”
A frown mars my eyebrows as I read the letter over again, attempting to decipher its meaning. There’s no sender to indicate who wrote it, and the words are too puzzling. Yet, something is familiar about the handwriting, causing an eerie feeling to crawl over my skin.
With a pulsating headache tightening its grip on my skull, I unlock my phone with trembling hands the moment a sound shatters the silence. The phone nearly drops from my fingers, but I react just in time, grabbing it before realizing the sound came from the device in my hand.
With a sinking feeling in my stomach, I find that the surveillance camera program has been automatically launched, revealing a time stamp from twenty minutes ago, when I was still inside the office.
I’m rooted to the spot as I see a man in the video with an imposing frame that demands attention from any nearby soul, even through the screen. My breath quickens as I take in his overwhelming presence, and my gaze is drawn to the muscular posture on display beneath that leather jacket—broad shoulders accompanying it. His face is obscured by what appears to be a motorcycle helmet, shrouding his features in mystery.
He stares straight at the camera while a bloodied knife rests in his hand, tilting his head as his gaze seemingly pierces through the visor, through the screen, to lock onto mine.
Fear pulses through my veins like a drug, yet it all mingles with a tingling sensation deep within my core as I watch him. It’s a confusing concoction, both terrifying and arousing, making me inwardly curse myself.
With no forewarning, his voice cuts through the panicked silence, echoing all around me despite the source being my phone. Sweet words laced with an undertone of anger. I’m trapped, even if he’s not here—unable to move yet desperately needing to.
“Hello, little angel.”