Page 125 of Shadowblood Souls
Some part of me reveled in it, drew strength from it. It took all my self-control to shield the guys from the sadistic hunger inside me.
I want to say it isn’t me but some other being inside me, but I know that’s not true. There’s no alien in my chest that can be carved out and burned away.
The hunger is woven into my body, mind, and soul. It’s etched in my DNA.
And the woman who lived in this house wrote that code, even if she didn’t realize at the time exactly what abilities would emerge and grow in us.
I glance behind me at the mangled body of our creator at the same time Jacob does. The chiseled planes of his stunning face harden even more with the clenching of his jaw.
“Engel said reinforcements were too far out to get here quickly, but we don’t know how true that was,” he says, breaking the shocked silence. “Let’s grab anything that could be useful and get out of here.”
Dominic follows his gaze too, his dark auburn hair falling across his tan forehead to shade his eyes. He sways a little and catches the edge of the blood-streaked kitchen island for balance.
He’s just spent the past several minutes healing the worst of the other guys’ wounds—with the slim, orange tentacles arcing from the top of his shoulder blades to the backs of his knees. He grabbed most of the life energy he needed from the assailant now lying dead by our feet, but the process must have taken a lot out of him as well.
His voice comes out in a low rasp. “She really hated us.”
The accusations our creator threw at us echo from the back of my mind.You’re monsters of the worst kind. Abominations. A catastrophe I set in motion.
Of course, the bloodbath we’re surrounded by doesn’t exactly stand as evidence in our favor. I’m not sure any bystander would accept “She started it!” as a reasonable excuse.
Andreas rakes his hand back through the tight coils of his hair, his mouth twisting into a grimace. “Yeah. Well, I can’t say I likedherall that much either.”
None of us laughs at the darkly wry remark, but the rough attempt at humor stirs us all into motion. We tramp over the shattered chunks of the dining table that formed one side of our makeshift fort and pick our way between the bodies.
The search feels unnervingly familiar. I scanned a similar scene just a couple of weeks ago, appropriating weapons and cash, in the arena where I’d been forced into cage fights.
I don’t look at the guys, but every now and then I see one pause with a flick of his gaze from a distorted body to me. Each time, my gut knots tighter.
They’re moving slowly through the mess. Zian is still favoring one brawny shoulder, though it looks like Dominic was able to stop the bleeding. His wolfish features have vanished, but his normally peachy-brown skin has lost some of its warmth.
Andreas leans a little to the left and bends his knees when he checks something on the floor rather than tilting his torso. A bloody hole marks his shirt where the bullet caught him minutes ago, the wound sealed now but no doubt still painful.
And Jacob’s blond hair is dappled crimson from the shrapnel cut that’s closed but still an angry pink on his pale forehead.
Dominic speaks up again, quiet as usual and with a wary note in his voice that pricks at me more than I like. “You’re not injured, are you, Riva?”
I shake my head quickly. “I’m fine.”
I’m actually better than fine. The influx of our enemies’ pain has left me energized and rejuvenated.
As the guys have probably noticed.
I shove my uneasiness aside and grab a rifle from where it’s lying next to a hand lumpy with shattered bones.
We each pick up every gun we can find that hasn’t been broken by Zian’s wolfman strength or Jacob’s telekinetic powers. I hold on to those that still have at least a few bullets,tucking one pistol into the back of my sweats and setting the other weapons in a growing common pile near the front door.
There’s no way of knowing who we might have to fight next… and I’d rather fight with gunfire if I have the option.
That thought brings me to the huge living room windows that stretch from waist-height to the vaulted ceiling, two stories high. Most of their glass now lies in scattered shards on the floor, crunching beneath my sneakers.
A significant number of our attackers crashed in through these windows. I lean over the ledge into the cool autumn air and peer between the trees for any sign of where they came from—and any colleagues who might be on their way.
I can’t see anything suspicious, and the fresh breeze filling my lungs is a welcome relief. My braid slipping over my shoulder, I tip farther out into the forest air just for a second.
Glass crackles just a few feet away, and I jerk to the side instinctively. A burning sensation sears across my waist.
I flinch again, glancing down. A shard still lodged in the frame has sliced into my bare flesh where my hoodie and tank top rode up.
