Fangs of Fate (Untish #1)

Chapter 34

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

TATE

There wasn’t any window in my room. No way to tell the time. I’d laid on the floor in a fetal position for hours. Fletch was gone. My only father figure, the male who’d raised me, was no more. Everyone in my life that mattered had been taken from me, first my mother and now Fletch.

The guara was to blame. They executed both of them. But why?

Fletch had apologized, although I wasn’t sure for what exactly. It sounded to me like he was admitting to conspiring with the enemy. Another Vamp. With individuals like Mardi, James, and Arithi, if I were to guess.

They did this to him. They put him in a position where he was gathering intel and betraying the Glenn and my mother—unless what they said about her was true and she too was a traitor. If that was the case, nothing in my life was what I thought.

President Dale’s immaculate suit and cold, lifeless eyes came to mind. He’d stood there, calm and collected. Right along with Luina. Those bastards just stood there smug, knowing what I’d discover. What I’d be forced to live through…again.

He had been staring at Fletch’s remains, speaking calmly to me about all I could learn from the guara. About what I could be for the guara.

I hated him, hated this whole damned world.Hated the guara .

A knock on my door sounded before a guaraman entered with a tray, a biscuit, and a craft of blood. Breakfast.

“You have thirty minutes until we will escort you to the circuit. Shower if you’d like, but ready or not, you will be on the train at six am sharp. If I were you, I’d be in uniform unless you want to join the rest of the dokimoses, naked.” He sneered at me and then turned and left.

Click! The door locked.

I stared dumbly at the tray on the bed, there was a folded uniform sitting next to it. Standard issue black and blue. The blood next to it wafted through the air, it was warm. The scent of it sent my stomach turning. Vomit came from my lips, spraying across the floor and my legs. I heaved again, but it was dry. There was nothing left in my stomach. Cramping claimed my abdomen, my soul. At least I felt this pain.

For the first time since last night, I felt .

I sat there, marinating in my own bile. The stench was a welcome relief to my senses, overwhelming the memory of Fletch’s charred remains and their odor. I sat there, rocking back and forth, my arms wrapped around my body. I began to tremble, shaking. My breaths came in rapid inhales, sharp exhales.

Not enough. Not enough oxygen, time, life.

My skin began to tingle as the vomit started to sink deeper into the still-raw flesh. Even with the healing, you could see the shadow of claw marks. Perhaps they’d scar. What did it matter? My soul was already marked by last night’s events—I would forever bear that wound internally. I should bear what I’d done—what I’d caused Fletch to confess—on my skin externally, forever. A reminder of what occurred. What was taken. What I caused.

Water. If I set the marks in hot water, it may actually scar.

I stripped out of my clothes, noting for the first time how shredded they were. Good, more injuries to worsen. To ensure I forever bore the external scars that mirrored my broken heart. I cranked the shower water to its hottest setting and waited. Steam began to fill the air. Perfect. I stepped into the shower.

My skin was pink and pale, with crisscrossed slashes scattered across my arms, legs, and stomach. Bloody water began pooling at my feet as the water cleansed my skin. My blood. Fletch’s blood. Mixing together in one last moment of solidarity.

Silent tears began to stream down my face in a stream of pain. The heat from the water felt oddly good. It shouldn’t since vampires hated heat, and yet I found it comforting. I pressed the handle further, but it wouldn’t budge.

Not hot enough.

I pushed harder and it snapped off, the heat increasing. I winced and then smiled. Maybe I was psychotic and enjoyed pain. I grabbed a bar of soap and began to scrub at my skin. The patches of blood stained me; they wouldn’t remove easily. I scrubbed and scrubbed until my skin felt raw, until my gashes were bleeding fresh blood, and the old blood was finally gone, washed down the drain.

A knock sounded from the door; it was time to go. I stepped out of the shower and dried off before slipping into the uniform. My fresh wounds were starting to clot, but undoubtedly staining the inside of my clothes.

I couldn't look at myself in the mirror. I couldn't face any of what had happened. Something was very wrong with me. I should be fighting this, running, screaming. But I didn’t deserve life outside the guara.

Fletch was dead, in part, because of me. I deserved the painful reminder the uniform would bring. To spend my days in self-loathing. I should have been more aware. Should have listened to Fletch that night when he opened up rather than dismissing it for an old, drunk male’s babbling.

Yes, comfort was not something I deserved. The door opened. Time for my sentencing.

I couldn't bring myself to exert any energy beyond basic mechanics. Everything was numb.

“You really should have eaten,” one guard mumbled as the two guaramen escorted me, one on each side, down a large corridor and to the elevator. I was being led to the circuit, but somehow that didn't matter. Nothing did, because Fletch was gone.