Until he's done.
Removing his gloves, he throws them on the ground, stomping out of the room and letting one of his assistants come in and sew us back together.
And I know I finally have his attention.
And just like that, Vanya's special visits stop.
By now I've realized what Miles seems to be looking for—the test subject who performs best on his experiments.
And if that ensures that my sister will be left in peace, then I'll be the very best one.
No matter what I have to do.
I know my plan works when the following day I'm the one called to his office.
Stepping inside, it's nicer than anything I've ever seen. Everything is so shiny and new, and there are lots of devices everywhere.
As soon as I'm pushed inside by a guard, Miles rises from his chair, his smile wide as he takes in my small form.
"Vlad, wasn't it?" He asks, and there's a fake air around his entire demeanor. But knowing that this is the only way to spare Vanya even more pain, I nod, playing along.
"Yes, sir," I answer, and he motions me to a chair next to him.
I sit down, trying to ignore the way my dirty clothes or my even dirtier body stains the shiny leather, or how Miles flares his nostrils when he catches a whiff of me.
After all, whose fault is it for my sorry state?
"I've been watching you, Vlad," Miles crosses his legs, bringing his arms forward and resting his chin on his hand. "And I think you've been hiding your potential from me."
"I don't know, sir." I answer, trying to seem baffled at his question.
"Here," he says, grabbing my recently sutured arm roughly. I internally wince at the pain, but on the outside, I don't show it.
I just blink once, staring at Miles and showing him exactly what he wants to see—no reaction.
"I thought your sister was above average. But you my boy," he whistles, "you might just be my little miracle."
"What is this for, sir?" I ask before I can help myself.
He narrows his eyes at me before chuckling.
"An inquisitive mind. I like it," he says, getting up from his chair and telling me to follow.
Pressing a few buttons on a keyboard, another door opens in the back of the office. As we step inside the room, I see computers and other machines, all surrounded by rows and rows of books.
"Interesting, but you're the first one to ask me for the purpose," he notes, and I can tell there's an underlying pleasure in his voice.
He stops in front of a huge blackboard, the entire surface scribbled in white signs.
"This," he pulls down on a paper, bringing it down and showing me an illustration, "is the brain," he starts explaining. "And this," he points to a region in the center, "is the amygdala. To put it simply, it regulates some of the basic emotions in humans—particularly fear."
He walks around, chatting enthusiastically.
"You see, there are people out there, psychopaths, who do not have the full function of the amygdala, and as such they cannot feel what regular people feel. They don't know fear and they don't know remorse. But there's one catch. Psychopaths are unpredictable. Too unpredictable," his mutters under his breath.
He stops and I wait for him to continue, curious what the point of this was.
"But then there's also people like you. Intermediaries," he says, his mouth curving upwards. "Your amygdala is developed in such a way that while you're not as far gone as a psychopath, you're not completely normal either."
"You mean my emotions are not so strong," I comment.
"Right and... wrong. I've studied your kind for a long time," he smirks, "I'm older than I look," he sneaks in a joke. "And while not every specimen is the same, I've noticed a pattern. There isn't a lack of feeling per se, but there is a difference in what you can feel. Everyone is different," he shrugs. "Some people don't know love, some don't know hate, and others just don't know fear."
He turns fully towards me.
"Of course, I'm only interested in those that lack fear. You see, fear is one of the worst human traits. Acceptable, from an evolutionary point of view. But not from a mercenary one," he taps his foot anxiously, "but for what I have in mind, it's the requisite trait to have."
"What do you mean?"
"Super soldiers," he smirks. "The perfect human weapon that knows no fear, nor," he nods at my arm, "pain. A killing machine if you will."
"What about remorse? Don't some people have it while others don't?" I ask, his theory stirring something inside of me. For all my apathy towards the man for hurting my sister, I can't help but be intrigued by the way his mind works.
"Smart," his mouth draws up, "we just erase it out of you. One step at a time," he comes closer until he's sitting right in front of me. "And you, my little miracle, might just be my winning prize."
"Me?"
"You think I haven't observed you until now? Your intellectual attributes are perfect. But I've never been quite sold on your physical or emotional abilities," he says jovially, "until now."
He strokes his jaw pensively before adding, "and if your physical form is better than I'd hoped, then that only leaves one thing."
He stops, and I raise my head to look at him.
"Your emotions." He declares happily, giving me my first ever assignment.
"Show me how wrong I was about you, Vlad, and together we'll conquer the world," he tells me, after which I'm once more taken to my cell.
The first thing I see is Vanya petting Lulu, her features light for the first time in forever. And the dilemma in me grows.
Take away her happiness, or take away her pain?
But in that moment, I know there's only one correct answer.
I shut myself down as I stomp towards her, wrapping my fingers in Lulu's coat and yanking it from her arms. Taking a few steps to the middle of the room for to give the camera the best view, I raise my emotionless eyes to the red lens.
Lifting a struggling Lulu towards the camera with one hand, I use the other to feel for his neck. Finding a proper grip, I twist painfully until I hear a crack.
