Page 7 of Avidian
Once I was out of the hospital all those years ago, I floated through a few foster homes and eventually made a friend—a girl named Aurora with red hair that matched her fiery spirit. She was the first person I ever trusted enough to share my gift with. To my surprise, she didn’t run away screaming when I told her I could see the dead. Instead, she showed me a gift of her own.
Aurora could heat anything with a touch of her hand. God, we were kids then, still figuring out who we were. I can only imagine what her power must have grown into over the years—she’s probably throwing fireballs these days.
She was the first Avid I’d ever met. Before her, I thought Avids were a fairytale, a myth whispered about in history books. Supposedly, Avids began appearing across the world as some kind of mutation—whether born from the Earth’s wrathful elements or a disease no one fully understood. Personally, I blame the genetically engineered garbage they call food that we’re forced to eat most of the time. No one knows for sure. Some call it evolution. Others whisper that we’re demons walking among the living.
The term Avid comes from Avidus, meaning hungry, eager. They call us that because it represents our innate hunger for survival and freedom. Kind of sad when you think about it. Not just trafficked but condemned to slavery. History has a cruel way of repeating itself—those in power always seek to control what they fear. And they will always fear those who are different.
Aurora and I were taken in the middle of the night from our foster home. I’ll never know how or why, but I’m pretty sure one of the other foster kids exposed us, figured out what we could do. Gladys, our bitch of a foster mom, probably got a nice payday for turning us in. The thought still makes my body tense up.
The days that followed our capture were dark—so dark I try not to think about them. Even now, eight years later, the memories make me want to vomit. The things that went on in those underground houses, the way they treated us like animals—or worse, like playthings—was the stuff of nightmares. The men who kept us, waiting for the next auction, were the most despicable humans I’ve ever encountered.
I met many other Avids while being shuffled from one house to another. Some shared their abilities with me, others stayed silent, too scared or wary to trust anyone. The range of powers I witnessed… I wouldn’t have believed it was possible if I hadn’t seen it myself.
There was a boy named Ramus who could channel electricity into a bottle. I watched him do it once, his hands trembling as sparks leapt from his fingertips into the glass—it was both mesmerizing and terrifying.
The night I was auctioned, they put me in a tall, round cage that descended into a room like an elevator. The walls were lined with two-way mirrors, giving the bidders on the other side a perfect view of me while my abilities were exploited, while I could only see myself.
But my ability is unique. You can’t shove me into a cage and make me conjure lightning in a jar or something flashy like that. No, Marco made me prove my worth in his own way before he agreed to pay for me. That’s when I met his daughter, Anya, in the afterlife.
I never saw Aurora or any of the others again after that night. I don’t know if they were sold off to someone crueler or if they’re even still alive. Over the years, Marco has collected a few Avids, but I’m the only one he keeps close to home.
He gave me my own room, a private bathroom, all the clothes and books I could ever want. It’s comfortable, even luxurious. But it doesn’t change what this is. I’m his prisoner, and his pretty palace is my jail.
Still, I don’t doubt things could’ve been far worse if someone else had purchased me that night. And for that, as twisted as it is, I’m grateful Marco found me.
“Get up, terror. We’re almost there,” Orin says, pounding on the door.
I might have dozed off for a bit, but it wasn’t nearly enough to prepare me for whatever kind of night lies ahead. With a sigh, I slip on my long coat and tug a light-blue beanie over my head to keep warm. The Eastern District is covered in snow almost year-round these days.
I’ve never seen snow in person before, and the thought sends a small thrill through me. I bury it quickly, forcing my face into a neutral mask as I head back to the main cabin and settle into my seat across from Marco.
It’s too dark to see much of anything when we land. We quickly pile into the back of a black SUV, and as we pull away, I catch a glimpse of the Volkov family’s other plane unloading into three more cars behind us. Marco rarely travels with such an entourage, and the sight only solidifies the rumors about his twin. Whatever’s waiting for us must be serious.
We drive for what feels like an hour, the darkness outside pressing in like a thick curtain. Finally, we come to a set of gates and turn onto a well-lit driveway. I glance out the window, and despite myself, a smile spreads across my face at what I see.
Trees. More trees than I’ve ever seen in my life. Here, on the other side of the country, I had no idea so many could grow, let alone in such harsh conditions. They’re tall, thin, skeletal things, spindly branches drooping under the weight of heaping piles of white snow.
It’s the most magnificent thing I’ve ever seen.
We pile out of the car, the crunch of snow beneath our boots filling the icy air. The sharp cold bites at my cheeks, and I pull my jacket tighter around me, though it’s useless against the chill. Marco notices, shrugs off his thick black coat, and drapes it over my shoulders. The warmth of it is instant, and the scent—something rich and woodsy—lingers as I burrow into the heavy fabric. He might be a killer and my jailer, but moments like this almost make me forget. Almost.
Marco never loses his temper. I’ve watched him in situations where most people would snap—in the midst of interrogations, even while inflicting pain—and he remains utterly composed. I’ve tried to mirror that same calm, adopting it like armor. Letting people see what you’re feeling or thinking is a weakness. That’s one of my rules. After Aurora and I were taken, I learned quickly that the life I knew was gone and a new order had replaced it. I adapted. I made rules. And I carved them into my mind, one by one.
“Marco.” A voice calls out from ahead, deep and commanding.
A man stands outside two massive double doors made of wrought iron, their surfaces etched with intricate patterns that glint in the dim light.
The house—or more accurately, the mansion—is a looming structure that makes Marco’s estate seem modest. Its stark white walls rise against the bleak gray sky, framed by black trim that emphasizes its severity. Twisting branches creep along the exterior like veins, their tips coated in frost and snow. Once upon a time when we had warmer seasons, I imagine the vines might have been lush with greenery, but now they’re skeletal, frozen in place.
Marco steps forward, his stride deliberate, and the rest of us—Gary, Orin, Banks, Zane, and I—fall into line behind him.
“Brother, it’s been too long,” Marco says as he opens his arms, and the two men embrace, a gesture of familiarity that feels forced.
As we draw nearer, I can finally make out the man’s features. They’re startlingly similar to Marco’s—down to the sharp angles of their faces and the way their dark-brown, almost-black hair gleams under the faint light. Both men have intense eyes the color of rich chocolate, and they tower at least six feet tall. Their tailored suits fit them perfectly, the clean lines and dark fabric exuding wealth and power.
The differences, though subtle, are enough to set them apart. Marco’s face is clean-shaven, his skin smooth and unmarred, while Viktor’s beard adds an edge of ruggedness, even though it’s meticulously groomed, trimmed to about an inch thick. I can’t help but think it suits him, probably serving a practical purpose too, given the unforgiving cold here.
The two of them stand there side by side, like mirrored reflections, and I wonder how alike they are beneath the surface.