Lulu's motionless body falls to the ground, and I blank everything out.
Vanya's cries, her condemnation and most of all her small punches as they hit my skin.
I just block everything.
That day marks the birth of Miles' little miracle.
A killing machine.
Chapter Twenty-Six
I jerk awake, sweat clinging to my skin as I replay the events from my dream in my mind.
Fuck, but it had been worse than I imagined. Way worse. And somehow I'm sure this is one of the tamer ones.
Ever since I've returned from Peru, my dreams have served as flashbacks, sometimes the memory sharp like today, others times faded. Still, every piece of the puzzle is heading to one direction.
I was Miles' plaything. And Vanya must have paid the price for becoming a useless experiment.
My fists clench as I realize just what had happened to my sister, my mind clamoring with loud voices, my chest thumping with pain.
Shit.
I need to get out of here.
I look down at Sisi's sleeping form, even now her body searching for mine, a small sigh escaping her lips, and I'm reminded what I'm fighting for. I promised I'd never leave her and I'm not going to disappoint her again.
Even if I have to kill a part of myself to ensure that happens.
I already feel myself slipping, and my hands feel sticky with blood. Opening up my palms in front of me, it takes me a few tries before my eyes can see the reality and not another phantasm borne out of my sick mind. I blink, and empty hands become bloody, before they're back to normal and bloody again.
Damn it!
My sight becomes foggy, and even though I know what I'm seeing is false—a mirage—I can't help but doubt myself.
My hands are clammy, and the sweat clinging to my fingers resembles the oozing blood staining them after each kill.
R
ecognizing that I'm headed down the road of no return, I quickly leave the room, hoping Sisi won't notice my absence for a while.
I may not want to admit it, but I'm still a danger to her, and I would never do anything that might harm her again.
I've already caused her enough pain to last her a lifetime and it's a true wonder that she's forgiven me. I'm not about to jeopardize any of that.
Since I left Peru sooner than expected, I'd had to forgo some of the things el viejo had prescribed. Instead, he'd given me a few guideline on how to get my episodes under control.
"Understand the source and you will know the answer," he'd said cryptically.
But understanding the source is not that easy when one cannot remember the source.
The dreams and flashbacks I've been having from my time with Miles have given me some insight into what went on there. He was trying to make me into a perfect killing machine, and as such, I can only imagine the training, both mentally and physically, he'd subjected me to. Surely, my scars show one side of the story, and given what I do remember now, I'm convinced most of them are from his attempts to desensitize me to pain.
I close my eyes, trying to push the memories away. Seeing myself pinned down under the weight of some slimy human had definitely not helped improve my mood. If anything, the flashback's only served to heighten my blood lust, the need to kill enveloping my senses.
I force one foot in front of the other as I make my way to the basement. I barely manage to call Maxim and ask him to ensure the room is ready for me. But with the way I'm teetering from wall to wall, my movements uncoordinated and sluggish as my sight betrays me, my mind slipping from me, he'll have enough time to get things in order.
To put el viejo's teachings to use, I'd had to improvise a little. Certainly, his advice to understand the origin of my trigger and to face it instead of trying to avoid it had given me quite the dilemma.
Since I'd seen what my episodes do to my surroundings I'd always sought to control them, avoiding looking at blood to the best of my ability — even if that has proven a bit difficult in my profession.
Still, I'd become inventive, using all sorts of torture techniques that ensured my prisoners spilled their secrets but not their blood. From venomous spiders, snakes to bullet ants and flesh eating maggots, I'd found multiple ways to get what I wanted from a target without succumbing to an episode.
Still, staying away from my trigger hadn't been all that efficient, and I've noticed that in the last few years. Whereas before it would have taken quite a lot of blood to make me lose myself, nowadays I only have to see a couple of droplets and I'm gone.
The more I'd tried to suppress myself, the more I'd lost control. And it's become so bad that no one is safe around me.
Understand the source.
I can't understand the source if I have no recollection of it. So the safest course of action for now is to give in to my episodes. Fully embrace them as they come and let myself wreck everything around — in a controlled environment of course.
So I'd resorted to building my own slaughter room. If my beast wants blood, then blood it shall have.
I finally make it to the basement, and punching in a code, I make my way inside the room.
Built in the style of a Roman bath, the room is made entirely out of white marble. Two columns are on each side of the room, holding together an arcade with a painted ceiling — scenes of warfare and bloodshed. In the middle, there is only a circular pool filled with fresh water from the Mississippi. The entire room has a draining system meant to collect all liquids in the pool.
And of course, like the pagan I am, I cannot commence my ritual without a sacrifice. As soon as I enter the room, I'm tackled by five burly men, all shouting and yelling obscenities at me — probably because Maxim had kidnapped and locked them in here.
As soon as I have a target in sight, though, I no longer hear or see anything but a river of blood awaiting me, their corpses the ultimate offering.
And so I move.
My moves are pure instinct as I hit, duck and hit again, fluidly evading every punch as I land my own. Two men are quickly down, and the other three are just a matter of time. Dancing to the beat of their hearts, I apply all my strength in my fists as I nab one in his Adam's apple, hearing his trachea break, the force of my punch kicking his bones to the back and cutting his air supply. With a strangled breath, he's down too.
The next two are piece of cake as I aim for vital spots, their eyes rolling in the back of their as they succumb to the ground.
Panting, the fog clears only slightly, enough for me to notice the knife Maxim throws in the cage from a secret window in the ceiling.
I'm quick to grab the handle, dragging the bodies until they are aligned with the small drainage pipes, my blade cutting their throats and watching how the blood pools down until it slowly starts moving towards the pool.
I do the same with each body, positioning their slit throats so that all the blood is collected in the pool. Now, all five drainage points are occupied by corpses leaking their life's essence into my pit.
In no time, the clean water becomes murky, the blood infusing color into it. And slowly, ever so slowly, a rusty color gives way to red.
More blood fills the pool and I close my eyes, the sight caressing my entire being.
Impatiently, I rip my clothes at the seams as I practically dive forward, the bloody water hitting my skin and making me sigh in pleasure. The metallic smell overwhelms my nostrils, and I can only try to inhale deeper.
Submerging myself in the water, I let the blood coat every inch of my skin, the texture—though diluted—feeding my inner beast. And though it asks for more—it always does—it's finally at peace.
I stay under water, losing myself in the sea of blood, the death that surrounds me, the all-encompassing red.
And I wait.
Not unlike the other times, being suffused in blood does calm me. And I find that my consciousness starts returning slowly.
I break the surface of the water, breathing hard, my eyes finally accommodating to the sight around me, clarity returning to my mind.
"Damn." I mutter as I take in the mangled appearances of the men I'd just sacrificed.
I'd certainly gone the extra mile to ensure they're really dead.
I'd spent a lot of time ruminating on el viejo's advice and trying to apply it to my own situation. At last, I'd realized that there was only solution—give in to the blood. Literally.
It had been a little trickier getting the resources for this, but I'd quickly found a way to steal some prisoners—people no one would miss—after ensuring that their blood tests are up to date, of course.
Maxim's been in charge of procuring healthy prisoners for me to kill and, well, bathe in their blood.
"It sounded better in my head." I say out loud, rolling my eyes at my own circumstances, somehow amused I'd had to resort to this. After all, I'm no Elizabeth Bathory. My own proclivities do not lean towards achieving eternal life. I'll be happy if I get to retain this one.
And it's been working. Surprisingly, my crises have become shorter, and once I'm submerged in blood for a couple of hours, they are as good as gone. Sure, I have to kill a few people for that. But I'll choose Sisi's safety over anyone.
This one practice has made me less volatile, and more likely to control myself even at the onset of a crisis. Whereas I would have usually blanked out immediately, now there's a sliver of conscience left even during the worst of the attack.
It makes me... hopeful.
Now, if only I could remember what the initial trigger was. All the flashbacks I'd had so far had featured a lot of blood, and more often than not it was my own. But so far I haven't felt anything other than outrage at my memories. Nothing I'd seen had made me particularly receptive or angry. Of course, my compass is a little skewed, since I probably I had to bear every insane thing one could imagine. From rape to mental and physical torture, to having my body opened up for Miles' perv
erted joy, I don't think there's much that can trump that.
I'm deep in my thoughts, my body still neck deep in blood, when I hear the creak of the door.
My head whips back, and I watch with horror as Sisi tentatively steps inside, her eyes widening as she takes in the carnage around. Her gaze finally settles on me, and she looks at me curiously, tilting her head to the side and studying me as if I were a curiosity.
"What are you doing here?" I ask, my voice brusque.
How did she get in here?
I'd taken every precaution to make sure she won't find out about this. Now that I finally got her to give me another chance, I don't need her to see this and realize I'm still a monster.
The room is purposefully hidden from view and the door is password protected. How could she have found her way here and opened the door, too?
She doesn't answer, merely shrugging as she moves around the room, assessing the damage. Bending a little, she studies the corpse of one of the prisoners, her finger trailing over my straight cut. She does the same with all the bodies before stopping in front of me.
"Interesting," she notes, and I try my best to read her.
Is she mad? Disappointed in me? Is she going to leave me? She can't do that. No, of course I won't let her do that.
But is that a good interesting or a bad interesting?
Does she think I've been deceiving her?
Fucking Hades, but that will earn me minus points, and I barely got a few as it is. I can't lose her trust. Or her regard. Or her anything.
My heart starts beating wildly in my chest as I realize she's got me cornered. Rising out of the water, I start wading towards her, but she just stretches one arm towards me, her hand raised as she shakes one finger back and forth in a don't you dare type of movement.
Fuck... I'm fucked.
"I can explain," I immediately say, but she continues to move her fingers to her mouth in a shushing movement.
My mind is immediately in overdrive as I command my brain to think of all potential scenarios and what I can do to get out of this mess. I already have a list of gifts prepared, as well as more carved hearts since they seem to do the trick.
Morally Ambiguous: A Dark Mafia Romance (Morally Questionable Book 4) Page 49
